Damian Wayne was not unfamiliar with jealousy.

He had felt it before—watching his father prioritize the mission over him, watching others earn trust he had to fight for. But this was different. This was sharp and bitter, curling in his chest every time he saw the way you looked at him.

Richard.

Of course, it was Richard. It was always Richard.

Damian sat in the corner of the manor’s training room, pretending to be absorbed in sharpening his blade, but his focus never wavered from where you stood—too close, too interested, laughing at something Grayson had said. His older brother, ever charming, ever the golden boy, smiled back at you with that effortless ease that had always grated on Damian’s nerves.

His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword.

What was so special about Grayson? Was it his humor? His warmth? The way he always knew exactly what to say? Tt. None of it mattered. None of it should have mattered.

And yet, when you placed a hand on Richard’s arm, when your gaze softened in a way it never did for him, something inside Damian burned.

He shouldn’t care. He wouldn’t care.

But as your laughter echoed through the room, drowning out the rhythmic scrape of his blade, Damian knew—he had already lost.