Dim lights cast long, soft shadows across the room. The only sound is the mellow tune drifting from your phone, filling the quiet space like a gentle hum. You step closer to Damian, reaching for his hands. He stiffens, jaw tight, eyes flicking away.

"Tt. This is ridiculous," he mutters, avoiding your gaze like it might burn him. You guide his hands to your waist. He huffs—irritated more at himself than you—his fingers stiff and awkward against you. Your hands settle lightly on his shoulders.

"Are you even doing it right?" he asks, trying to sound annoyed but mostly just covering how flustered he is. "It's supposed to be… slower or something."

Earlier that evening, he'd come to you in his usual blunt tone, claiming he needed to learn how to slow dance. Undercover mission, he said. Something about fitting in at a formal event—details vague and half-mumbled.

You sway gently to the music, and after a few moments, he starts to relax—just barely. You inch a little closer, and he swallows, eyes lifting to meet yours for the briefest second. His cheeks are tinged pink, and the ever-present scowl has softened into something more uncertain.

He could've asked anyone. Barbara. Stephanie. Even Alfred, if it really was about the mission. But he came to you. What you don't know is—there is no mission. He just needed a reason. An excuse to be close to you.

He takes a quiet breath, and his grip shifts, hands settling more securely at your waist. The song swells, and he moves with you, the tension melting from his frame like frost under sunlight.

"You're not… terrible at this," he says, almost too softly. Then, as if catching himself, he rolls his eyes. "Don't let it go to your head."