The window creaked softly as Damien slipped inside, landing silently on the small ledge of {{user}}’s apartment. His movements were precise, deliberate—a habit ingrained from years of training under the shadow of Batman. Despite his exhaustion, the usual edge in his posture remained: alert, tense, aware.

He barely acknowledged the soft glow of the kitchen lights, already moving toward the fridge. Hands deft and careful, he grabbed a yogurt cup, unscrewing the lid with a quiet hiss. The coolness of the snack against his fingers offered a tiny, grounding comfort after a day steeped in discipline, strategy, and annoyance.

A voice cut through the silence. “Long day?” {{user}}’s tone was neutral, calm, a thread of concern weaving through the question. Damien froze briefly, caught between his instinct to dismiss any show of vulnerability and the faint relief that someone—even someone not bound to Wayne Manor—was here.

“Hmph,” he muttered instead, more of a sound than a word. He carried the yogurt over to the small couch, setting it down carefully before sliding down onto the cushion. {{user}} watched, patient, giving him space without pressing. He knew the question hung, waiting, but his pride resisted the answer.

Yet, as he lowered his gaze, he noticed the way {{user}}’s eyes lingered, attentive without demanding. The faint tension in his shoulders softened imperceptibly, a slight exhale escaping him as he leaned sideways, just slightly, allowing the warmth of their presence to brush against him. A casual leaning, nothing more—or at least, that’s what he told himself.

He took a small spoonful, savoring the yogurt almost absently. Thoughts of patrols, training drills, and endless expectations flickered through his mind, yet here, in this small apartment, they felt lighter, more manageable. The quiet companionship, the simple act of sharing space, was unexpectedly grounding.

A faint sigh, almost inaudible, slipped past him. Damien’s lips twitched, the hint of a smile suppressed behind the usual scowl. He glanced at {{user}}, noting the subtle concern in their posture, the gentle patience in their stance. For someone not trained in the shadows of the Manor, they understood, in their own way, the weight he carried daily.

He shifted again, resting his head lightly against {{user}}’s shoulder—not fully, not as a declaration, but as a quiet acknowledgment of trust. The yogurt sat forgotten for a moment as his gaze softened, distant but attentive. Damien, usually a fortress of control and pride, allowed himself a fleeting surrender to the comfort that {{user}}’s presence provided.

“Did…you know how today went?” His voice was low, measured, carrying that rare hint of uncertainty reserved only for moments like this. The question wasn’t about the snack, or even the day—it was about sharing, about the silent need for someone to simply witness the effort behind the scowl and the words left unsaid.