The scent of cheap, powdery candy hearts and synthetic sugar had seeped into the very fabric of highschool building, a cloying perfume that Damian found both offensive and inescapable. It was Valentine’s Day, a corporate-engineered holiday he publicly derided but had, this year, privately capitulated to. The reason was currently walking beside him, her shoulder occasionally brushing against his leather jacket as they navigated the river of over-excited juniors flooding the hallway.
His {{user}} .
The small, velvet-wrapped box in the inner pocket of his jacket felt like a lead weight. It was a stupid idea. He, Damian Wayne, heir to the Demon's Head and the Bat, had spent three painstaking evenings hunched over a workbench, a jeweler’s loupe screwed into his eye, his fingers—more accustomed to the cold grip of a katana or the controls of the Batcomputer—fumbling with delicate silver wire and a single, teardrop-shaped moonstone.
Idiotic, he thought, his internal monologue a familiar, sharp-edged comfort. She probably expects something from Tiffany’s. Something normal.
But you weren't normal. That was the entire point. You saw the cracks in his armor not as weaknesses to be exploited, but as places where the light could get in. You called him ‘Dami’ in a tone that should have made him bristle, but instead, it just felt… quiet. Like a ceasefire.
“You’re quiet today,” you said, your voice cutting through the din of slamming lockers and hormonal chatter. “Even for you. Everything okay?”
He grunted, a non-committal sound he’d perfected. “The sheer volume of public displays of affection in this hallway is a biohazard. Drake would be immune, of course. He thrives on this saccharine nonsense.”
You laughed, and the sound was nothing like the tinny pop music blasting from the student council’s makeshift ‘Cupid’s Corner’. It was lower, warmer. It did something to his sternum, a strange, unwinding sensation. “You’re such a cynic,” you said, bumping his shoulder again, a little more deliberately this time.
“I’m a realist,” he corrected, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
He led you out a side door, away from the heart-shaped chaos. The February air in Gotham was a damp, biting cold, a relief after the overheated school. It smelled of wet asphalt and distant chimney smoke. Here, the world was painted in grays and muted blues, a palette far more honest than the garish pinks and reds inside. You both ended up on your usual bench, tucked away in a courtyard that was mostly forgotten, the stone worn smooth by decades of neglect. The only sound was the drip of melting ice from a gargoyle’s maw and the distant, rhythmic sigh of city traffic.
The moment stretched, taut as a bowstring. His fingers closed around the box. The velvet was soft, a stark contrast to the calluses on his hands. Just give it to her. It’s a simple transaction. A gift for a designated day of gift-giving.
But it wasn’t simple. Nothing with you ever was. This wasn't a transaction; it was a disclosure. He was handing you a piece of his interior self, the part that didn't know how to throw a punch or solve a murder, the part that was just a seventeen-year-old boy who was terrible at this.
“I… got you something,” he said, the words coming out stiffer than he’d intended. He sounded like he was announcing a security breach. He cleared his throat and thrust the box into your hands, unable to meet your eyes. He stared instead at a crack in the pavement, tracing its jagged path with a intensity usually reserved for tactical maps.