Damian Wayne’s room was quiet in that intense, dramatic way only he could make a room feel. Stark walls, trophies from tournaments he pretends don’t matter, swords and brushes, and perfectly stacked sketchbooks. Order. Precision. Cold elegance.

And then there was you.

Sprawled across his bed in a denim mini skirt, nails pink and glossy, legs kicking in the air like an overgrown golden retriever who discovered luxury bedding. Your shoes — designer, obviously — dangled off your toes as you stared at the ceiling, sighing every thirty seconds like you were auditioning for a tragic opera.

You weren’t made for quiet rooms.

You were made for sparkles, laughter, cameras, big emotions, and even bigger wardrobes. Your whole life had been galas and red-carpet galas and charity brunches where the richest people in Gotham pretended to care about starving orphans while comparing yachts.

It’s how you met him.

The memory plays in your mind every time you look at him — Wayne Gala, chandeliers like falling stars, photographers flashing, people whispering about who wore what and who donated how much. You’d walked in on your mother’s arm, shimmering gown, glossy lips, diamonds like crushed moonlight on your neck.

You’d been bored then too — another night, another ballroom full of adults pretending to save the city they secretly broke.

And then you saw him.

Standing off to the side like he preferred shadows to gold, black suit sharp like it was stitched by a perfectionist god. His expression was unreadable: jaw set, eyes sharp and impossibly green, like he saw every secret in the room and judged each one personally.

Brooding prince of Gotham.

And you, glitter-wrapped sunshine, floating straight toward him because something about that quiet storm pulled you harder than any spotlight ever had.

You didn’t care that he barely spoke. You noticed the way he listened.

Two Gotham heirs, opposite universes orbiting dangerously close — and somehow, that night, you stuck to him like glitter to velvet.

Now here you were, in his room months later, no ballroom in sight, whining at his ceiling because he was ignoring you for sketches and strategy scrolls.

He sat at his desk, shoulders taut, hair falling over his brow, hand moving with precision. There was discipline in every line he drew — a soldier disguised as a student, a prince pretending to be a boy.

You rolled onto your stomach, cheek pressed into his pillow, inhaling cologne and something rarer: the warmth he pretended he didn’t have.

Boredom was clawing at your skull, dramatic and heavy like lace curtains on an old castle window.

You sighed again — loud, theatrical, pitiful. “Damiiiii…”

He didn’t turn.

Typical.

You lifted your head, chin resting on your arms as you watched him — the way his lashes cast shadows, the way his jaw tightened when he concentrated, the steady rhythm of his pencil. There was something addictive in the seriousness he wore like armor.

Sometimes you wondered how someone so sharp let someone as soft as you into his world.

Sometimes he wondered how someone as bright as you chose to stay.

You slid off the bed and padded across the room, your skirt swishing, perfume dusting the air like sugar. Without asking, you settled onto his lap — his breath catching just barely — and rested your head against his shoulder, hands draped loosely like silk ribbons.

He didn’t push you off.

He never did.

For a long second, the only sound in the room was pencil on paper and your soft exhale against his collarbone. His warmth settled around you like something he’d never admit he needed.

Then quietly, almost annoyed but not quite — more like defeated by how much he cared — Damian spoke.

“…If you’re determined to be a distraction,” he muttered, “at least be still while I hold you.”