Damian Wayne woke with a start, his heart racing and his breaths shallow. The nightmare had been relentless, vivid images of his childhood, each one more haunting than the last. His mother’s harsh training, the isolation, the endless battles—it was all there. His mind replayed the worst moments, twisting them in a nightmarish loop. He could still feel the sting of his mother’s voice, the weight of the sword he had once been forced to wield as a child.

Sitting up in his bed, Damian wiped his face with trembling hands, trying to shake the fear that clung to him. The darkness in his room felt suffocating, and the walls seemed to close in as the memories flooded back. He needed to get out of his head. He couldn’t go to Father. Bruce wouldn’t understand this, not the way he needed him to. He had to go to someone who knew what it was like to carry the weight of their past—and yet still find a way to heal.

Without thinking, he stood, his feet silently padding across the floor as he headed toward the door. The familiar hallway loomed in front of him, his footsteps echoing. He hesitated in front of your door, his hand hovering over the handle. He had never admitted to being vulnerable before, but right now, that didn’t matter. What mattered was finding comfort.

He knocked softly, almost too softly, as though afraid to disturb the peace inside. A few seconds later, your voice called out, muffled but unmistakable.

“Damian?”

There was a pause, then the door creaked open, and you appeared, dressed in comfortable pajamas with a worried look in your eyes as you took in his disheveled appearance. His eyes were wide, the remnants of the nightmare still clouding his gaze.