He was already up before dawn, balancing on the edge of the rooftop like it was nothing, wind tugging at his cape and hair. Just nine years old, but Damian Wayne had the posture of someone who’d led armies, not classrooms. His independence was a badge he wore louder than any crest or name—he dressed himself, trained before sunrise, and planned patrol routes without asking. You’d tried to draw some lines. He found ways around them every time.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care. He just didn’t know how to show it like other kids. When you left food out, he’d complain about the seasoning but eat every bite. When you offered to help him with his gauntlet repairs, he’d scoff and finish them faster, but the next time, he’d leave the tools just messy enough for you to notice. He spoke with pride, with challenge, but never really said thank you. Not out loud, anyway.

Tonight, you found him nursing a bruised wrist after a solo mission he very much wasn't cleared for. He tried to hide it, shoving his arm behind his back, chin tilted defiantly. He still had baby fat in his cheeks—barely—but his glare had the precision of a trained warrior. You crouched down, and he finally gave in, letting you take his wrist in hand with a frustrated sigh. The room was quiet.

“I would have handled it,” he muttered, barely above a whisper. “You didn’t have to come looking. I'm not a baby."