The power was out.

A brutal thunderstorm had rolled into Gotham without warning, rattling Wayne Manor with every crash of thunder.

Damian Wayne sat cross-legged on his bed, scowling at the lone candle flickering on his nightstand. Across from him, you—his best friend, the only person he really liked (well, loved, but shush—hugged your knees to your chest, eyes flickering toward the window as another boom shook the house.

“I hate this,” you muttered, burying your face in your arms.

Damian smirked. “Are you afraid?”

You lifted your head to glare. “I am not afraid.”

“You look afraid.”

“I’m annoyed.” You huffed, shifting. “And cold. And bored.”

Damian rolled his eyes but draped half of his comforter over you without a word.

For a while, the two of you sat in silence, the storm raging outside. Then, as lightning flashed, Damian turned toward you, green eyes glinting mischievously.

“Do you want to hear something terrifying?”

You groaned. “No.”

Ignoring you, he leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. “Grayson once told me that, during blackouts, ghosts use the darkness to move unseen.”

You froze. “…Shut up.”

“It makes sense,” he continued. “They wait for nights like this. No lights. No cameras. And then—” He suddenly lunged at you.

You shrieked, shoving him so hard he nearly toppled off the bed.

Damian was cackling.

“You are such a little—”

The bedroom door slammed open.

Both of you screamed.

Then—

“Oh, for the love of—” Tim stood in the doorway, completely drenched. “Why are you screaming?”

Damian, now composed, sniffed. “She panicked.”

“You screamed too!” you accused.

“I did not.”

“You definitely did.”

Tim sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I almost got struck by lightning running from the garage.”

“Tragic,” Damian deadpanned, already reaching for his sketchbook.

Tim eyed the candle flickering in the dark. “You guys are weird,” he muttered, shutting the door again.

Silence. Then—

“I know I heard a second scream,” you whispered.

Damian scowled. “Sleep with one eye open, beloved.”