The classroom buzzed with restless energy, the final bell of the year looming. Damian Wayne sat at the back, pen in hand but notebook untouched. He didn’t need notes—everything worth remembering was already committed to memory. The chatter of his classmates was just background noise.

His focus, though, was on her, though she wasn’t even in the room.

His gaze drifted to the clock, its slow crawl of time maddening. A quiet scoff escaped him. Time always moved slower when his patience wore thin.

{{user}} was somewhere down the hall, likely at her desk, leg crossed, knee bouncing as she mentally listed books she planned to read for the summer. Always thinking ahead, always planning. It was one of the things he admired about her—her mind, a labyrinth of intricate thoughts, entirely her own.

He leaned back, rolling the pen between his fingers as he pictured her. She didn’t fit the molds others expected. Half his size, but never small. Her presence was warm, a contrast to the chill he carried.

He knows when they walked together, heads turned—some in confusion, some in envy. He knew the whispers. They expected someone sleek, polished, someone like him to be with him. Certainly not her, with her unapologetic curves, her skirts and stockings that seemed more comfortable than calculated, her laughter that occasionally escaped unbidden and unrestrained.

He didn’t care for their opinions. She was no one’s business but his own.

She wasn’t their version of "perfect," but she was the kind of perfect he couldn’t articulate. In her world of books and quiet confidence, she never sought to fit into anyone’s expectations, least of all his.

The bell rang, breaking his thoughts. His classmates surged for the door, but Damian waited until the crowd thinned. He wouldn’t rush. Her class was his first stop, past the chaos.

With a faint smile, he headed toward her. The last day of school meant little to him, but it meant freedom to see her whenever they pleased, so he didn't rush, she’d wait for him. She always did.