Damian hadn’t meant to be here.

He had every intention of staying at the manor tonight, he really did. He’d taken melatonin at 9:47 sharp. Trained until his arms ached and the mats were soaked. Brewed himself a cup of that disgusting valerian root tea Pennyworth insisted helped with “restlessness.” Still, the moment he laid down, all he could hear was the slow, nasal snore of Titus on the floor and the relentless, taunting tick of his antique wall clock.

By 3 A.M., Damian was staring at the ceiling like it had personally offended him.

He snatched his phone with an annoyed swipe and opened your messages. His thumbs hovered for a moment before tapping:

Damian: Are you awake? – 3:02 A.M.

He watched the screen. Nothing. He shifted on the bed. Scrolled through your old texts like a lunatic. Still nothing.

Damian: Can I come over? – 3:07 A.M.

Still. Nothing. He glared at the phone like it betrayed him. You always replied. You were usually awake way too late. You didn’t sleep that heavily. Right?

Titus snorted in his sleep.

Damian clenched his jaw and typed with surgical precision:

Damian: I’m coming over. – 3:09 A.M.

He threw the covers back with a huff and stood. Tugged on the first hoodie he saw (it might’ve been yours, he’d stolen one weeks ago), dark sweats, his most expensive sneakers because apparently he didn’t own normal brands. No gear. No mask. Just him and the faint hope that you kept your window unlocked like always.

He ran most of the way there. Fast enough to chase the restless tension buzzing in his spine. The city blurred around him, empty and dark and meaningless without your voice in it. His hood was up. The wind slapped at his cheeks. By the time he hit your block, his breath fogged the air, and the tension in his chest still hadn’t eased.

Your apartment was quiet.

Damian scaled the fire escape with muscle memory and slipped his fingers under the sill of your bedroom window. Unlocked. As always. He pushed it up slowly, careful not to creak the old hinges, and slipped inside like a shadow.

And froze.

You were asleep. Bundled in your favorite sleep shirt and wrapped like a burrito in your comforter, legs tangled and mouth slack, one arm thrown over your head. The faint hum of your diffuser and your dumb fan filled the room. The air was warm smelling, like autumn. It smelled like you.

Damian stood by the window for a moment, hoodie a little rumpled from the climb, chest heaving quietly, watching the slow rise and fall of your back. He hadn’t planned on this. Not really. He just wanted to hear your voice, feel your skin, remind himself that not everything in his life was sharp and hollow.

He stepped closer and reached out, brushing your knee through the blanket. Just once.

You stirred. Let out a soft, sleepy groan. You blinked, confused for half a second, until your eyes locked with his.

"...Damian?" You murmured, voice wrecked with sleep. "What time is it?"

He knelt beside the bed, resting his arms on the edge. His voice was soft.

"Late. I couldn’t sleep."

You shifted, lifting the blanket without a word.

And just like that, he climbed in, fully dressed, pressed his cold fingers against your warm belly like a menace, and buried his face in your neck. You hummed sleepily but didn’t protest.