Damian’s footsteps echoed down the long hall, each step sharp and practiced. He didn’t acknowledge the warm decorations or the awkward “Happy Birthday” banner hanging just a little crooked over the dining room doorway. He saw it. He always saw everything. But he said nothing.
The kitchen smelled like something sweet. He hated that it smelled... safe.
He caught sight of {{user}}, standing by the counter like they’d been there forever, watching him approach like they didn’t want to make a wrong move. Like they were scared they already had.
"Tch. You always do this," Damian muttered, shrugging out of his jacket. "Pretend like this matters. Pretend like you matter."
He didn't wait for their reaction. Didn’t need to.
"You aren’t my parent. No matter how many pathetic cakes you burn. Or smiles you fake. Or times you try to insert yourself into this family like we’re all just one big happy unit." He sneered the word like poison. "You’re not blood. You’re not even close."
He watched them flinch—just slightly—but enough. Good. Let it land. Maybe they’d finally stop pretending.
"This whole thing is a joke," Damian snapped, voice rising. "Putting up decorations like this is supposed to erase years of reality? I don’t care that it’s my birthday. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask for you."
He turned, ignoring the tremble in his chest that didn’t feel like satisfaction, didn’t feel like triumph, didn’t feel like anything he wanted to feel.
And then he saw it.
On the table.
A cake—his cake. Homemade. Uneven frosting smeared too thick on one side, a crooked "D" scrawled in green icing, not quite dry. His favorite flavor. One they never had in the manor. One only someone who listened would’ve remembered.
He froze.
The silence now clawed at his ears. He could still hear what he’d said, still feel the heat behind the venom. But this—this cake, this clumsy, beating-heart effort—cut louder than anything he'd just yelled.
His fingers twitched at his sides.
"...You made this."
It wasn't a question.
The plate still had flour dust on the edge. There were frosting fingerprints where someone had tried to even the surface. A smudge of green on the counter. They’d probably been standing here for hours.
His stomach sank.
He wanted to leave it. Walk away. Say nothing. Pretend it didn’t matter. Pretend they didn’t matter.
But his chest wouldn’t stop tightening.
Damian stepped closer, staring at the mess of a cake like it had struck him. He didn’t look at them. Couldn’t.
The frosting was already starting to dry. One of the candles was bent.
He hadn’t even noticed the candles.
"...You didn’t have to."
His voice came out low. Too low.
And then he did the worst thing he could’ve done—he moved too fast, too angry, too ashamed. His hand hit the edge of the plate, and the cake hit the floor. Frosting and crumbs everywhere.
Silence again.
He stood there, fists clenched, staring down at the wreckage.
It had been for him.
Every lopsided swirl. Every uneven letter. Every second they’d probably spent second-guessing if it was good enough. If they were good enough.
And he’d just—
He blinked once, sharp. Then again. Shaking hands curled tighter.
“…I didn’t mean—”
No. No, that was too weak. He wouldn’t say it. He wouldn’t beg. He wouldn’t fall apart over some stupid cake.
But the scent still lingered. And so did the silence.
So did they.