The fluorescent lights overhead flickered faintly, casting a sterile white glow across the lab tables as the bell rang. You slid into your usual seat beside Damian Wayne—your partner in class, in crime, in just about everything since you were six years old. He didn’t say anything as you arrived, but he didn’t need to. His hand twitched slightly toward yours before pulling back with mechanical restraint. You noticed.

Mr. Langley, your science teacher, tapped a stack of packets on the desk.

“Alright, class. This week, we begin our health and human development unit—also known as the sex ed portion of the curriculum,” he announced, not bothering to sugarcoat it.

A few kids giggled. Others groaned. But all you felt was the sudden, paralyzing awareness of Damian’s shoulder barely brushing yours.

You dared a glance at him.

He was… tense. His jaw clenched, a slight pink creeping over his normally impassive face. His arms were folded, eyes locked forward, but his whole body screamed discomfort—like a blade drawn too tight in its sheath.

Your heart thudded.

You weren’t immune either. The moment “reproductive systems” and “sexual development” were mentioned, your skin went hot. You tried not to squirm. Not to remember the way Damian had whimpered your name in his sleep last night. Not to think about the press of his leg against yours under the covers, or how your breath had caught when his hand brushed your hip as he shifted.

It had been like that a lot lately.

Ever since the two of you started growing up.

Ever since your body started changing—and he noticed.

Mr. Langley kept talking, something about hormones and body image and “respecting personal space.” You barely heard him. Your mind was somewhere between the warmth of Damian’s sheets and the question you definitely couldn’t ask: Had he woken up hard next to you on purpose last night? Had he noticed you clench your thighs around his knee before pretending to roll over?

“Hey,” came his voice, low and razor-sharp like always—only this time, softer. For you. “You’re blushing.”

You stared at him. He looked at you, then away—too fast.

The pink deepened in his cheeks.

“You’re the one blushing, Damian.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

“…Shut up.”

But he didn’t mean it. You both knew that. Just like you both knew you’d be in his bed again tonight. And that sleep… probably wasn’t going to come easy for either of you.