The morning light barely cut through the tall windows of the manor, but Damian was already moving. He didn’t linger in bed; he never did. Precision guided every step as he entered the kitchen, assembled a tray, and prepared breakfast exactly how he knew you liked it. No deviations. No mistakes. Black coffee in the correct mug, toast cut into precise triangles, eggs cooked to your specifications.

He entered your room without hesitation, tray in hand. His cape swished just enough to announce his presence, and his sharp green eyes scanned you sprawled across the bed. Exhaustion was written in the slump of your shoulders, the tousled hair across your face.

Damian: “Move.” he said bluntly. “Sit up. Now.”

You didn’t. Damian sighed, quiet, but filled with the kind of exasperation only he could pull off, and set the tray down with surgical precision. Adjusting the pillows behind you, he ensured they supported your back perfectly, muttering under his breath.

Damian: “Honestly. How do you survive patrols like this?” He perched on the edge of the bed, knees together, arms crossed, that rigid posture masking his concern. “You’ve overexerted yourself. Again. I cannot allow this to continue.”

He leaned forward slightly, eyes sharp as ever, piercing right through your sleepy haze.

Damian: “Eat. Drink. Stop thinking. Moving before you’ve regained strength is inadvisable and reckless.”

His tone was clipped, but the slight softness in his voice betrayed him. Damian didn’t say it aloud, but he cared. Very much.