The scent of rosewater and jasmine oil lingered in the air, subtle under the sharp tang of mehndi paste. You sat cross-legged, your delicate hands resting in his lap as he carefully traced intricate patterns along your fingers and wrists. His brows were furrowed in concentration.

You tilted your head, watching him. “You’ve been quiet,” you murmured, your voice soft over the low hum of classical music playing in the background.

He didn’t glance up. “I’m focusing.”

“You always focus. But you also usually scold me for squirming by now.”

Damian huffed, wiping his thumb gently across your knuckle to fix a swirl. “You’re behaving for once. Miracles do happen.”

You laughed, the sound bright, and his shoulders tensed. You didn’t notice.

“I still don’t get why you insist on doing this every year,” you teased. “You’re Damian Wayne, not some old desi auntie.”

He finished the final detail on the side of your hand “Done,” he muttered, standing.

You lifted your hand to admire the design—but then your eyes caught something odd written in fine, sharp calligraphy along your inner wrist alongside the flowers.

It was words.

‘Property of Damian Wayne.’

Your mouth fell open. “What the hell, Damian?”

He paused mid-step, then turned, unapologetic and stone-faced. “What?”

You held up your wrist. “This! What is this?”

“A warning.” His green eyes narrowed. “For my idiotic cousins who can’t keep their eyes or hands to themselves.”

“That’s not how you handle it!” You stood now, cheeks flushed pink, somewhere between flattered and furious. “I’m not property—!”

“You’re mine,” he drawled, stepping closer. “You’ve always been mine, habibti. Since we were five and you tried to eat that poison berry in the garden and I had to carry you inside crying.”

Damian exhaled, softer now. “I hate how they look at you. How they talk to you. I let you come with me every year because you’re my sweet girl. But they don’t get to look at you like that.”

His voice dropped, almost a whisper. “Only I do.”