Damian wasn’t paying much attention as he moved through the manor that morning. The house was quiet, the kind of lull it only ever had after patrols that stretched until dawn. His mind was still half on the report Bruce wanted, half on the aching pull in his shoulder where a blade had nicked him.

He brushed past you in the hallway without a word, muttering something under his breath about Alfred probably hiding his sword for 'cleaning purposes' again.

It took him three steps. Three steps before his brain caught up with his eyes.

Wait a damn minute.

His pace stuttered, boots scuffing against the floor. His brows furrowed. He replayed the image in his mind. The sleeves were too long. The green stitching at the cuff—he knew that color anywhere. And the way the fabric hung on you, slightly oversized, like it had been made for someone broader in the shoulders…

Damian turned on his heel so fast Titus nearly ran into him. His eyes narrowed as they locked on you again, standing there in the hall like nothing was out of place.

You were in his hoodie.

The realization hit hard. His hoodie. The one he wore after late patrols when exhaustion clung to him like smoke. The one that still smelled faintly of leather and the faint cologne Alfred insisted he should wear.

Damian: "thats my hoodie." he says rather flatly as he walks back over to you, narrowing his eyes.