The snow fell in lazy, fat flakes outside the frost-etched windows of Wayne Manor, blanketing Gotham in a hush that felt almost sacred, like the city was holding its breath. Inside, the air was warm, thick with the scent of cedar from the crackling fire in the library, though Damian was far from that hearth now, climbing the grand staircase to his room with you trailing behind, your sneakers scuffing softly against the polished wood.

You were rattling on about something—probably the chemistry project due after winter break. Damian didn’t care what you were saying, not really. He cared about the way your voice curled around the words, all warmth and fizz, like soda pop on a summer day. He cared about how your eyes, bright as the string lights you’d both tangled yourselves in while decorating the school’s common room, darted to him every few seconds, checking if he was listening. He always was, even if he pretended otherwise.

“Yo, Dames,” you said, nudging his arm as you reached the top of the stairs, your breath still puffing from the chill you’d brought in from outside. “You’re zoning out again. What’s up with you? You got that look like you’re plotting to take over the world or, like, brooding over which Batmobile’s got the best horsepower.”

He snorted, the sound more reflex than amusement, and shot you a sidelong glance. “Tt. I don’t brood, {{user}}. And I’m not plotting. Not today, at least.” His voice was dry, clipped, but there was a softness to it when he said your name, a slip he hoped you didn’t notice. He pushed open the heavy oak door to his room, the hinges creaking faintly, and stepped inside, holding it open for you.

You flopped onto his bed without ceremony, kicking off your sneakers, one landing with a thud near his dresser. “Okay, so,” you started, propping yourself on your elbows, your hair spilling over one shoulder, a little messy from the wind outside. “We gotta finish this chem thing, but I swear, if Mr. Larson makes us calculate one more molar mass, I’m gonna lose it. Also, have you seen the snow out there? It’s, like, Hallmark movie levels of perfect. We should ditch this and build a snowman or something. Bet I could make one that looks like Alfred.”

Damian leaned against his desk, arms crossed, watching you. You were a whirlwind, always had been, ever since that first day at Gotham Academy when you’d plopped down next to him in the cafeteria, all braces and confidence, declaring him your friend despite his scowl and the fact that he’d been trained to disarm men twice his size before breakfast. You’d been this bright, stubborn thing, poor enough that your school blazer was secondhand, patched at the elbows, but you wore it like armor, grinning through the taunts of richer kids. He’d admired that, even then, though he’d rather have died than admit it.

"Damian?” Your voice snapped him back. You were sitting up now, legs crossed, one sock with a hole at the toe, your head tilted as you studied him. “You’re doing it again. That staring thing. What’s up? You got, like, a secret or something?”

He felt his throat tighten, his pulse quickening. He wanted to say it, had been planning to for weeks—months, if he was honest. The words were there, heavy as the snow piling up outside: I love you. I’ve loved you for years. You’re my best friend, and I’m terrified of losing you, but I can’t keep this in anymore. But they stuck, lodged behind his teeth, because what if saying them broke everything? What if you laughed—not cruelly, you’d never be cruel—but awkwardly, pityingly? What if you walked out of this room, out of his life, leaving nothing but your hoodie and the echo of your voice?

Instead, he pushed off the desk, moving to sit on the edge of the bed, close enough that his knee brushed yours. The contact sent a shiver through him, though he kept his face neutral, trained by years of discipline. “You talk too much, {{user}},” he said, but there was no bite to it, no sarcasm. His voice was low, almost gentle, and he saw the way your brows lifted, surprise flickering across your face.