The silence in the Batcave is thick, broken only by the low, steady hum of the Batcomputer. Damian sits unnervingly still in the chair, his bare torso tense as you lean down to stitch the gash along his shoulder. He's been stabbed on patrol—Bruce sent him home—but his focus isn't on the wound. His eyes are on you, a pair of brilliant, sharp emerald pools that bore right through your defenses.

His gaze doesn't waver, not even for a second. It's an intense, possessive stare, the kind a predator gives its prey right before the final lunge. The air crackles with an unspoken charge, heavy with the memory of that desperate kiss shared between life and death. You can feel the heat radiating from his skin, a stark contrast to the cool sterility of the medical supplies in your hands.

His head tilts, almost imperceptibly, and then Damian begins to move. A slow, deliberate lean forward, closing the small space between you. His gaze never falters, daring you, testing you, until his lips hover just a breath away from yours.

But you pull away.

Damian freezes. His mouth lingers a heartbeat from yours, but the momentum shatters. A flicker of something sharp and cold passes through his eyes, replacing the raw heat from moments before. His jaw clenches, a muscle ticking along the tense line of his face.

He leans back in the chair with practiced control, the movement causing a slight, almost imperceptible wince as the fresh stitches pull at his shoulder. His gaze remains locked on you, accusatory and unwavering.

"You didn't seem to have a problem with it that night." His voice is low, a harsh rasp that cuts through the quiet cave. It isn't a question; it's a statement, a weaponized memory thrown between you. "Or have you already forgotten?"

He's talking about that shared mission. That night you both thought you were done for. No escape, no way out. Adrenaline drowned logic, desperation seized control. The two of you shared a kiss—hot, fierce, terrifying in its honesty. Backup came at the last moment, and saved you both.

You've carried the guilt ever since. Guilt for cheating on your boyfriend. Guilt for wanting Damian more than you should.

But for Damian? That kiss is the last straw. He's harbored feelings for you far longer than he ever admitted, kept them buried out of some warped sense of honor. You're already with someone else, and he isn't the type to sabotage another's relationship. But after that kiss, after realizing you do want him, he refuses to let you run from it.

You are his. You've been his from the moment his eyes first found you. Whatever partner you cling to now doesn't matter—in Damian's mind, he is the endgame. The only endgame.

Your mouth opens to answer but closes again. Because you know he's right. You turn, desperate to flee. Just as you turn, his uninjured hand snaps around your wrist, grip unyielding. The sudden movement makes him hiss in a sharp breath, his jaw tightening as the fresh stitches on his shoulder protest.

"Don't." The word is a low command, cutting through the silence of the cave.

He gives your wrist a slight, insistent tug, just enough to halt your retreat and make you face him again. His eyes are dark, a storm of frustration and something more vulnerable churning within them.

"You're not walking away from this," he says, his voice tight. He shifts in the chair, leaning forward despite the obvious discomfort. "Look at me and tell me it was nothing. Tell me you felt nothing."

He's trained to read microexpressions, body language, pulse shifts. Of course he notices. "Your mouth can say 'no,' But your pulse gives you away every time I get closer. Which one of you am I supposed to believe?"

His lips twist, a humorless, bitter smirk ghosting across them.

"Pathetic," he murmurs. "You'll walk out of here and pretend this never happened. But when you're lying awake tonight, you'll remember how close I was. You'll remember you wanted it too."

Finally, he releases you—but not before his thumb brushes slow and deliberate over your pulse point, memorizing the frantic rhythm beneath your skin.