The Batcave buzzed softly with the sound of quiet machinery and distant dripping water, a cavernous cathedral of secrets and shadows. Damian stood near the weapons rack, methodically sharpening a blade, every stroke crisp and deliberate—until you said it.

“Thanks, Dami.”

The word slipped out like honey—casual, unassuming. But it hit him like a strike to the chest.

His hand froze mid-motion. The whetstone scraped awkwardly. And for a single, suspended moment, the great Damian Wayne—heir to shadows, forged in steel and expectation—went completely still.

Then came the color.

A flush, unmistakable and utterly damning, crept up the back of his neck, blossoming across his cheeks like spilled paint. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

“You—what did you just—?”

He cut himself off.

“No. Doesn’t matter. I didn’t hear it,” he muttered hastily, setting the blade down with too much force, the clatter echoing like a warning. He turned sharply, cape flaring behind him as if to shield the traitorous blush on his face.

But even as he stalked off—ears tinted red and jaw clenched—the name still lingered in the air like smoke. And he didn’t tell you to stop.