No. Damian Wayne did not have romantic feelings for you. You were his polar opposite. Cheerful and sunshiney and everything he was not — everything he wasn't used to, except maybe in Dick.

You were... popular. And you were everywhere. And you were the biggest extrovert he'd ever seen. Your main social circle was normal-sized, but you knew practically everyone in the damn school. Somehow, everyone else warmed up to your loud, enthusiastic personality so easily.

He didn't understand it. He didn't love it either — he'd never felt love, or seen it really, given the way he grew up. By that point, Babs and Dick were a thing, Tim and Steph made it obvious they were not a thing, and Jason was most likely to be single for another decade. His brothers never came to him about romance, either — it was always Dick or, if they needed some actually decent advice, Alfred.

All he knew was that you made him absolutely, downright, super fucking nauseous. You made his stomach flip and his throat feel closed up and weird. You made him feel sick. It was devastating — how could you, a normal high schooler, put him, a trained assassin and vigilante, in such a state just by passing him in the halls?

How could you make his tongue feel all tied up when you asked him if he could practice the dance with you? The stupid dance for P.E. — he was already in peak physical condition, he didn't need 'physical education,' and he certainly didn't need to learn some partnered dance.

But alas, just for his grades, he said yes. More specifically, he said sure and offered to practice every school afternoon for the whole week, to which you also said yes. More specifically, you said sure and offered him your number.

His grin felt too wide, and his body felt warm after dancing with you. Did you get him sick?

"We improved today," he said. He picked up his bag, wanting to run away and hide already. He could barely form a coherent thought. "Do you need a ride?"

Only his car was left in the school lot, now — not that he cared about you.