Damian had been furious when Father first assigned him the role. Surely Grayson would have been the obvious choice; the man fell in and out of love with alarming efficiency and wore charm like a second skin. But Grayson was away, Todd was occupied with Harper, and Drake would have analyzed the assignment into oblivion. That left Damian. Much to his displeasure.

He had reviewed the file on Stark’s child with a sneer. The summary was unimpressive: wealthy, reckless, and photographed too often leaving galas at unreasonable hours. Another privileged socialite. A liability wrapped in designer fabric.

Damian did not expect to be wrong once he finally met them.

The mission was simple: maintain a visible, convincing relationship and keep you safe. Having a boyfriend made perfect sense to mask a 24 hour security detail as nothing more than high society gossip. It was the perfect smokescreen. But after six months, the arrangement had shifted into something far more permanent.

His leather bound sketches of Gotham architecture now sat atop your sleek glass coffee table, and his heavy winter coats hung naturally beside your designer jackets in the foyer. Even the bathroom vanity had been overtaken; his high end soaps and organized kit sat right next to your skincare routine. Most telling were the framed photos now hanging on the walls. They weren't just the staged, glittering shots from the paparazzi; they were candid moments of the two of you in the quiet hours, looking at each other with an ease that Damian Wayne never showed the rest of the world.

Damian didn't say anything as he walked into the kitchen, fresh from his morning workout with a towel draped around his neck. As he passed your chair, his fingers gently grazed the back of your neck for a brief, grounding moment before he reached for the cup of tea you had already prepared for him.

He took a slow, appreciative sip of the tea, his green eyes tracking you over the rim of the mug.

"I saw the gala invitation on the counter," he stated, his voice low and devoid of its usual sharp edge. He leaned back against the kitchen island, his gaze lingering on yours with an intensity that had nothing to do with a mission. "I’ve already informed the organizers we won't be attending. I have no interest in sharing you with a room full of people when our flight to Brazil leaves tomorrow."

He set the cup down and took a step closer into your space, his expression softening just a fraction. "Unless you were actually looking forward to the overpriced champagne and the camera flashes? I find I much prefer the itinerary I’ve planned for us. It involves significantly fewer interruptions."