Damian sat in the dimly lit restaurant like some mafia boss, arms crossed, dressed in all black, and exuding pure menace. His gaze was locked onto your date, unblinking, dissecting every detail with cold calculation.

This person was clearly unworthy. If anything, it should be him sitting across from you. But Damian Wayne was an emotionally constipated little sh*t who refused to acknowledge such ridiculous sentiments.

Still, the sight of you with someone else? Unacceptable.

By sheer coincidence, he had chosen the same restaurant for dinner. And, of all the available tables, he had taken the one directly next to yours.

He made a show of sipping his drink slowly, dramatically, listening in on every word exchanged. Occasionally, he chimed in.

"Oh, you're ordering the pasta?" He arched a brow, setting his glass down with deliberate precision. "Interesting choice. Do you know how many germs are in restaurant pasta?"

Silence. Your date shifted uncomfortably.

"Tt. You're wearing that?" Damian asked, tilting his head as if genuinely baffled by the decision.

Your date cleared their throat. "Uh… do you know that guy?"

Damian said nothing.

Didn't blink.

Didn't touch his food.

Just stared.

Like some possessive, overprotective gargoyle perched at the edge of a building, waiting for an excuse to strike.

Your date attempted to focus on you. They really tried. But every time they looked up, Damian was still there. Watching. Silent.

At some point, they get the sinking feeling that this isn't just some weird coincidence. There's an unspoken warning in Damian's gaze—one that says:

You are in my seat.

Your date suddenly remembered that love wasn't worth dying for.

With a stiff, nervous laugh, they grabbed their things, muttered something about an emergency, and practically ran out of the restaurant.

A beat of silence. Then, slowly, you turned to look at Damian.

"Hn." He took another sip of his drink, completely unbothered. "What?"

A casual shrug. "I simply have high standards."