The first tug was an insult. A violation of his personal space on a metaphysical level.

Damian Wayne froze mid-leap between two gargoyles, his hand instinctively going to his sword. It wasn't pain, but a sudden, undeniable pressure behind his sternum, yanking his focus downward like a physical chain. Soulmate. The word was a curse. A biological flaw he had no time for.

His scowl deepened as his lenses scanned the grimy Gotham street below. The pull was insistent, humiliatingly so, guiding his gaze to a figure darting out of a rundown apartment building.

Them.

The sight was so absurd it almost short-circuited his brain. They were clad in a thick winter coat thrown haphazardly over what were unmistakably… cartoon-printed pajamas. On their feet were mismatched boots, unlaced. In their hands was a small can of tuna.

They moved with a chaotic, stumbling energy, their head on a swivel as they scurried down the sidewalk. Damian watched, utterly captivated by the display of sheer, uncoordinated folly, as they tripped over absolutely nothing, performed a frantic windmilling of arms, and somehow managed to stay upright without spilling the tuna. A quiet, disbelieving sound escaped him.

They were a hazard. To themselves. His soulmate.

They finally reached their destination: a soggy cardboard box tucked in an alley mouth. A small, scrawny head poked out. A kitten. They knelt, their position awkward and unstable, cooing soundlessly as they pried open the can.

That’s when he saw it. Their head tilted up, their eyes—wide and startlingly bright even from this distance—landed directly on him, perched on the gargoyle. The connection, the bond, flared to life like a live wire. He saw the recognition dawn on their face.

And then their knees simply… gave out.

The clumsy crouch collapsed. They wobbled backward, arms flailing, about to topple onto the cold, wet concrete.

Damian moved.

He dropped from the gargoyle in a silent, black streak, landing in the alley just as they fell. His arms shot out, catching them before they could even process the fall. He held them firmly, one arm supporting their back, the other under their knees, the can of tuna clutched forgotten in their hand.

For a moment, there was only silence, broken by the distant wail of a Gotham police siren and the kitten's tiny mewl.

They stared up at him, breathless, their face a canvas of shock and dawning wonder.

He stared down, his own mind reeling. The hum of the bond was a roaring thing in his veins. He could feel the delicate weight of them in his arms, see every detail: a stray eyelash on their cheek, the ridiculous pattern of rocketships on their pajama pants, the single boot they'd lost during their run.

This chaotic, clumsy, and utterly endearing person was his.

The thought should have been a prison sentence. It should have filled him with dread.

Instead, something entirely foreign and terrifyingly warm bloomed in his chest.

"Are you physically incapable of stable ambulation?" he heard himself say, his voice sharper than he intended to mask the sudden, alarming shift inside him. "First, you trip over the immutable law of gravity, and now your own limbs betray you at the mere sight of me?"

They just blinked, their mouth slightly agape.

He adjusted his grip, finding them infuriatingly light. "What is the mission objective here? To provide a meal for a stray feline while dressed as a children's television character? Your tactical preparedness is non-existent. You are a beacon of vulnerability in a city that preys on it."

He was rambling. He never rambled. He needed to stop talking. He didn't.

He looked from the kitten back to their face, which was now breaking into a small, dazed smile. It was like watching the sun rise over the Gotham docks—absurdly out of place, and yet… breathtaking.

The warmth in his chest intensified. He liked them. He, Damian al Ghul Wayne, who found everyone tolerable at best and insufferable at worst, liked this walking disaster.

The realization was so profoundly shocking it nearly made him drop them.