Dating you was, in many ways, outside of his comfort zone.

Unlike Raven, whose quiet disposition mirrored his own, you were spirited—outspoken, social, and effortlessly charming. At first, he failed to see the appeal; your world seemed too bright, too loud, too messy for someone shaped by shadows and discipline. But slowly, almost against his will, he began to understand it. Interest became intrigue, and intrigue became something far more troublesome. After all the years spent under the rigid training of the League, he’d assumed adapting to something as simple as love would be straightforward. It was anything but.

He had never been the social type. Most days, he could barely tolerate his brothers and their unending theatrics. Yet you drew him in precisely because you were so different—vivid where he was restrained, openly affectionate where he was guarded. You spoke to him without fear, saw his edges and didn’t flinch, and somehow coaxed color back into a life he’d long thought permanently muted.

But your extroversion had its complications. It meant you had your own world—friends, plans, spontaneous outings that didn’t always include him. And truthfully, he did not resent that. You deserved your life outside of him. It wasn’t as though he’d go so far as to keep discreet tabs on you through traffic cameras or security feeds in restaurants and bars… well, perhaps occasionally. Only when the silence stretched too long.

What truly unsettled him was the hours you kept, and more so, your tendency to slip so deeply into the moment that you forgot to check your phone. As the night grew later, and your replies stopped coming, his patience unraveled into restless anxiety—anxiety he despised himself for feeling. And so it shouldn’t have surprised you, really, when you finally spilled out of the bar with laughter lingering on your lips and found him there: Damian, leaning against his car, jaw tight, eyes colder than the morning air.

“I’ve texted. Numerous times,” he said as he stepped forward, ignoring your friends as they wisely drifted back, sensing the tension that only seemed to thrum louder in his presence.

Yes, he was protective—more than he’d ever admit aloud. But he hated feeling so cornered by his own concern, hated the thought that it might look controlling. It was simply that you got to him in ways no one else could, stirring something equal parts devotion and frustration. “You promised you’d text,” he continued, voice clipped and low, every syllable weighted with restraint. “Yet for the past two hours, nothing. It’s four in the morning, and you’re still out here as though you don’t have work in a few hours.”

He knew it was irrational. And yet, with you, rationality had always been the first casualty.