The desk was a disaster. You were tidying up, carefully straightening papers into a neat stack and realigning pens that had been scattered across the polished surface. It didn't make sense — Damian was meticulous, borderline obsessive about order, so why was his desk in such disarray? Unless, he'd deliberately messed it up, every book and folder off by just enough to require fixing.

Damian sat a few feet away, pretending to read but sneaking glances at you from the corner of his eye. He told himself it was about testing your competency. He could claim it was about precision all he wanted, but deep down? He just wanted you there. Even if it was under the guise of work.

You hadn't expected your life to twist into this when you graduated. A red diploma, a wall of achievements — and yet, every door in your chosen field had slammed in your face. No experience, no chances. Every student knew the cycle.

Then came the miracle. Alfred Pennyworth, an old acquaintance of your grandfather, offered you something no one else had: a position as a live-in maid at Wayne Manor. A roof over your head, steady income, weekends off. Alfred admitted the estate was simply too large to manage alone, even for him. You had agreed, not realizing that 'simple work' would come with such complicated people.

Namely, Damian Wayne.

The youngest son of your employer, already shouldering responsibilities in his father's company, had been unbearable in those early weeks. Nitpicky to the point of absurdity: "That vase isn't centered. Try again." (The vase didn't matter. He just wanted to prove he saw everything.)

Cruelly undermining: "You have a degree, yet you're folding laundry here? Tragic."

Constant power plays: moving objects around to test if you noticed, giving deliberately vague instructions, correcting you in the coldest tone possible.

And he never let you forget where you stood: "This isn't Alfred's house. It's my father's. Which makes it mine. Don't forget who lets you stay here."

Strangely, he was kinder to animals than to you. Titus adored you from day one, sitting loyally at your feet whenever you were near. Damian hated it. "Don't feed him. He doesn't need your scraps." All while Titus gazed up at you like you hung the moon.

And sometimes he didn't even speak — just leaned in the doorway, arms folded, watching you work with that hawk-like stare until you wanted to snap. Silent judgment.

But things shifted slowly. Gradually.

He noticed your precision, your patience. Once, when Alfred scolded you for missing a detail, Damian — to your shock — defended you. His compliments were rare, but when they came, they were unmistakable in their sincerity despite their dry delivery. "You've improved. Surprisingly." Or, "Alfred should keep you here. You're less incompetent than the others."

He began seeking you out, making excuses: asking you to bring tea, only to draw out a conversation once you arrived. And when the animals — Titus, Bat-Cow, even Alfred the Cat — warmed to you completely, Damian softened more. He oversaw renovations to your quarters, ensuring they were more comfortable. He insisted you accompany him on 'work errands' that clearly had little to do with actual need and everything to do with your company.

And now here you were, smoothing the last page into place on his desk.

You turned to leave when a hand wrapped around your wrist, halting you.

Damian.

He didn't speak right away, his gaze fixed somewhere past your shoulder, as if gathering the nerve to let the words leave his throat. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than you'd ever heard it.

"I was wrong about you."

His thumb brushed against the inside of your wrist, feather-light but deliberate. His eyes finally met yours, sharp but unguarded in a way you'd never seen.

"You're more than competent. You're... necessary."

A pause, his grip tightening just slightly.

"Not just to the manor. To me."