Damian’s morning had been routine—annoyingly so. Classes, a scuffle in the halls, then back to the Manor where Alfred scolded him for tracking mud into the foyer. Predictable.

Until a boy—you—appeared.

He almost didn’t recognize you at first. The clothes you wore were like something out of a museum exhibit—layered fabric, rich embroidery, fine details that screamed of aristocracy from a time long past. Your posture was equally strange; back straight, chin raised, as if you owned every inch of ground beneath you, but you seemed also panicked.

And then there was your face.

Damian’s breath hitched before he caught himself. He knew those features. He’d sat across from you in classrooms, exchanged nothing but a few words with you in hushed tones when the teacher’s back was turned. His classmate. But you seemed different.

This version of you looked at him not with the what he’d grown used to, but with something far more disarming—soft recognition, even longing.

You stepped closer, the fabric of your robes whispering with every movement, your eyes drinking in every detail of him. Damian’s instincts screamed at him to keep his distance, but he didn’t move.

“Tt,” he muttered under his breath, forcing his expression back into indifference, though he was filled with a faint unease and caution. “Another trick. It has to be.”