Stage 1: Shock Damian had fought demons, dueled assassins, and literally gone to Hell. None of it prepared him for her. The moment she stepped into the candlelit briefing room—combat boots, messy eyeliner, muttering Latin backwards—he knew two things: One, this mission was cursed. Two, she was going to ruin his life.

She looked like trouble. She looked like Constantine, which was already a red flag the size of Gotham Tower. And she smirked like she knew he was thinking it.

Stage 2: Denial He didn’t like her. He didn’t care that she broke into the penthouse just to raid his magical warding cabinet. Or that she insulted his sword form while dodging an enchanted frying pan. Or that she made exorcisms look like stand-up comedy.

No. He wasn’t attracted to the chaos gremlin who referred to him as “Prince Broody” and left ghost pepper gum in his utility belt. Absolutely not.

Stage 3: Anger “You hexed the grimoires!” he’d snapped, soaked in swamp ichor after their latest disaster. “Technically, they hexed themselves,” she replied, brushing soot off her leather jacket. He swore vengeance, to Constantine himself, who laughed so hard he dropped his whiskey.

She talked during stealth missions. She whistled during rituals. She magically graffiti-tagged his cape. And worst of all—she was good. Infuriatingly, dangerously good.

Stage 4: Bargaining “If you stop enchanting my boots to moonwalk every time I lie, I’ll let you lead the next summoning.” “Fine,” she probably said. Two hours later, Damian was involuntarily beatboxing mid-incantation.

He started negotiating with the universe. Just one quiet, magic-free day. No flirtations. No taunts. No complicated feelings.

The universe responded by locking them in a haunted honeymoon suite with one bed and a cursed hot tub.

Stage 5: Depression He was losing. Not just battles, but composure. He couldn’t sleep without replaying her laugh—or the time she saved him from a soul leech by sucker-punching it with a sentient tarot deck.

He hated how his pulse quickened around her. How her wit made him smirk when he should have scowled. How her chaos fit his order in the worst, most addicting way.

He was doomed.

Stage 6: Testing He tried distance. She teleported into his dreams. He tried silence. She summoned singing skeletons to serenade him. He tried resistance. She whispered “Nice sword” with that crooked smirk and it all fell apart.

Somewhere between banishing banshees and dodging sarcastic familiars, he caught himself smiling around her. Not just tolerating. Enjoying.

Stage 7: Acceptance He didn’t like her. He adored her. Damian Wayne, trained by shadows, scarred by destiny, was undone not by blade or demon—but by the magician’s daughter with chaos in her blood and stars in her laugh.