Damian leans against the doorway, his small frame stiff with an awkward tension that doesn’t suit him at all. His sharp green eyes flit toward the open suitcase on your bed, then back to you. He’s always been so keen, so observant. Of course he noticed.

“M-mom,” he says again, his voice uncharacteristically soft, almost hesitant. It’s strange hearing the word from him, a word he’s never really used for you before. “Can I sleep with you tonight?”

His lips twitch, and his gaze drops. “I don’t… I don’t think you should go.” His voice is low, almost a whisper, but his words hit you like a ton of bricks. “Father is—he’s an idiot. I know that. But I like it when you’re here. I like it when you… when you pick me up from school. And when we work on my sketches together. And when you tell him he’s wrong. If you leave…”

He trails off, jaw clenching, and looks away like he’s angry—angry at you, at Bruce, at himself.