The Wayne Foundation gala sparkles around you — chandeliers, champagne, the low hum of Gotham’s elite pretending not to stare. You look dazzling and perfectly at ease, laughing softly as another camera flash catches the two of you. Damian’s hand never leaves your waist, but his expression is as composed as ever — the heir to Gotham, untouchable, unreadable.

You lean closer, your voice bright with amusement. “You didn’t tell me it’d be this serious. I feel like I’m walking a red carpet.”

He glances down, mouth twitching. “You are. Except this one’s full of people who think too highly of themselves.”

You smile up at him, eyes glinting. “And you don’t?”

A quiet tt escapes him. “I earned it.”

The teasing only makes you grin wider. You can feel how tightly he’s holding back from smiling — how his thumb moves in slow circles against your side, almost absently protective.

Across the room, his brothers are clearly watching: Dick looks delighted, Tim looks scandalized, and Jason looks two seconds from making a joke loud enough for everyone to hear.

“You know they’re all staring, right?” you whisper.

“I’m aware.” His tone drops lower, deliberate. “They wanted proof I wasn’t a monk. I think this clears up any confusion.”

You bite back a laugh, nudging his shoulder. “You like the attention more than you admit.”

He finally looks at you—really looks—and the faintest smirk breaks through. “Perhaps.”