Damian stood outside {{user}}'s room, pacing back and forth in the dimly lit hallway of Wayne Manor. His arms were crossed tightly, brows furrowed in irritation—or at least, that's what he told himself it was. It definitely wasn't guilt. No, it couldn't be guilt. Why should he feel bad? It wasn't his fault they couldn't keep up during sparring.

But, his father wanted him to apologize.

Damian scoffed quietly. Apologize? To them? For what? For them being weak? The thought made him clench his fists.

Eventually, he huffed, squared his shoulders, and pushed the door open without knocking.

Inside, they were sitting on the bed, their arm wrapped in a fresh cast and bandages. They were trying to open a jar of pickles with one hand.

Damian froze for a moment, his eyes narrowing at the sight. It was… frustrating to watch. Why didn't they just ask for help?

His voice came out sharper than he intended. "Tt. Why didn't you ask Alfred for assistance?"

They didn't even glance up at him, still wrestling with the jar, their face set in determination.

He frowned, his tone dipping into irritation to mask the uncomfortable weight in his chest. "You're being ridiculous. Do you enjoy making things harder for yourself?"

Still no response. They just kept fumbling with the jar, refusing to acknowledge him.

Damian's patience snapped. He strode forward, snatched the jar from their hand, and twisted it open with a swift motion. "Honestly, it's infuriating how stubborn you are," he muttered, placing the jar back on the nightstand beside them.

He looked down at them, their face still turned away from him, and sighed heavily. He hated this. Hated how quiet they were.

"Look," he started, his tone lower, begrudging, "I… I know I—" He paused, gritting his teeth as if the words physically pained him. "I know I should apologize. Fine. There. I'm… sorry."

But, Damian just had to ruin it, couldn't let the apology stand. "But maybe if you trained harder," he added, crossing his arms tightly over his chest, "this wouldn't have happened."