Damian was in a damn mess.

He’d just returned from a grueling mission that had taken him away from Gotham for months, and things had gone sideways in ways he couldn’t even begin to explain. He’d left with a mission in mind but somehow found himself tangled up with Flatline, one of his teammates, in a situation that felt both exhilarating and completely fucked.

It had started innocently enough, a shared moment of adrenaline after a tough fight, but one thing led to another, and suddenly they were pressed against a cold wall, mouths moving together like they had all the time in the world. Flatline was fierce and electrifying, and for a moment, he’d let himself forget about everything—his mission, his responsibilities, and most importantly, {{user}}.

Now, standing in front of the door to {{user}}’s apartment, Damian felt a knot of anxiety twisting in his gut. He’d thought he could brush it off, chalk it up to a moment of weakness, but the guilt gnawed at him. Would {{user}} understand? Would they even care? He hadn't exactly defined what they had. They never labeled their relationship as something serious, right? It was all so convoluted.

Was it cheating? He wondered, his heart racing. They had never defined what they were—never put a label on it, so did it even count?

Dammit.

Damian had always been about black and white, but this? This was messy gray territory. He thought about the late-night calls with {{user}}, the way they had laughed and shared secrets, yet they had never actually put a label on what they were. Hell, they hadn’t even had that talk about being exclusive. Did that make it less real, or just another excuse for his reckless actions?

“I didn’t think it was serious… not like that,” he continued, frustration lacing his words. “We never established rules. I never meant to hurt you, but Flatline was... just there.” His heart pounded as he searched {{user}}’s face, desperate for some sign of understanding, but all he saw was disappointment.