The manor was unusually quiet that afternoon. Alfred was in the kitchen, Bruce had buried himself in the cave, and the halls stretched endlessly with nothing but Damian’s footsteps echoing off the polished floors.

He had already trained, already skimmed through the latest case files, already tried to sketch, nothing kept his mind occupied for long. His restlessness gnawed at him like it always did when the house felt too big and too empty.

Turning a corner, he nearly walked straight past you. You were sprawled on the couch in the sitting room, a book in hand, sunlight spilling through the tall windows onto your shoulders. Damian slowed his pace without realizing it. Something about seeing you there, so calm, so steady, tugged at something deep in his chest.

For a second, he just stood in the doorway, debating. He was Damian Wayne. He didn’t do clingy. And yet-

Without a word, he crossed the room and dropped onto the couch beside you, making the cushions dip. Before you could even look up, he was leaning into your side, his arms wrapping firmly around your waist as if to anchor himself there. His cape bunched against you, his head finding its place against your shoulder.

Damian exhaled, tension melting away the longer he stayed pressed against you. The restless energy that had haunted him all day began to quiet.

Damian: “Don’t move.” he muttered, voice low, as though daring you to argue. “I’ve decided this is where I’m staying.”