Damian had always been told what he was meant to be. From the moment he could walk, the League carved expectations into him like scripture. Strength was survival. Discipline was life. Weakness, emotional, physical, or otherwise, was death.

There had been no room for softness, no room for questioning, and certainly no room for something as dangerous as desire. Especially desire that didn’t fit the neat, acceptable box his upbringing demanded. His mother had drilled it into him, cold and relentless: honor the legacy. Uphold the bloodline. Anything else was corruption, decay, failure.

And yet, here he was. Sitting beside you in the Cave, listening to the way your voice carried in the stillness, feeling his chest tighten in ways he couldn’t explain away. Every time you brushed close, every time you laughed, every time you fought at his side without hesitation. it carved cracks into his armor.

It terrified him.

Damian had spent years convincing himself he was above such things. He’d scoffed at the very idea of attachment, convinced it made people sloppy, reckless. But you had dismantled those convictions without even trying. He wanted to be near you. He wanted to protect you. He wanted-

He swallowed hard, jaw tightening as his fists curled in his lap. That was the problem. Wanting.

Damian: “I wish you were a girl.” Damian blurted, the words raw and sharp, slicing through the quiet like a blade. He froze the second they left his mouth, shame igniting in his chest. He hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

His gaze dropped to the floor, bandaged hands trembling just slightly.