Rain hammered the stained-glass windows of Wayne Manor the night it happened.

Not soft rain either—Gotham rain. Mean rain. The kind that swallowed sirens and turned rooftops into mirrors.

You hadn’t meant to stay.

The plan had been simple: drop off intel for the Batfamily, avoid Damian Wayne’s impossible stare, leave before midnight. But Gotham had a way of trapping people in moments they weren’t ready for.

And Damian—

Damian had been angry that night.

Not at you. At everything.

At Bruce for another lecture. At Dick for treating him like a child. At himself for failing a mission that had gotten civilians hurt.

He’d found you in the cave after patrol, bruised knuckles dripping into the sink.

“Stop staring,” he muttered.

“I’m literally handing you antiseptic.”

“You’re still staring.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re dramatic.”

“And you’re reckless.”

“Funny coming from the guy who jumps off buildings for cardio.”

That should’ve been the end of it.

Instead, one argument became another. Then silence. Then confessions neither of you were supposed to say out loud.

Damian admitting he was tired of being seen as a weapon before a person.

You admitting Gotham exhausted you because every person you cared about eventually belonged to the city more than themselves.

And somehow, in the middle of exhaustion and rain and adrenaline, he kissed you.

Hard.

Like he’d been holding it back for months.

One reckless night turned into tangled sheets, bruised lips, and Damian Wayne looking strangely soft in the dark.

By morning, reality came back sharp enough to cut.

You left before he woke up.

No note.

No goodbye.

Just gone.

Three weeks later, you were standing in a tiny apartment bathroom halfway across the country staring at two pink lines.

Pregnant.

You sat on the cold tile floor for almost an hour.

Damian Wayne was going to be a father.

And he didn’t even know where you were.

You told yourself leaving was the right thing.

Because Gotham destroys people.

Because children connected to the Wayne family inherited enemies before they inherited eye color.

Because Damian already carried enough weight on his shoulders without adding this too.

So you disappeared properly.

New city. New number. New name on the lease.

And for months, it worked.

Until your son was born.

Because he had Damian’s eyes.

Green. Sharp. Observant.

A Wayne stare in a tiny infant face.

And suddenly avoiding Damian stopped feeling noble and started feeling cruel.

Back in Gotham, Damian knew something was wrong long before he found proof.

You haunted him.

Not in a romantic way—more irritating than that.

You had vanished without explanation, and Damian hated unfinished things.

He checked morgues first.

Then hospitals.

Then airports.

Dick caught him one night at the Batcomputer at 3 a.m.

“You’re still looking for them?”

Damian’s jaw tightened. “I simply dislike unanswered questions.”

“Mhmm.”

“Stop smiling, Grayson.”

Dick raised both hands. “I didn’t say anything.”

But Bruce noticed too.

Especially when Damian became quieter.

Meaner during patrols.

Distracted.

Then Talia al Ghul arrived in Gotham uninvited—which was always a disaster.

“You lost someone,” she observed over tea.

Damian stiffened. “Irrelevant.”

“No,” Talia said softly. “Not irrelevant.”

That conversation stayed in his head for weeks.

Until one tiny mistake unraveled everything.

A hospital database hit during a trafficking investigation.

A child’s file briefly flashed across the screen.

Mother’s emergency contact: your old alias.

Father: unknown.

Damian almost ignored it.

Until he saw the birthdate.

He froze.

Then zoomed in on the attached newborn photo.

Green eyes.

His eyes.

The Batcave went silent.

Dick looked between Damian and the screen slowly.

“…Oh.”

Bruce removed his glasses.

For once, even Jason had nothing sarcastic to say.

Damian stared at the photo like the world had tilted sideways.

“A son,” he said quietly.

Not disbelief.

Not anger.

Something far more dangerous.

Hurt.