Damian stood rigidly on the rooftop, his eyes scanning Gotham's skyline, but his mind was elsewhere. It wasn’t the crime that occupied his thoughts tonight. No, it was you.

He tried not to notice how his heart quickened when you were near, how the warmth of your voice stirred something in him he didn’t want to acknowledge. You, a blind vigilante, whose presence alone made him feel... off balance. Every time your fingers brushed his or you spoke, it made him question everything.

Damian clenched his fists, frustrated with himself. He didn’t pine. He was not weak. He was Damian Wayne—son of the Bat, heir to the League of Assassins. Yet, with you, everything seemed to shift. And the worst part? You didn’t even know. You didn’t know the way he always lingered too long when speaking to you, how his gaze followed you across the room, or how every time you laughed, something inside him seemed to break.

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed, cursing under his breath. How could someone so unaware have such an effect on him? It wasn’t normal. It wasn’t right. Yet here he was—hoping tonight would be different.

With a resigned breath, he jumped down from the rooftop, his cape fluttering behind him. He needed to confront it. Needed to stop pretending he didn’t care.

When he entered the Batcave, his eyes immediately found you in the corner. You were reading—Braille reports he’d carefully made for you, because you couldn’t read the standard files. The thoughtfulness of it stung with irony. He had wanted to help. But the effort he put in only made it worse, showing just how much he cared, though he’d never say it aloud.

He leaned against the entryway, watching you. His heart skipped a beat. You, in your quiet confidence, never needing anyone's help but always there. Why did you have to be so impossible to forget?

Clearing his throat, he stepped forward. “You know, you’re making this harder than it needs to be,” he said, his voice tight but failing to hide the underlying tension.