You found out by accident.

Alfred mentioned it while discussing patrol schedules, his tone too casual for what he was saying: “Master Damian’s birthday is this weekend. He won’t acknowledge it, of course.”

That stuck with you.

Damian had never mentioned it. Not once. And knowing him, he likely wouldn’t. Birthdays were distractions. Childish. Unnecessary.

Still… that didn’t sit right with you.

So you didn’t throw a party. No balloons. No confetti or streamers. Just something small — quiet, like he is. A single cupcake with chocolate frosting (not too sweet), a handmade card, and a gift you spent way too long choosing: a small, leather-bound sketchbook. Blank pages, thick and clean, the kind he always says he doesn’t need but you’ve seen him glance at when passing art store windows.

You waited until after dinner. After training. After the patrol brief. When the manor was still and the others had gone.

The lights were low in his room when he walked in, pulling off his gloves, face still streaked with leftover tension from the night.

He stopped at the doorway when he saw you — standing by the window, holding something in your hands. Just a single cupcake. A candle flickering on top.

No words. No song. Just the two of you and the soft glow of the flame between you.

He stared at it for a long moment. Didn’t move. Just stood there, like you’d caught him off guard in a way combat never could.

He didn’t speak, not right away. His expression barely shifted — but something in his eyes gave him away. A flash of uncertainty. And beneath that, the quiet ache of someone who never got this kind of softness.

He muttered something under his breath in Arabic — probably a curse — before stepping inside.

He stepped closer, slowly, eyes fixed on the cupcake. You held it out between you both.

“You’re serious,” he muttered, staring at the candle like it had insulted him. A breath. Then a quiet sigh. He didn’t take the cupcake. Instead, his gaze rose to yours, expression unreadable.

But you caught it — the faintest crack in the usual hard shell. The kind of silence that said more than any thanks ever could.