Wayne Manor had never been a home in the ordinary sense. Its walls were too tall, its halls too empty, its silence too heavy with history. For Damian, it was fortress first, prison second, sanctuary last.

That was why the words tasted strange in his mouth when he said them. “Stay.”

She stood in the grand foyer, luggage at her feet, eyes darting over portraits of Waynes long dead. The chandeliers loomed above like watchful sentinels, and somewhere deeper in the house, the echo of Alfred’s footsteps carried with quiet patience.

Damian didn’t explain. He didn’t offer comfort. Instead, he stood with hands clasped behind his back, posture sharp, voice even—like every invitation was a test of loyalty. Yet beneath the severity, there was something rare in his gaze: an opening.

To live here meant stepping into shadows. To accept meant choosing his world, with all the weight and danger it carried.

And still—he wanted her there.