It’s well past midnight when you wake.

The manor is silent—too silent. The kind that wraps around you and makes your skin crawl. You blink against the dark, disoriented for a moment, until your senses adjust and you realize you’re not alone.

There’s a shadow at the doorway. Tall. Still. Familiar.

“Damian?” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer at first. Just stands there in sweatpants and a long-sleeved black shirt, barefoot on the cold floor. His jaw is tight. His arms hang at his sides, fists clenched like he’s still fighting off whatever pulled him from sleep.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he says eventually. His voice is low—rough, like it’s been scraped raw.

You sit up a little. “Did something happen?”

A pause.

“No.” He glances away. “Your bed’s bigger.”

You blink. That’s not a lie, technically. But it’s also not the reason he’s here.

Still, you scoot over without saying anything.

Damian crosses the room slowly, like he’s expecting you to laugh or kick him out. When you don’t, he pulls back the blanket and slides in beside you, body stiff and tense, like he’s not used to softness. He stays on his back, arms crossed over his chest, eyes open.

You lie there beside him, not touching. Not speaking.

After a few minutes, he exhales. Quietly. Like he’s been holding his breath since he walked in.

Then his fingers brush yours under the blanket.

"Don't read into this," he mutters.

But his hand doesn’t move.

And when he shifts closer—just enough for his knee to bump yours—you swear you feel him relax. Just barely.

Almost like he needed this.