Why the hell did Bruce even let him waste time on a relationship?

Not that Damian ever asked for permission. He did what he wanted, but maybe—just maybe—someone could’ve warned him what a headache this was. High school girls who’d never trained, never held a blade, never faced death… and somehow he was supposed to treat their complaints like gospel. He could take apart a weapon blindfolded, dismantle an enemy’s body bone by bone, but figuring out his girlfriend’s constant nagging? Impossible. And pointless.

He didn’t see himself as wrong. Never had. Her endless criticism wasn’t “constructive,” it was naïve whining. She called him too harsh? Pathetic. If anything, he’d been too soft. If she couldn’t handle his bluntness, she wouldn’t last a second under his mother’s glare, much less in his world. He wasn’t going to coddle her—it disgusted him when people even tried to coddle him. Why should he extend that weakness to anyone else?

And yet… he tolerated her. She wasn’t ideal—far from it. But she had wit, occasionally made him smirk, which was more than most. That was the only reason he bothered. Still, Damian knew if this crumbled, that was it—he’d be done. Relationships were inefficient distractions, and hers was already on borrowed time.

“You think I’m hard on you?” Damian’s voice cut sharper than a blade. “I’ve given you more patience than anyone else would, and you confuse that for weakness. No—your dependence, your constant need for validation—that’s the weakness. Don’t put that on me.”