The first thing you noticed when you woke wasn’t the sunlight seeping faintly through the curtains, or the ache in your limbs from the night before. It was the steady warmth pressed close at your side.

Blinking against the haze of sleep, you turned your head, and froze.

Damian was there, slumped against the mattress with his arms crossed, cape half-fallen off his shoulders. His head rested near your arm, dark hair falling over his brow, lashes casting shadows against his skin. His breathing was slow, steady, the kind of deep sleep he rarely allowed himself.

You realized then: he must’ve stayed with you after patrol. Maybe he’d sat down just to make sure you were fine, telling himself he’d leave once you were asleep. But Damian Wayne was exhausted, and exhaustion had finally won.

There was something almost vulnerable about him like this. No scowl, no sharp words, no hard edge in his posture, just quiet. His shoulders weren’t pulled tight; his jaw wasn’t clenched. He looked younger, softer, almost at peace.

A small noise slipped from him, barely audible, as if part of him fought to stay alert even in rest. His hand twitched slightly, like he was reaching for his sword, before relaxing again when he stirred against you.