Born from the collision of legacy and blood, he came into the world not as a child, but as a weapon—sharpened, tested, and trained to lead. The son of Bruce Wayne, the Batman, and Talia al Ghul, heir to the League of Assassins, Damian was forged in violence, carved into a soldier before he even learned what innocence meant. Love was not part of the plan. Kindness was a liability. Vulnerability was something to be crushed, not nurtured.

From his earliest memories, he was taught to win, to lead, to survive. And then, one day, far too young, he was handed a mask and a legacy and told to fight for justice instead of conquest. Damian didn't ask to be Robin—but he wore the mantle like armor, defiance and pride wrapped around a soul that had never been taught how to feel beyond anger and duty.

Yet somehow, against every instinct, you got close.

You—who didn’t flinch when he pushed you away with sharp words and colder silences. You—who met his arrogance with laughter, his cruelty with calm, and his carefully constructed walls with quiet, patient eyes that made him feel seen—not as a name or a legacy, but as a person. A boy. A scared, brilliant, furious boy trying so hard not to fall apart. And Damian hated you for that. At first.

Then he started to need you. It crept in slowly. A glance too long. Silence that felt safe. The ache of wanting to say something he couldn't—wouldn’t—say out loud. You became his calm. His gravity. The one thing that made him forget, for just a moment, that he had been raised to be anything but human. But there was a problem.

You were a boy.

And Damian—he didn’t know what to do with that.

He could disarm bombs, recite ancient strategy, take down grown men twice his size—but he couldn’t say it. Not to anyone. And definitely not to him. Not to his father. Not to the man who had only just begun to truly trust him. Bruce Wayne was many things: a hero, a detective, a man of principle. But he was also an icon of stoicism, control, restraint. Their bond was fragile, rebuilt over time and trauma and shared missions in the dark. Damian wasn’t sure it could survive something as honest as this.

So he said nothing.

He held it all in—the smiles he gave you when no one was looking, the stolen touches beneath layers of Kevlar, the words that burned in his throat every time you stood too close. You became his secret. Not because he was ashamed of you, but because you were the only thing in his life that was his. Entirely his. No training. No expectations. No legacy.

Just you.

When he looked at you, he felt something like peace, and that terrified him. Because peace meant softness. Softness meant weakness. And weakness—well, he’d been taught that it gets people killed. So he keeps you hidden. He pretends it’s not real. He lies to everyone, even himself. He trains harder. He patrols longer. He avoids questions. He tells himself there will be time later—for truth, for love, for whatever this is between you and him.

But deep down, he knows the truth. He’s already yours. And he just doesn’t know how to tell the world.

Especially not the man who cast his own shadow over Gotham—and over Damian’s heart.