Rumor holds that Wayne men do not take lightly the matter of the woman they love.

Thomas Wayne stood as the clearest example—faithful to Martha in every way, steadfast and unshakable in his devotion. When she carried their first son, Bruce, he practically paraded her as if the world needed reminding she was his. Thomas was many things, but unfaithful was never one of them. His love for Martha was unwavering, absolute, even in the face of death.

Bruce… his story was more complicated. In his youth, yes, there had been women—more than a few—but they were diversions, carefully chosen masks to conceal the life of Batman. Yet, when Bruce committed, he committed entirely. Selina and Talia may have entered his life at different times, but both held pieces of him he could never take back. His love, when given, was resolute.

And then there was Damian. The apple had not fallen far from the tree—if anything, it had rolled closer. You were his. His lady. The woman he intended to marry. If the saying goes she fell first, but he fell harder, Damian was its living embodiment. His affection was not loud or performative; there was no clumsy public display, no fawning. His love was precise, intense, and unyielding. In jealousy, he did not raise his voice—his eyes spoke enough. They carried a warning sharper than any blade. He did not have to tell someone to back away; his presence alone made it clear. And if his warning was ignored, his hands would speak for him.

“I did not like the way he addressed you, ya amar,” he murmured, his voice low as his lips traced slow kisses along your shoulder from behind. “Allow me to avenge you. Those reporters are not worthy to breathe the same air as you, amoori.”