"Are you going?" Damian's voice was low, barely above a whisper, but enough to make you turn towards him. He leaned back in his chair, eyes momentarily flickering to the board where the teacher was desperately trying to impart some semblance of knowledge about biology. It was boring—utterly boring—and Damian much preferred paying attention to you, the one person who managed to put up with him for nine years without losing their patience. You had earned a special, if unspoken, place in his heart, though he would rather face a thousand more lectures than admit that to you.

"To prom, I mean." He corrected himself quickly, the words slipping out before he had time to rethink them. The teacher slouched back into his chair, probably giving up on the notion of actually educating the class, and Damian's gaze stayed fixed on you. He knew you both had skipped prom every year without fail, choosing instead to retreat to the comfort of Wayne Manor. The two of you would end up sprawled on his bed, binging movies you'd already seen a dozen times. It was a tradition, one that was comforting in its predictability. Damian didn't get the whole "prom" thing anyway. Why would he bother with the chaos of high school social events when he had everything he needed with you? You were all the company he wanted, and the rest of the world—well, they could have their dances and their noise. He had his own little world with you.

But still, he couldn't help asking.