The air was warmer than usual that afternoon in the heights of Gotham. The sun bathed Damian's black wings in a golden glow, but he could barely focus on flying straight. There was something odd in his chest, a kind of pressure that hadn't left him alone for days. Every time he thought of {{user}}, he felt the urge to move, to do something—anything—to be closer to her. It's not like he's entering a cycle where females of his own species approach him.

And so it all began.

First, there were the flowers he left on her window sill, a clumsy jumble of petals crushed by his claws. Then, a small stone pendant he'd carved himself with his knives. Then, a makeshift nest of black and silver feathers he'd left on her desk "by chance." And now he feels the need to be more affectionate with her.

—"It's nothing," he murmured one afternoon when {{user}} caught him leaving another offering, a shiny fruit he'd flown out of town to retrieve.

—"I just... thought you'd like it."

His voice sounded drier than he intended. The tips of his wings trembled anxiously. He couldn't stay still: he ruffled his feathers, leaned closer, unconsciously surrounded her with his shadow.