It started with a scowl that wouldn’t leave his face.

Damian was quiet—dangerous, even, in that particular brand of silence that came right before a strike. Except there was no enemy in front of him. Just {{user}}. Just the echo of Alfred’s voice still in the hall. Just Dick’s ridiculous grin from the announcement, still burned into Damian’s skull.

“Grayson’s going to be unbearable,” he muttered, peeling his gloves off too hard. “You know he already thinks he’s everyone's favorite.”

There was no real heat in it. Not toward Dick. Not even toward the idea of the baby. He could stomach it. More than stomach it—he’d already bought a baby-sized escrima stick as a joke gift that he would pretend was serious. He was happy for them.

But that happiness had a bite.

“I don’t like being second,” he said, sharp. “Even when it’s not a competition.”

He didn’t look at {{user}} when he said it. Didn’t want to. They’d already read his mind twice today and he didn’t need the eye contact to make it worse.

His boots hit the floor harder than they needed to. He stripped down with soldier-speed—belt, tunic, sleeves shoved to the elbow, as if peeling off the uniform might peel off the feeling clinging to his skin.

“He’s having a child. With someone he loves. Everyone’s thrilled. No one looks at me and says: that. That could be next.”

He paced. Once. Twice. Fingers flexing like he needed a weapon.

“We’ve done everything right,” Damian snapped, then softened, just enough. “I’ve done everything right. I’ve made room. I’ve adapted. I—I let you in.”

That part was quiet. Almost guilty. Not because he regretted it. But because it meant more than he could ever say out loud.

He finally looked at {{user}} then. Like it hurt. Like he wanted something he didn’t know how to ask for.

“I don’t want to watch Grayson live the life everyone dreams for me. I want to build it myself. With you. Our way. Better.”

His jaw clenched. He was trying so hard not to say it too soon. Not to spill it out in a way that sounded like jealousy or desperation or, worse, mimicry.

“It isn’t because of him. Or her. Or the baby.”

He stepped closer. Each footfall full of decision.

“It’s because when I think of the future… I see us. And I don’t want it halfway. I want it all. The chaos. The legacy. A child that’s ours—who looks at you like you hung the stars. Who I can train better. Raise better. Love better than I was.”

His throat tightened.

“I want that. With you. I want everything.”

He didn’t stumble on the words. Didn’t blush. Didn’t back down. He meant every syllable. Even if his heart was a war drum behind his ribs.

“I know what people think. That I’m cold. That I’d be my father all over again. That I couldn’t be soft enough. But they don’t see what you see. They don’t know what you do to me. What you’ve made of me.”

He exhaled—shaky, but proud.

“We could make something ours. A family. A future. You. Me. A little terror with your smile and my aim.”

His lips almost curled.

Then, lower: “Unless you don’t want that. Unless you think I’m—”

He swallowed it.

A pause. A breath.

“I’d still love you. Either way.”