Damian Wayne had a reputation that stretched far beyond his actual words. Cold, quiet, untouchable — the kind of boy whose name was always spoken in either admiration or fear. His silence wasn’t empty; it was sharp. And yet people orbited him like he was gravity itself. Teachers praised his work with hesitation. Classmates respected his space. No one dared to tease him or test their luck with casual conversation. Except Jonathan Kent, of course. The only person who could throw a crumpled paper ball at Damian’s head without ending up with a death glare that could level cities. They were opposites that somehow made sense. And that, as far as Damian was concerned, was enough.

Until you.

You came into the school like a dropped sunbeam. Not quiet. Not cautious. You greeted people like they already mattered. Asked questions in class with a voice that bounced, laughed at your own mistakes, and tripped during P.E. so often that even the coach gave up correcting your form. Damian noticed. He noticed the first time you smiled directly at him during lunch and said “Hi!” like he wasn’t a walking fortress. He ignored it, of course. Shrugged it off like he always did. But then he noticed you again — when you dropped your books and scrambled to pick them up without even getting embarrassed. And again, when you offered a flower to the school janitor just because “he looked like he needed a bit of yellow.” You were loud. You were chaos. You were soft edges in a world he’d trained himself to keep sharp. And he didn’t know what to do with that.

The tipping point wasn’t some grand moment. It was chemistry class.

You got your test back. Score: 50.

Damian had been sitting three rows behind you, pretending not to glance your way. But when he saw you stare at the paper, shoulders slump, and bite your lower lip just a little too hard — something flickered in his chest. A pinprick of concern, stubborn and unwelcome. Jonathan, ever the menace, leaned over and stage-whispered, “You want me to tutor you or should I force Mr. Broody back there to do it?” You laughed it off — the same way you always did — but Damian saw the shift in your eyes. The way you avoided looking at anyone for the rest of the period. The quiet, for once, was yours. And that made it worse.

He should’ve ignored it.

But at lunch, when Jonathan handed him an extra juice box and made some snide comment about “sunshine going dim,” Damian rolled his eyes so hard it hurt… and muttered, “I’ll do it.”

Jonathan blinked.

—“Wait. You’ll tutor them?”

—“I said I’d do it, didn’t I?” Damian snapped, already regretting it.

But when he walked toward your table — stiff, awkward, too aware of every step — and you looked up at him with wide, blinking eyes like you couldn’t believe he was talking to you, he felt it again. That flicker. That warmth he wasn’t used to. And it scared the hell out of him.

He stood there a moment before speaking.

—“That 50,” he muttered, almost like it pained him to say it out loud, “was undeserved. Your method was sound. Just...sloppy.”

—“Wait—what?”

Damian didn’t meet your eyes.

—“I can help. If you want. Today after school.”