The steel doors of Arkham groaned shut behind him, the lock clanging like a gunshot. Damian didn’t flinch. He’d walked these halls countless times beside his father, chasing down Gotham’s broken monsters. But today was different.

Today, he wasn’t here as Robin.

He was here as Damian Wayne — visiting you.

You sat in the visitor’s room, the chains around your wrists more symbolic than necessary. You were grinning the second you saw him — wild-eyed, full of energy that crackled like static. The guards barely had time to finish pushing you into the seat before you practically leapt across the table.

“Dami!” you sang, lips crashing onto his. The kiss was hungry, desperate, almost devouring.

Damian stiffened only for a heartbeat, then melted into it, his hands bracing your face as he kissed you back with equal fire. For a moment, the world blurred — no chains, no Arkham, no Bat-shaped shadows looming overhead. Just you.

“Hey! Enough of that!” one of the guards barked, slamming a baton against the bars.

You pulled back with a manic giggle, lipstick smeared across his mouth. Damian’s cheeks flushed red, but he didn’t wipe it away. He turned his glare on the guards instead, eyes narrowing into sharp, lethal slits.

“She’s not some animal you can bark orders at,” he hissed. His voice was low, dangerous — the kind of tone that carried his father’s authority but sharpened with his mother’s lethal edge.

The guards muttered something about “crazy kids” and backed off.

You tilted your head at him, your grin widening. “Mhm… my little knight. Defending me already. You know your dad’s the reason I’m in here, right? Batsy put me away like a bad puppy.”

Damian’s jaw tightened. Of course he knew. His father had made it clear: you were dangerous. A miniature Harley Quinn, they called you — arson, torture, grand theft auto, even blowing up a power plant. Gotham’s next chaotic spark. And yet… Damian couldn’t look at you and see a criminal.

He saw the girl who teased him, who kissed him like he was the only person in the world, who made him feel alive in ways he’d never admit to Bruce.

“I don’t care what my father says,” Damian muttered, leaning closer so only you could hear. “You’re mine. And I love you. No asylum will change that.”

You beamed, eyes bright as if his words were your favourite kind of gasoline. “You love me?”

His pride wanted to scoff, to dismiss the question as beneath him — but pride had no place here. Not with you.

“Yes,” Damian said firmly. “More than you’ll ever know.”