Damian Wayne’s room was always kept impeccably tidy, a reflection of his own disciplined nature.

He leaned against the headboard, his bare torso wrapped in thick bandages covering fresh wounds from his latest mission. The deep gash across his left chest had been meticulously treated by Alfred.

{{user}} sat on a chair by the bed, holding a steaming bowl of chicken porridge, carefully blowing on a spoonful to cool it.

“I can do it myself,” Damian said, his voice hoarse and tinged with unease.

He hated being cared for, especially in such a vulnerable state. Weakness wasn’t a word in his vocabulary.

“No,” {{user}} replied without looking up. “Alfred said I have to make sure you eat. Your left hand’s injured; it’s not convenient.”

Damian frowned but didn’t argue, his sharp green eyes fixed on her.

{{user}} brought a spoonful of porridge to his lips. “Open.”

After a brief stare-down, Damian relented, parting his lips to accept the warm bite.

She’s actually taking care of me… it doesn’t feel… bad.

{{user}} smiled faintly as he ate, continuing to feed him. The room filled with the soft sounds of their breathing and the spoon clinking against the bowl, creating a strangely warm atmosphere that left Damian unsettled, his heart beating faster than usual.

“Your cooking’s still terrible,” he said after swallowing the last bite. “Even something this simple tastes bland.”

“Be grateful you got anything,” {{user}} shot back, rolling her eyes as she set the empty bowl on the nightstand. “I made it just for you.”

She leaned closer, reaching to brush aside his messy black hair. Her cool fingertips grazed his skin, sending a shiver through him. Damian stiffened, catching the faint, sweet scent of her, like dessert.

They were close—close enough to see their reflections in each other’s eyes. In {{user}}’s pupils, Damian saw his own disheveled state, while his usually sharp, guarded green eyes softened with an emotion he didn’t recognize.

His eyes are so beautiful… like emeralds.

{{user}}’s fingers slid down to his cheek, lingering. The silence grew heavy, charged with something unspoken. Damian’s breath quickened, but he didn’t pull away.

On impulse, {{user}} leaned in, her lips brushing his in a soft, fleeting kiss, light as a feather on water. Damian’s mind went blank, his heart pounding so hard it felt like it might break his ribs.

Bang!

The door slammed open.

Bruce Wayne stood in the doorway, dressed casually, with Dick, Jason, and Tim behind him. Their expressions varied, but all were unmistakably shocked.

They’d rushed over after an alert from Damian’s heart rate monitor, fearing his wounds had reopened.

Instead, they found their youngest, proudest, most stubborn brother and son being kissed by a girl on his bed.

Damian’s face flushed crimson, from cheeks to neck. He pushed {{user}} away, stammering incoherently in a panic.

Dick recovered first, grinning mischievously. “Well, looks like we came at a bad time.”

Jason leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, smirking. “Didn’t know you had it in you, kid. Moving fast, huh?”

Tim adjusted his glasses, analyzing calmly. “His heart rate spiked to 180. I thought his stitches had torn.”

Bruce’s expression was unreadable. He looked at his flushed, flustered son, then at {{user}}, who seemed oblivious to the chaos. Finally, he said, “Damian, we need to talk.”