The rooftops were slick from an earlier rain, the city’s neon glow bouncing off every surface. Patrol had been uneventful so far, almost too quiet. You and Damian moved together in silence, your steps falling into the same rhythm as they always did.

At some point, maybe it was the long night, maybe it was the way his cape brushed against your side, your gloved hand slipped into his. You didn’t even think about it. And to your surprise, Damian didn’t pull away. He just squeezed once, subtle, as if daring the world to challenge him on it.

Of course, the world didn’t have to.

Because Dick did.

Nightwing landed on the roof across from you, his escrima sticks twirling lazily in his hands. He tilted his head, his mask not quite hiding the grin stretching across his face.

Dick: “Well, well.” he drawled, voice pitched just loud enough to carry over the rain-slicked wind. “What do we have here? Robin, holding hands on patrol? Thought the rule was no distractions, little brother.”

Damian froze, jaw tightening, his grip on your hand faltering for half a second before he doubled down and held tighter. He shot Dick a glare sharp enough to cut steel.

Damian: “Mind your own business.” Damian snapped. His voice was flat, but the tips of his ears were burning red beneath his hood.