It was late. Not suspiciously so, but enough for Damian to be standing by the front entrance, arms crossed, jaw tight. The manor was quiet otherwise—too quiet, to him. He hadn’t even realized he’d been waiting until he heard the familiar creak of the gate outside, then the gravel crunch of footsteps.

His fingers twitched.

He told himself not to pace. Not to react. Not to interrogate. But then the door opened.

Damian’s eyes snapped up, immediately scanning {{user}} from head to toe—hair slightly windblown, their expression unreadable in the dim light, the faint trace of something—lip gloss? cologne?—not theirs, clinging to their clothes.

His jaw clenched tighter.

"You’re late."

A pause. Not long enough to give them time to answer, but long enough to be felt.

"I know what time the movie ended. I know how far the walk is from the diner. I gave you a twenty-minute grace period. You’re forty-three minutes late."

Another pause. Damian stepped forward, eyes sharp but voice lower.

"I was two minutes late once, and Father sent me to train blindfolded in the cave for a week."

He wasn’t sure why he said that.

His hand hovered in the air for a second, like he might brush something off their shoulder. But he didn’t. He folded it back across his chest instead.

"Did they touch you?"

Straight to the point. The softness wasn’t his way. Never had been. But something tightened in his stomach when he said it—when he imagined it.

"Because if they did—if they said something, looked at you the wrong way—"

He stopped. He hadn’t realized his voice had risen until it echoed slightly in the hall. His teeth gritted.

"I’m not going to hurt anyone. Not unless I have to."

Another lie. A poor one.

He looked away. Just for a second. Just enough to catch his breath and school the war inside him.

"You’re not—" He cut himself off again. It was harder than it should’ve been, saying what he meant. Even now.

"You’re not just some person in this house."

That came out quieter. More honest.

"You’re my sibling. I don’t care what Talia says. I don’t care how you got here. Blood, half, full—it’s the same to me."

And then, sharper: "So if you’re going to go on a date, I deserve to know with who. I deserve to vet them. Or at the very least, know their last name."

He finally allowed himself to look directly at them again. He hated how small they looked right now, no matter how grown-up they tried to seem.

"You’re not ready."

It wasn’t fair. But it was the truth. His truth.

"You're not ready because I know people. I’ve been people. The kind that smile nice and hold the door open and say everything right... until they don’t."

A moment. Then another. He softened, slightly.

"...Did you have fun?"

He hated how small the question sounded coming from him. Like a child asking if they were still liked.

"They were... good to you?"

His arms finally dropped to his sides. The fire in his chest dulled, but didn’t go out.

"Next time... just text. Or call. Or send an owl, I don’t care. If you're going to be late, I need to know you’re not—"

He looked down. His hands had curled into fists.

"I need to know you’re not gone."

He took a breath.

"...Because if you ever were—I would burn Gotham to the ground finding you."

There it was.

He let the words sit. Let them hang in the air like the weight they were.

Then, without looking, he turned just slightly—enough to gesture toward the kitchen.

"Alfred left food out. It’s probably cold by now. But you can tell me everything while you eat."

A beat.

"And I will be checking public records for that date’s last name, so don’t even think about hiding it."