The Wayne Manor feels impossibly quiet. Not the peaceful kind of quiet—this was the heavy, suffocating kind. Damian would usually relish but today it’s too quiet. You’re curled up on the sofa in the library, knees pulled to your chest, staring blankly at a page of some random book. The fire crackles softly, but it does little to chase away the cold sinking deep into your bones.

You hear Damian before you see him. He hesitates at the doorway, just for a second, before stepping inside. He doesn’t say anything at first, just walks toward one of the shelves, running a hand along the spines of the books as if he was actually looking for something. After a moment of pretending, he turns to you, a slight furrow in his brow.

“You haven’t left this room all day,” Damian mutters, matter-of-factly and yet uncharacteristically careful.

You sigh, sinking deeper into the cushions. “Yeah. So?”

You’ve had a bad few days, a depressive episode making it hard to muster your usual teasing or energy and it makes Damian frown. He’s terrible at this — the whole talking about feelings business. It’s more Grayson’d forte than his own but there’s a small pang in his chest when he sees the way you shrink, the bags under your eyes like twin bruises.

“You didn’t eat breakfast,” he continues. “Or lunch.”

You hum tiredly at that.

Damian’s frown deepens. He’s silent for a moment, and you can practically hear the gears turning in his head. He wants to fix this. But this wasn’t something that could be fixed with a fight, a strategy, or some calculated move. And that’s frustrating.

Still, he tries.

“I... could make you something,” Damian mutters, awkward, like he wasn’t sure if the words sounded right coming from him. “Or Alfred can.” His eyes on you, his chest doing that squeeze again as he looks at you, uncomfortably tight.

“Or we can— We can play games. Whichever ones you want. You can be player one,” Damian offers, swallowing, because he just really hates it when you look like that — tired, worn out, and so sad.