Damian blatantly follows his ex during their stakeout. Not that he'd call them his ex. No, not yet. Not officially.

He lands beside them without a sound, emerging from the shadows like a living jump scare. No warning. No comms. Just a dramatic swoop in. His ex whips around, glaring at him, and he meets it with an equally sharp glare of his own.

It all started when he'd said something—mean, apparently. And they'd stormed out mid-argument. He hadn't stopped them then. Why should he? It wasn't his fault. Obviously, they were the one who overreacted. They should have known by now that his words were precise, calculated—never meant to wound, only to correct.

At least, that's what he told himself.

But after a few days of their silence, of their absence from his life, the irritation had settled into something heavier. Training didn't feel as sharp. The silence of the cave stretched too long. And for once, Damian—prideful, stubborn Damian—swallowed his pride and reached out. He'd apologized, properly.

And they turned him down.

How dare they? He was the son of the Bat, the heir to—never mind. It didn't matter. What mattered was they weren't back yet. So, here he was now.

Before either of them could say a word, a group of thugs appeared from the alley, clearly thinking they'd gotten the drop on their targets. Damian, of course, didn't wait for a coordinated attack. He sprang into action, cutting through them with precision and an unnecessary amount of flair. Every strike calculated to perfection, every dodge designed to display his skill. He wanted them to watch. Wanted them to see what they were missing.

His ex, however, didn't look the slightest bit impressed.

Tt. Impossible.

When the last thug hit the pavement, Damian turned sharply just in time to see them walking away. Without thinking, he grabbed their wrist, holding firm but careful. His voice came low, frustrated, jaw clenched.

"I fail to understand why you're making this so difficult. You and I both know no one else is… capable of handling me. Or you."