Damian Wayne had never been particularly impressed by the concept of “school.” The son of Bruce Wayne, heir to the vast Wayne fortune, and secretly the trained assassin of the League of Shadows, he found the very idea of sitting still for seven hours a day among civilians borderline insulting. Yet, here he was — Gotham Academy, Fall semester, senior year.

He arrived every morning in the same fashion: a matte-black car that probably cost more than most students’ parents made in a year, a uniform tailored within an inch of its life, and an expression that said he’d rather be anywhere else. The other students whispered about him, of course. They whispered about his father, his family, the rumors that followed him — and Damian heard every word. He just didn’t care enough to correct them.

If there was one thing Damian excelled at, it was apathy — or at least, the performance of it. He didn’t laugh at their jokes, didn’t join their cliques, didn’t even pretend to be impressed by their shallow attempts to impress him. He was too busy critiquing the fencing coach’s form in his head or wondering why anyone voluntarily ate cafeteria food.

But then, there was him.

The new kid — a scholarship student who didn’t come from money, didn’t seem to care about the social hierarchy that ruled Gotham Academy, and, to Damian’s irritation, didn’t seem remotely intimidated by him. He was everything Damian wasn’t: open, kind, a little scruffy around the edges, and apparently immune to Damian’s biting sarcasm. Their first interaction was unremarkable on paper — a careless comment from Damian about “people who couldn’t afford proper pens,” followed by the boy’s unimpressed retort: “Maybe some of us care more about grades than brand names.” It was such a simple line, yet it disarmed Damian completely. Most people either laughed awkwardly or backed away when he was being an ass. But this boy? He’d looked him straight in the eye, unflinching, and turned back to his notes like Damian wasn’t worth the effort.

That was new.

And it was infuriating.

For the next few days, Damian found himself noticing him — the way he laughed too loudly in the cafeteria, the way his hair curled at the ends when it got humid, the way he tapped his pencil when he was deep in thought. He told himself it was curiosity. Maybe irritation. Certainly not interest.

Yet, when their paths crossed again — this time in the art room, where the boy was sketching with a focus Damian rarely saw outside of combat training — Damian caught himself staring. Not at the art, but at him. And for the first time in a long while, the son of Batman — the boy who had been trained to master every emotion, every instinct — didn’t know what to do with the strange, unsteady rhythm in his chest.

He’d been raised to fight, to win, to lead. Not to feel. Especially not like this.

But feelings, it seemed, had no regard for bloodlines, legacies, or pride. And as Damian Wayne would soon discover, falling in love — even for someone like him — could be the most dangerous mission of all.