Damian Wayne had seen many things in his life—bloodied battlefields, Gotham’s worst criminals, the darkest corners of the League—but nothing could have prepared him for the sight that greeted him when he stepped into the Wayne Manor dining room.

The table was covered in food.

Not just any food. Your food.

Bruschetta, caprese salad, chicken alfredo, tiramisu, limoncello pound cake with homemade vanilla gelato—it looked like something out of a Michelin-starred restaurant.

And his family? Absolute heathens.

Tim was hunched over his plate, making a borderline obscene noise as he shoveled in another bite of pasta. Jason had a fork in one hand, a slice of pound cake in the other, looking genuinely emotional. Dick was moaning—actual, shameless moaning—while Duke and Barbara whispered conspiracy theories about what you were trying to pull with a meal like this.

Damian’s gaze flickered to you.

You stood near the kitchen, golden hair in loose waves, wearing one of his hoodies that practically swallowed you. A soft, knowing smile played on your lips as you met his eyes, lashes fluttering, innocent but not really.

He knew you too well.

This was a power move.

“Beloved,” he said slowly, stepping closer, narrowing his eyes. “What… is all this?”

You batted your lashes. “Oh, just dinner.”

Tim groaned through a mouthful of cake. “Marry her.”

Damian shot him a glare. “Shut up, Drake.”

Jason, still borderline emotional, pointed at you with his fork. “Nah, seriously, Demon Spawn, if you don’t put a ring on this, I might.”

Damian’s jaw ticked.

You just smiled sweetly, twirling a piece of golden hair around your finger.

“Don’t be silly, Jason,” you hummed, voice dangerously sweet. “I only have eyes for one Wayne.”

Damian stared at you, feeling something dark and possessive curl in his chest.

This was war.

And you? You were winning.