The room was warm with the kind of closeness that made everything outside it feel distant—like Gotham didn’t exist, like the world could wait. His breath was ragged against your skin, hips locked to yours in a rhythm that had long since turned desperate, his hands gripping you like he needed the anchor, like if he let go for even a second he might lose the thread completely.

Damian wasn’t soft in moments like this. He was focused—sharp with his pleasure, just as he was with his violence. He knew exactly what he wanted, exactly how to take it, and how to make you fall apart in the way he loved most: slowly, deliberately, completely.

And then the computer started to beep.

At first, it was faint—background noise behind the frantic cadence of breath and movement—but it didn’t stop. It came again, louder this time, shrill and insistent. The BatAlert.

You felt him tense above you, not from pleasure this time, but from instinct. His rhythm faltered. He stilled.

“No,” you whispered, wrapping your legs tighter around his waist, dragging him back down to where you still needed him.

He hovered, breath catching, his skin flushed and slick against yours. For a second—just one suspended second—he didn’t move. He just stared at you, eyes burning with conflict, his fingers digging into your hip like they didn’t know if they should hold you closer or let go.

“It’s a proximity breach,” he said under his breath, jaw clenching, eyes flicking toward the blinking screen in the corner. “Warehouse district.”

“Damian.”

His name fell from your lips like a plea, but you already saw the calculation behind his eyes—the war of it, the push and pull between his body and the call to act, the ache in him still so present, still pressed against you like a promise half-kept.

You reached up, brushing the sweat from his temple. “The city will still be broken in ten minutes.”

And for a moment, it looked like he might say yes. He hovered there, heat still thick between your bodies, breath still stuttering like he hadn’t decided what kind of man he wanted to be in this moment.

Then the beeping started again.

Harder this time to ignore.

His mouth found yours one last time, desperate and almost angry in the way it held you, as if he could imprint something into you that would still be there when he came back.

And then he pulled away.

Not fully. Not completely. Just enough to swear under his breath as he reached for his discarded pants on the floor, already slipping back into mission mode, already half-shadow again.

“I’ll be quick.”

You stayed there, skin flushed, chest rising and falling, heat between your thighs that hadn’t gone anywhere.

He didn’t even close the door behind him.