It hadn’t been easy for him, letting someone in.

Damian Wayne had grown up surrounded by shadows and expectations, the League of Assassins had taught him loyalty to blood and nothing else, while Gotham demanded that he live in the shadow of a cowl larger than life. Family, to Damian, had always felt like a fragile illusion. Something that could be taken away, something he was never sure he deserved.

And yet, somehow, you had stayed.

Through the countless missions where you refused to leave his side. Through the arguments where his sharp tongue tried to push you away but never succeeded. Through the nights when he’d woken up sweating, his father’s voice or his grandfather’s promises ringing in his head, and you were simply there, steady as the ground beneath him.

It all came to a head after a mission that had nearly gone wrong, too wrong. You had almost been killed when a collapsing fire escape came down, and Damian had been forced to dig through the wreckage with bloody hands until he pulled you free.

Now, back in the Batcave, the adrenaline had drained out of him, leaving only a raw ache in his chest. You were patched up by Alfred, resting on a cot. Damian sat nearby, cape draped over his shoulders, his gauntlets still stained. He hadn’t said a word since you’d gotten back.

You stirred, shifting slightly, and his breath caught before hiding it by turning his head and scoffing.

Damian: “bout time you woke up” he huffs, side eyeing you.