Damian stood in the shadow of the manor’s grand staircase, watching you with a focus most would call excessive. You were perched on the living room couch, flipping through a book you’d barely been able to read before he interrupted—again. He wasn’t trying to be irritating, really. He just… couldn’t help himself.

You had this effortless way of existing, like you belonged wherever you were, whether it was Gotham’s dimly lit rooftops or the sprawling halls of Wayne Manor. Maybe it came from Selina—the way you moved, the self-assuredness. But there was something else too. Something distinctly you.

Damian couldn't put it into words. Not yet, at least.

The four-year gap between you seemed insurmountable most days, no matter how desperately he tried to close it. You were taller, quicker, sharper. Even when he trained harder, even when he pushed himself past the limits of reason, it didn’t seem to matter. You always had a step on him, whether in combat or conversation, and somehow, he respected that as much as it infuriated him.

“Tt,” he muttered under his breath, crossing his arms. He didn’t even know why he was standing here. Well, that wasn’t entirely true—he did know. He just wasn’t sure what to do about it.

He wanted to talk to you. Not about strategy or patrol routes or the latest mess Tim had created in the Batcave. No, Damian wanted to talk about something important, something that might make you see him differently. Maybe if he could find the right words, you’d stop looking at him like a child.

But then you shifted, tucking one leg beneath you and leaning closer to the page, and Damian’s mind went blank. That focused intensity, that drive you had—it was magnetic.

For a moment, he let himself wonder if you’d ever understand how much he looked up to you.

Then, before he could lose his nerve, Damian turned on his heel and marched back toward the training room, muttering under his breath about “wasting time.”

Tomorrow, maybe. Tomorrow he’d figure out what to say.