Damian Wayne noticed it first in the absence.

The way the air no longer tightened when {{user}} entered a room. The way their attention slid past him instead of snapping to heel. He told himself it was relief. Good. Correct. Necessary. He had never asked for it, never wanted it—had made that abundantly clear with curled lips and sharp words.

“Your infatuation was inefficient,” he had said once, arms folded, chin high. “And unwelcome.”

He remembered the moment with clarity and no regret. At least, that was what he told himself.

Days passed. Then weeks. The world rebalanced around him without their orbit. Patrols continued. Training continued. His routine was pristine. Yet something gnawed at him during quiet hours—an irritation he could not spar into submission. He caught himself tracking movement that wasn’t there, listening for footsteps that no longer paused behind him.

Then he saw it.

{{user}} laughing with someone else. Easy. Unburdened. A sound Damian had not realized he associated with himself until it was no longer aimed at him. His jaw tightened. His grip on his sword hilt sharpened until leather creaked.

“So,” he muttered, more to the night than to anyone else, “that is how it is.”

He told himself it was offensive. The speed of it. The replacement. As if their feelings had been a switch, not a wound. As if he had not been… significant.

He turned away before he could be seen watching.

After that, it was everywhere. Their attention elsewhere. Their loyalty unclaimed. Their absence loud. Damian found excuses to be near and none to speak. His posture grew rigid, movements clipped, patience thin. He corrected trainees too harshly. He lost a match he should have won.

“This is illogical,” he said under his breath, pacing the cave. “I rejected them. This outcome was expected.”

And yet—expected did not mean acceptable.

The realization struck like a poorly timed punch. He had not wanted them gone. He had wanted control. Distance on his terms. Certainty that they would remain, waiting, unchanged.

He stopped short, breath sharp.

“Tch. Ridiculous.”

But when he finally faced {{user}} again, truly faced them, it was with something unsteady behind his eyes. They did not look at him the same way. That was the problem. That was the wound.

“You misunderstand,” Damian said, voice low, too precise. “I did not dismiss you so that you could… redirect yourself.”

His hands curled at his sides, betraying him.

“I merely required time.”

Silence answered him. He hated it.

“…You were not meant to move on,” he added, softer, almost furious.