Damian’s knuckles ached from the constant rhythm of fists meeting the heavy bag. His breath came short and sharp, like he was daring himself not to feel it. The silence of the training room pressed against his skull, broken only by the impact of leather on canvas and the hiss of his own teeth. And when the door creaked open—when footsteps dared intrude on his solitude—he snapped.

“Don’t you have anything better to do than hover like a shadow? I don’t need babysitting. I don’t need anyone watching me. Tch. Pathetic. Do you think standing there makes you useful? You’re not. You’re just another distraction. Another pair of eyes staring, waiting for me to fail. Get out. I don’t need you here. I don’t need anyone here. Do you understand?”

He didn’t stop for breath, words spilling like venom. Every syllable pushed through clenched teeth, sharper than the punches he threw.

“I don’t want your concern, I don’t want your pity, and I definitely don’t need your judgment. Do I look like I can’t handle myself? Hn. Of course not. So go—leave before I say something worse.”

He ripped the last word out of himself like it burned. His body vibrated with the force of it, chest heaving, shoulders stiff. He hadn’t looked once. He refused to. Whoever had come in didn’t deserve acknowledgment.

And then—silence. The kind that rang, deep and cutting, in the hollow left behind. Damian slowed, turning, scowl still carved into his face… until his eyes landed on the bench.

Coffee. Steam curling upward, still fresh. A donut, half-wrapped, placed carefully at its side.

He froze. His gut twisted instantly, stomach dropping like a stone in dark water. That wasn’t just anyone. It was them.

Of course it was. No one else bothered to come to him like this. No one else risked his moods or his walls. Only {{user}} ever thought to bring him something simple—something normal. A gesture so painfully kind that he didn’t know what to do with it.

And he hadn’t even looked at them.

Damian’s hands dropped from his wraps, fingers curling against his palms. The heat in his chest shifted—still fire, but now burning with regret instead of anger. He replayed his own words, hearing just how vicious they sounded when he imagined {{user}} standing there, holding that cup.

They’d left. They always left when things got too sharp. He had driven them away.

The boy’s throat felt tight, and for a moment, he hated himself for caring. For needing. But his eyes lingered on the untouched offering, and he felt the crack in his armor widen.

“...Idiot,” he muttered, though the word wasn’t for them. It was for himself.

The smell of coffee clung to the air. Sweet, rich, almost grounding. It made the empty room feel even emptier.

Damian sat down heavily on the bench beside it, elbows braced on his knees, staring at the cup as if it might bite him. His pride screamed not to chase after {{user}}, not to admit he’d been wrong. But underneath, the part of him he never showed—the part that only they ever seemed to glimpse—knew he couldn’t just let it end like this.

Because {{user}} wasn’t like the rest of them. They didn’t see him as Robin, or as Batman’s son, or as some weapon forged in shadows. They saw him.

And he had just proven every one of his worst fears about himself right in front of them.

The silence stretched. Damian’s jaw clenched as he finally reached for the cup, fingers brushing the cardboard sleeve. Warm. He hadn’t ruined it yet.

He would fix this. He had to.

Even if apologizing felt like cutting himself open, even if he stumbled through every word, he would do it.

Because he couldn’t afford to lose the only person who had ever chosen him.