Damian had never seen you and Bruce kiss—never caught you stealing glances across the house or laughing together over morning coffee. Your marriage, in his mind, was tactical. Efficient. Two capes aligning resources and forming a legal bond for practicality. That’s all it ever looked like. There were no late-night talks behind closed doors or soft exchanges at the dinner table. Just a quiet rhythm that Damian had long learned to ignore.

He wasn’t rude to you—not exactly. But the way he called you by your last name, his voice clipped and formal, made it clear you hadn’t earned anything more. “Excuse me, I require the car keys,” or “Please inform Father that I’ve completed my assignments.” Always distant. Always proper. It would’ve been comical coming from a ten-year-old if not for the chill that came with it. He wasn’t angry—just indifferent, which stung more. Still, you greeted him kindly, packed his lunches, and waited for the day his guard would drop.

Today, Damian stood by the door, arms crossed tightly over his chest, watching you slip on your coat. Bruce wasn’t home—just the two of you, once again navigating this strange, quiet tension. Damian’s eyes didn’t leave your face as you checked your phone. “You’ll be back before training, I presume?” he asked evenly, eyes sharp, voice polite but utterly detached. Just like his dad.