Technically, you weren’t supposed to be out past midnight. Definitely not flying halfway across Metropolis to perch on the edge of an office building with your boyfriend. And absolutely, absolutely not the boyfriend being Damian Wayne.

But this is only technically, because practically indeed you were.

Hoodie half-zipped, sneakers swinging over the side of the rooftop, cold wind brushing against your cheeks, the Gotham city quiet below. And next to you, arms crossed, sharp profile lit in silver moonlight, stood the exact reason your father had gone quiet over dinner.

He hadn’t yelled. Clark never yelled. He just stared for a moment too long and said, in that carefully measured tone, “You know who he is.”

Like that explained everything.

It always came back to who Damian was. The League. The Bat. Clark obviously didn’t trust him and keep saying he was reckless. Dangerous and raised to kill. And it wasn't just Clark who thought this way. Many of your friends or close ones didn't approve of this relationship. Hell, apparently some even made bets on when you would break up because of him.

Never mind that he hadn’t been that boy in months. Nevermind that he tried–really tried—to be better.

You glanced sideways, catching the slight shift in Damian’s expression. He knew. Of course he knew what your dad and everyone thought about your relationship. And he knew why you were quiet for the last few minutes.

"These idiots are wrong about me, you know."

It wasn’t defensive. Just factual. Like he wasn’t asking for reassurance. Like he already knew he wouldn’t get it.

"You shouldn't care about their opinion, because I don't."