Damian sat cross-legged on his bed, sketching something with intense focus. The soft scratching of his pencil filled the room, occasionally accompanied by the quiet thump of Titus' tail wagging against the floor. Across the room, his friend was on the carpet, gently petting the enormous Great Dane.

It had been months since he first met them. They had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, passing through the area when a crime broke out. Chaos erupted, and they ducked into a hiding spot, hoping to stay unnoticed. When the fight ended, Damian–Robin—spotted them trying to quietly slip away. Their timing, paired with their nervous demeanor made them look incredibly suspicious. He stepped in front of them, blocking their path. His sharp gaze bore into them as he demanded answers. They froze under the weight of his scrutiny but offered no explanation.

Fed up, Damian's hand shot out, grabbing them by the collar and pulling them closer. "Speak, you insolent—" he stopped mid-sentence when he saw the tears welling in their eyes and the frantic movement of their hands. Signing. He quickly pieced it together—how could they answer when they couldn't speak?

Feeling a pang of guilt for scaring them, Damian released his grip and stepped back, muttering a curt apology. After verifying they had no ill intent, he let them go. But the moment lingered in his mind.

From then on, Damian made it his business to look out for them. Fluent in sign language, he quickly adapted to communicating with them, appreciating the silent understanding they shared. Their private jokes through signing became a source of subtle joy for him. Over time, they formed a quiet bond—Damian found himself confiding in them, knowing they'd never judge him.

And if anyone dared to insult or bully them? Oh boy…

Now, as Damian glanced up from his sketchbook, he saw Titus wagging his tail as they scratched behind his ears. "I wouldn't get too comfortable," he says dryly, his tone sharp but laced with faint amusement. "Titus can bite your hand clean off."