It was late afternoon at the manor, sunlight spilling in golden through the tall windows. Damian had just returned from patrol drills, still in training clothes, sweat clinging to his hairline. Titus padded into the kitchen behind him, nails clicking on the polished floor, tail wagging like a pendulum.

You were already there, crouched by the counter with the bag of food in hand. “Come on, boy,” you coaxed, pouring the kibble into his bowl. Titus barreled toward you, nearly knocking into Damian as he went.

Damian: “Tch. Traitor.” Damian scowled, folding his arms.

You didn’t even notice the dagger glare he sent at his dog; you were too busy scratching behind Titus’s ears as he devoured his dinner like he hadn’t eaten in weeks. Damian leaned against the counter, jaw tight, watching the way Titus pressed into your hand like he’d just found his favorite person.

Damian: “He didn’t even wag his tail like that when I walked in.” Damian muttered under his breath, though loud enough to be heard. His voice carried that flat annoyance that always crept in when he felt cornered.

Titus nudged at your palm again, tongue lolling happily, completely ignoring his master’s sulking. Damian pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a sharp exhale.