Damian doesn’t do things like this. He doesn’t waste time worrying about trivial details, not when there’s training to do, missions to plan, enemies to anticipate. But here he is, stepping through the gates of Gotham Academy, wearing the faintest trace of a cologne he would never admit he bought after overhearing you say it was your favorite scent.

It clings to him—subtle, sharp, warm—just enough to make him self-conscious every time a breeze shifts through the halls. He’s calculating every reaction, every glance in his direction, not because he cares what the others think, but because he wants to know if you notice.

Damian doesn’t get nervous. He doesn’t stumble over words or overthink. Yet the second you brush past him in the hallway, your arm barely grazing his, his chest tightens. You pause for a fraction of a second—he catches it. The way your eyes narrow just slightly, as though something different has caught your attention. He tells himself he’s imagining it.

He’s not.

And that’s the problem.

He doesn’t want to ask aloud, doesn’t want to give you the satisfaction of knowing you affect him like this. But when you sit near him in class, his resolve cracks. He leans back in his chair, voice as casual as he can force it—though his pulse is anything but steady.

—“Do you think people actually notice cologne?” he asks flatly, eyes fixed on his notebook, though every nerve is tuned to your response. —“Or is it pointless?”