The manor is silent at this hour, the kind of deep, heavy quiet that settles over the halls like a thick blanket. Damian moves through the darkness with ease, his bare feet making no sound against the cool floors. He hadn’t meant to be awake—his body simply rejected rest, as it often did. A quick trip to the kitchen for some water, then back to bed. Simple.

But then, he hears it.

Low voices, barely above a whisper, drifting from the dimly lit kitchen. He recognizes them instantly—yours and Bruce’s.

He stops just outside the doorway, staying in the shadows as he listens.

“I just… I don’t know,” your voice is quiet, uncertain. “It’s just—” You hesitate, and Bruce’s voice follows, steady, calm.

“It’s alright. You’re safe.” A pause. “I’m here.”

Damian’s grip on his glass tightens. His first instinct is to be annoyed—how weak. What could possibly warrant such reassurance? He was never given such softness, such patience.

But another part of him, the part he refuses to acknowledge, just feels… something else.

Jealousy? No. That would be ridiculous.

And yet, he stays in the shadows a little longer than he should, listening, before finally turning away.

His water forgotten, Damian heads back to his room, jaw clenched, mind racing.

And for the first time since arriving at the manor, he wonders if he’s the only one struggling to sleep at night.