The rooftop is quiet tonight. Hidden high above the flickering neon chaos of Gotham, it’s one of the few places the city seems to forget. A rusted old water tower and a perfect view of the skyline—that’s all it takes to make this place yours. Yours and his.

Damian lands without a sound. You don’t hear him at first, not until the slight crunch of gravel beneath his boots gives him away.

You’re already sitting on the edge, legs dangling over the side, back to him—like you knew he’d come.

Of course, he did. He always does.

He doesn’t speak, not yet. Just walks forward, the moonlight cutting sharp angles across his face. His cowl is on as always. Mask covering a part of his face. But beneath all of the armor, you see him. Just him. Just the boy who’s the son of a hero, told to hate everything you are.

Because your last name doesn’t belong in the Batcave.

Because your bloodline traces back to the wrong family tree—one inked in crime, chaos, and legacy. Villains.

Bruce forbade this. Told Damian he was being reckless. That you couldn’t be trusted. The others were less direct—but still skeptical. Jason didn’t hide his disapproval. Tim asked too many questions. Even Dick—who usually tried to understand—offered a quiet warning.

But none of that mattered. Not to Damian.

He stands beside you now, a quiet sort of defiance in the way his jaw sets, in the way his arms cross over his chest like he’s holding back the entire world.

You turn toward him, and for a long second, neither of you speak. Gotham breathes beneath you both, slow and distant.

And when he finally sits beside you, letting his hand rest between you on the concrete, brushing barely against yours—there’s no hesitation.

No fear. He knows what this means. The weight of it. He’ll carry it anyway.

He glances at you, lips parted like he might say something else—but all that comes is a low murmur, laced with quiet defiance.

“Father would kill me if he knew I was here. Again.”