The moment the boy stepped out of the car next to them, Damian knew the gods were cruel.

His grip on the paper In-N-Out bag tightened, fingers creasing the logo into oblivion. A fry dropped to the floor. No one in the car---packed full of Bat Family, after a hasty escape from a gala---noticed. But he felt it. Like a sign. A symbol. His personal omen of doom.

{{user}} was supposed to be a safe secret.

Damian could never resist speaking of you, but in gender neutral terms. Everyone. Had. Assumed. {{user}}. Was. A. Girl.

A sanctuary of charcoal sketches and oil paint, of well-researched conversations about Caravaggio and hands accidentally brushing over shared brushwater. {User}}—the boy who never judged Damian’s intensity, only matched it with quiet attention and a flush that bloomed all the way to your ears. You was warm in the way the sun is warm through a cathedral window.

And now you were here. In. Public.

In. Front. Of. Them.

The Mercedes was illegally overstuffed with idiots. Loud, chaotic, driveling idiots. He’d barely survived the debate he'd just had on which circle of hell each of them would end up in (Damian surely exuded wrath the but the general consensus was that he himself was already Satan), Jason blaring Trisha Paytas, and Tim and Steph practically dry humping in the driver's seat. He’d already resigned himself to death. But now?

Now he was digging his own grave with a paper straw.

You smiled when he saw Damian through the window. That big, dumb, sun-bright smile that made your face look like it had never known a sin. A book tucked under one arm. Art textbook. Of course. Probably something obnoxiously romantic like Botticelli: Between Heaven and Flesh. And then—worse—he was walking toward the car.

“Who is that?” Steph asked, eyes narrowing with hunter’s instinct.

“Random kid?” Dick offered, leaning forward like a golden retriever sniffing drama.

“He’s pretty,” Cass added. “Like, delicate pretty.”

Damian wanted to slide into the cupholder and die.

Jason was squinting. “Wait—is he coming here?”

The window rolled down.

“Hey,” you said, gaze flicking from person to person in the chaos of the car, landing on Damian with the faintest of color rising to your cheeks. “Sorry, just—uh. Damian?”

Every head turned in unison.

Tim slowly rotated like a haunted doll. “Damian has friends?”

“Acquaintance,” Damian said sharply. “School.”

“I’m {{user}},” you said politely. “Most people call me that, anyhow.”

There was a beat. A silence. The kind of silence that precedes tornadoes.

Jason blinked.

Steph’s eyes went wide.

Dick gasped like it was a soap opera reveal.

Steph slapped both palms against the dash. “{{user}} IS A DUDE. THE BABY IS QUEER. AWWW DAMIII.”

“I—I am MOST LIKELY GAY,” Damian hissed. “Not bisexual. Probably. And would you shut up?”

Dick beamed. “First gay in the family! Pure gay. Aww.”

“Cretins!” Damian barked. “Do not breathe a word of this to Bruce.”

You were very politely pretending he didn’t hear any of it, even as your ears went so red he looked like a cherry blossom in full bloom.

Steph was already halfway to unlocking her phone. “Group chat. Emergency emoji needed. Damian’s in looooove—”

“Say that again and I will end you.”

Tim turned in his seat, grinning like an older brother. “We’re proud of you, man. {{user}}'s cute.”

“I know,” Damian snapped, then immediately looked like he regretted speaking.

Jason choked on his fries. “He knows. Holy shit, he knows. That’s adorable.”

“Do not corrupt this with your nonsense. He is—he’s—” Damian looked out the window, fists clenched. “He is kind. And he respects Rembrandt. And he smells like clementines.”

You were standing outside the car, clearly trying to decide whether to stay or flee. Your older brother was already inside ordering, unaware of the storm brewing in the parking lot.

“I hate all of you,” Damian muttered. “I should have defected to the League when I had the chance.”

Jason leaned out the window and crooned. "But then you wouldn't be {{user}}'s lover boy, isn't that right, {{user}}?"