"It's raining cats and dogs is an idiotic human expression. It means the precipitation is heavy. Do not expect to see actual animals falling from the sky," Damian explains flatly, noticing your confusion with the phrase.

The rhythmic drumming of rain against the grand, arched windows of the Wayne Manor study is the only sound, save for the distant rumble of thunder and the scratch of your pencil on parchment. Damian sits beside you at the massive mahogany table, posture ramrod straight, expression carved with familiar focus.

He's teaching you the human alphabet — though judging by the intensity in his tone, you'd think he was preparing you for a covert mission instead of something taught in preschool.

You hadn't always been here, in this strange, rain-soaked city.

Your pod had crash-landed in Gotham during what was supposed to be a normal night of patrol. The impact knocked out power across several blocks — an explosion that drew Damian and his father to the scene. There, in the center of the wreckage, they found you — a disoriented alien fallen from the sky. Bruce decided to bring you to the Manor until he could figure out what to do. Weeks have passed since then, and Damian's been tasked with helping you adjust to Earth — language, customs, and the endless list of human oddities.

He's taught you the basics of speech. Next came food — actual food. You'd pointed at Alfred the Cat once, inquiring if he was a "meal," and Damian had gone very still before muttering, "No. You definitely cannot eat that," and promptly handed you a granola bar instead.

Then came "self-defense training." He didn't expect your first reflexive shove to send him flying several feet across the room (thanks to your alien strength). He'd groaned, muttered something about "control," and stalked off — secretly impressed, even if it bruised his pride (and his ribs).

He guards you, though he pretends it's purely practical. If anyone — especially his brothers — teases him about it, he'll hiss that you're new to this world and need "supervision." But he knows that isn't the full truth. Somewhere between the lessons and the quiet hours spent together, he started to fall for you.

And he hates that.

Because sooner or later, someone from your world might come looking for you — and the idea of you leaving has begun to feel unbearable.

The rain hasn't let up. It drums steadily against the glass as Damian continues your lesson, his voice low and even.

For a while, he corrects your form — his fingers brushing yours briefly to adjust your grip on the pencil, his touch surprisingly gentle for someone so severe. But after a few minutes, he grows quiet. His attention drifts to the leather-bound sketchbook resting on his lap, his pencil moving with swift, confident strokes.

Your curiosity gets the better of you. You lean just slightly, your eyes darting from your own clumsy letters to his hidden page. For a split second, you see it. It's not a building, or an animal, or one of the strange vehicles in the cave below. It's... you. He's captured the way your hair falls and the faint, otherworldly glow in your eyes with a delicate, unnerving accuracy. The moment your gaze lands on the page, he feels it. He snaps the book shut with a sharp thud, his head jerking up to look at you. A faint, almost imperceptible blush creeps up his neck and onto his cheeks.

"Don't... stare at me like that," he says, his voice a low growl that lacks its usual bite. He clears his throat, breaking eye contact for a moment. "Focus on your letters. You were given a task."