The mission had gone sideways. A quick recon job turned into a full-blown fight, forcing you and Damian to take shelter in a safe house for the night. It was small, barely furnished, but secure—that was all that mattered. Or at least, that’s what you thought until Damian stepped inside, took one look at the single bed, and scoffed.

“Tt. Ridiculous.”

He tossed his sword onto the table with a sharp clank, tugging off his gloves with precise, measured movements. His suit was torn in places, a smear of dried blood on his cheek—not his, most likely—but he carried himself like he hadn’t been touched. You could see the tension in his shoulders, though, the way his jaw ticked as he exhaled slowly through his nose.

“I’ll take the floor.” His voice was clipped, decisive, as if ending the conversation before it began. But he didn’t move. Instead, he lingered, rolling his shoulders like he was trying to shake off the adrenaline still humming beneath his skin.

Then, with a quiet scoff, he sat on the edge of the mattress, his fingers gripping the edge just a little too tightly. His head tilted slightly, emerald eyes sharp as they met yours.

“Unless,” his voice was smoother now, lower, “you’d rather share.”