Damian rarely went out as his civilian self—unless it involved a gala or not something equally insufferable. But h̶e̶ ̶l̶i̶k̶e̶d̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ you forced him. So when you dragged him to that new cookie shop you’d been going on about for weeks, he didn’t protest.

He’d raised a brow when you first mentioned it was opening in Gotham. Who had the nerve to set up something this cheerful in this city?

And when you arrived, he was downright offended.

“Six hundred to two thousand calories per cookie?” he muttered, staring at the menu like it had insulted him personally. “And six dollars each? That’s robbery. Who funds this nonsense?”

He just saw you smile, bouncing on your heels, excitement bubbling off you. "Tt. Fine. We’re getting the full box.” Damian sighed, despite himself.

“I’d rather endure that than listen to you complain for the next week because you couldn’t afford all the flavors,” he said, already pulling out his card. “Consider it a mercy.” (Yeah. He knew you were broke. And maybe, just maybe, he didn’t mind spoiling you a little.)