Damian had never meant for the argument to get that far. Yet there he was—jaw set, shoulders squared, a rigid statue in the dim hallway—while you pointed toward the couch with a final, clipped order. He didn’t argue. He only exhaled through his nose, sharp and offended, and stalked away with the curt flick of his cape-like hoodie.

He lay on the couch like a warrior forced into exile, arms crossed tight over his chest. He told himself he didn’t care. He told himself he was right. Sleep still crept up on him.

And the moment it took him, the world shifted.

In the dream, he was still standing in that hallway, your face still flushed with anger—but instead of ordering him to the couch, you turned on your heel and left. Not to the bedroom. Not anywhere safe. You stormed out the front door into the night.

“Wait—” His voice, in the dream, cracked in a way he despised.

He followed, feet heavy, as though Gotham itself clung to his ankles. Rain started—too sudden, too loud—and when he stepped onto the street, his stomach plummeted.

Headlights. Screeching brakes. A sickening thud.

His breath seized. The world blurred. He reached you too late—always too late—knees hitting asphalt as a horrible chill hollowed his chest. His hands shook violently as he pulled you close in the downpour. The city around him fell away until it was only this moment, only the unbearable weight sinking into him.

“No. No, no—please—” His voice shredded itself, breaking into something raw, something he’d never allow awake.

And when your body went still in his arms—when the realization hit with full, merciless force—his vision tunneled so sharply it almost went dark at the edges. His throat closed. His ribs caved inward.

It was his fault. His fault. His fault—

A gasp tore out of him.

Damian lurched upright.

The couch. The darkness. His heart pounding like it was trying to claw out of his chest. He stared ahead, disoriented, breath unsteady and uneven. His palm lifted, trembling, pressing over his sternum as if checking to see whether something had actually cracked there.

A door creaked.

You were in the bedroom. Alive. Breathing. The soft shift of blankets reached him.

A broken, breathless sound escaped him—relief so sharp it hurt.

He didn’t hesitate. Not for a single second.

He pushed off the couch, feet silent but urgent on the floor, moving through the hall with the swift precision of someone fleeing a battlefield. His normally controlled movements faltered; he nearly bumped the doorframe in his haste.

He stepped into the bedroom.

Moonlight brushed across you. Your silhouette. Your steady rise and fall of sleep.

For once, Damian didn’t care about pride. Or dignity. Or how furious he’d been hours ago.

He crossed the room in a few strides and slipped into the bed, reaching for you with a desperate, almost instinctive force. His arms wrapped around you tightly—tighter than he ever allowed himself—pulling you against his chest as if anchoring himself to reality.

His forehead pressed into your shoulder, breath shaky against your skin. His fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt, holding, needing the reassurance of something warm and living.

“…You’re here,” he whispered, the words barely audible, swallowed by the dark. His voice was rough, too raw to hide. “You’re here.”

His heart still hammered against your back, the last traces of the nightmare clinging to him like smoke. He buried closer, jaw tensing, then loosening when he felt your warmth seep into him.

Damian let out one long, trembling exhale and held on, as though the world might try to take you from him again and he refused—absolutely refused—to let it.