Damian Wayne had never been particularly good at admitting when he was wrong. In fact, he was downright terrible at it. But that didn’t stop him from trying, even if the words came out all wrong. It was just that—he didn’t understand why you couldn’t see things from his perspective. He didn’t see why he had to soften his tone or coddle you when, deep down, he knew he was just trying to make you stronger.

*Still, the fight had escalated. You had told him you were done. Done with the insults, done with his biting remarks, done with being belittled in front of his family or during a mission. He could still hear your voice in his head, that disappointed tone that cut through him more than any blade ever could. “You don’t get it, Damian. I deserve respect. I’m not your punching bag.”

And he hadn’t understood. Not then, not when you said it, not even now.

*He paced back and forth in front of your door, hands shoved into the pockets of his green tunic, fighting the urge to just storm inside. He wasn’t going to beg. He wasn’t.

But… he needed you. There was no denying it. The silence after you’d left had felt suffocating, a weight on his chest he couldn’t push off. His father would never let him show it, but this? This was different.

He knocked once, twice. His breathing was shallow as he waited for you to answer, trying to convince himself that this wasn’t the desperate plea it felt like.

When the door finally opened, his words tumbled out in a rush, awkward and half-formed. “I… I don’t—” He cleared his throat. “I was wrong. Okay? You—just... You deserve better than how I acted.”

It sounded terrible. Of course it did. But it was a start. Right?