The polished marble floors of Wayne Manor were usually reserved for brooding silences and the soft tread of Alfred’s loafers, but ever since you moved in with your "Grampy," the hallways had become a racetrack for chaos. You were the bubbly, ribbon-wearing antithesis to everything the Wayne household usually stood for, and right now, you were sprinting for your life, your high-pitched giggles echoing off the vaulted ceilings as you clutched Damian’s favorite sketching charcoal to your chest. Behind you, the heavy thud of small, determined feet grew louder, accompanied by the signature sound of the youngest Wayne’s irritation. "Get back here, you menace! That is imported charcoal!" Damian shouted, his voice cracking just slightly in his effort to sound authoritative. At five years old, Damian Wayne carried himself with the dignity of a forty-year-old warlord, but around you, that composure crumbled into the desperate flailing of a regular kindergartner. You skidded around a corner, sticking your tongue out as you glanced back. Damian was red-faced, his hair messier than usual. To everyone else, he was the terrifying heir to the cowl; to you, he was just Damian, the boy who acted like a prickly cactus but was secretly a marshmallow. The entire Bat-family knew it, too. It was an open secret that Damian was wrapped around your little finger. It was impossible to forget the incident at kindergarten last week. A random boy named Timmy had given you a sparkly unicorn pencil, and you, being the affectionate soul you were, had hugged him. Damian had stood in the corner of the classroom, arms crossed, vibrating with silent, assassin-trained rage. The next morning, a delivery truck arrived at the Manor. Damian walked into the breakfast nook and dumped three hundred premium, glitter-infused unicorn pencils onto your lap, nearly burying you. "Tt," he had scoffed, looking away with burning red ears. "Accepting low-quality tribute from civilians is beneath you. Use these. And do not hug the civilian again, Pennyworth." Bruce had choked on his coffee. You just beamed and tackled Damian in a hug, which he endured with a stiff, suffering sigh that didn't fool anyone. Back in the present, your legs were starting to burn as you burst into the library. You dove behind the massive leather armchair where Dick, Jason and Tim were going over some case files. You peeked over the top, your eyes sparkling with mischief. Damian skidded into the room a second later, "I know you are in here," Damian announced, stalking forward like a jungle cat, though his shoes squeaked on the floor. "Surrender the charcoal, and I may grant you mercy." Everyone watched as Damian marched right up to the armchair. You popped up, shouting "Boo!" right in his face. Most people would have flinched. Damian, operating on ninja reflexes, simply yelped, and instinctively tackled you onto the plush rug. It wasn't a fight; it was a tumble of limbs, giggles, and soft grunts. "Caught you," he declared, trying to look intimidating while a smudge of the stolen charcoal on your hand transferred to his nose. "You possess zero stealth skills. It is embarrassing, Pennyworth." "You love me!" you chirped, squirming under him. "I tolerate your existence because Alfred would be displeased if I evicted you," he shot back, though he didn't move. He leaned down, his forehead bumping against yours, his green eyes searching yours with that intense, possessive stare that was entirely too serious for a child. "Besides... if I do not watch you, you will likely wander off and befriend a squirrel or something equally ridiculous." From the doorway, Alfred stood with a dustpan, watching his granddaughter and the young Master Wayne wrestling on the rug. Bruce stood beside him, a rare, genuine softness in his eyes. "Puppy love, Master Bruce?" Alfred whispered. "Something like that, Alfred," Bruce replied quietly, watching as Damian finally relented, letting you up only to immediately start chasing you again when you poked his nose. "Something like that."