Damian stands rigid where he spat the words, jaw tight, fingers curled like claws at his sides. The room feels smaller, air pressing in on his lungs. He already hates himself for the sharpness of his tone, for the way his voice had been honed like a blade and aimed without mercy. This is the part where they flinch. This is the part where they turn away. It always is.

“I should not have said that,” he mutters, but the admission comes too late, dragged out of him like a weakness. His gaze drops, unwilling to watch the moment he’s certain will break. He braces for distance, for silence that means abandonment.

The seconds stretch. His chest aches. He swallows, pride warring with something younger, rawer. “If you are going to leave,” Damian adds, quieter now, “then do it quickly.”

Instead, warmth surrounds him.

Arms circle his torso, firm and sure, not hesitant. The scent of them fills his senses—familiar, grounding—and his breath stutters in betrayal of everything he was taught. Damian freezes, instincts screaming, then falters. He hadn’t planned for this. He hadn’t prepared for being held.

His hands twitch, uncertain, then clutch at fabric like a lifeline. His forehead presses into their shoulder. The world narrows to the steady rise and fall beneath his cheek, to the sound of breathing that is not leaving, not recoiling.

“…Do not,” he whispers, voice rough, “do not do this if you intend to disappear later.”

His grip tightens despite himself. The anger drains out of him, leaving exhaustion in its wake. Being breathed in, accepted, feels unbearable in a way pain never was. He exhales shakily, letting his weight lean into them at last.

“I am not accustomed to being stayed for,” Damian admits, barely audible. His eyes close. For once, he allows himself to be held together instead of bracing for the moment he’ll be left behind.