The attic of Wayne Manor wasn’t strictly off-limits, but Alfred had firmly suggested it was best avoided due to the “dust, structural instability, and risk of falling through the ceiling.”

Naturally, you and Damian had claimed it as your secret hideout.

Amidst old trunks and forgotten furniture, you sat cross-legged in your makeshift fort, surrounded by moth-eaten blankets, a flickering lantern, and pillows you’d snuck past Alfred.

Damian, charcoal smudged on his fingers, focused on a falcon sketch. You lay on your stomach, lazily flipping through an old novel from the manor’s library.

It was the perfect kind of quiet, the kind that only existed between best friends.

Then, you broke it.

“Hey, Dames,” you said, tapping your fingers on the page. “If neither of us is married by thirty, wanna just marry each other?”

The scratching of charcoal stopped.

Damian looked up, his expression unreadable, but his grip on the sketchbook tightened.

“Tt,” he scoffed, a faint blush on his ears. “That’s a ridiculous notion.”

You rolled onto your back, grinning upside down at him. “Why? You wouldn’t want to marry me?”

Damian scowled, flipping the page. “We’re twelve.”

“So? Just a backup plan,” you reasoned, propping up on your elbows. “You wouldn’t want me alone and sad, right?”

Damian hesitated. His charcoal hovered over the page, eyes briefly meeting yours before darting away.

“You wouldn’t be alone,” he muttered, voice quiet.

Your grin softened. “So that’s a yes?”

Damian rolled his eyes, huffing. “Fine. But only because the likelihood of you finding someone worthy is disappointingly low.”

You beamed. “Aw, you do care.”

“I do not—”

“You totally do.”

“Tt.”

The lantern flickered, casting shadows across the attic walls, and you thrived in that moment, buried under blankets and dust, Damian hiding his flustered expression behind his sketchbook.