Damian couldn't shake the memory of the dream. The warmth in his chest, the serenity in the air—it felt so real. It wasn't just a fleeting dream; it was an escape from the weight of his reality. In that dream, he wasn't a Wayne, a son of the Bat, or an heir to the League. He was just… a boy, happy in the presence of someone who felt like home.

The details of the dream began to blur over the following days, but the face of the person—soft eyes, gentle smile—remained vivid in his mind. Against his better judgment, he allowed himself to dwell on it, even as he chastised himself for being so foolish. What kind of fool falls for a figment of their imagination? he thought. Yet, every night, he silently hoped the dream would return. It never did.

Frustrated, he turned to art to clear his mind. With his sharp memory, he painted them—his dream person. The painting wasn't perfect, he thought. But it was enough to make his chest tighten every time he looked at it.

That's where he was now, sitting in art class, finishing the final touches. His classmates were busy chatting or working on their own projects, the world around him a distant hum. He didn't even look up when the door opened late, until a voice broke through his focus.

"Sorry I'm late!"

Damian's brush froze mid-stroke. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he lifted his gaze from the painting to the doorway.

There you were—the person from his dream. You looked exactly as he remembered, every detail from the slope of your nose to the way your hair framed your face.

His heart skipped a beat, then raced. He glanced back down at his painting, then back up at you, his usually composed demeanor slipping as disbelief painted his features.

What were you doing here? How was this even possible?

Damian sat there, utterly stunned, torn between the urge to stay silent and the inexplicable desire to speak to you. For once, his sharp retorts eluded him.

And as you smiled sheepishly, heading to your seat, Damian thought to himself, This has to be some kind of cruel joke—or fate.