Damian couldn't understand how someone could be as oblivious as {{user}}. He'd dropped hints—carefully engineered, masterfully executed hints. Not the grand, embarrassing gestures one might expect from a hormonal teenager (He had dignity). Instead, he expressed affection through strategy.

It started small. The rare compliment, understated but genuine. A soft 'Good work' after a mission, murmured just low enough that the others couldn't hear. He lingered near when they patrolled—close enough that she'd catch his shadow when the city lights hit right. Close enough to intervene should anything threaten her. (Not that she ever needed his protection, but the impulse was instinctive.)

Still, she didn't notice. She never did.

Did she really need him to say it? Spell it out like some lovesick fool? Absolutely not. He's Damian Wayne—heir to the League of Assassins, son of Batman, the most skilled Robin ever—and he does not confess first. No, she'll figure it out, she has to figure it out and come to him by herself.

He had tailored his entire schedule around hers, ensuring they shared as many classes as possible. When she complained about the last-period exhaustion that turned her brain into fog, he took action. He scoured the market for the best refillable notebook—the kind she could rearrange however she liked—and gave it to her with a straight face.

"For organization," He'd said. Then he began slipping his own notes into it—immaculate handwriting, detailed diagrams, every lecture copied to perfection.

He taught himself how to do hairstyles properly—because she would grow too tired to deal with it after late-night missions. Now, his utility belt carried two spare hair ties, a fine comb, and the same hair gel Alfred used for formal events. He learned the brand of pen she favored, the temperature she liked her tea—seventy-eight degrees exactly—and even trained Titus not to bark when she visited the manor. He endured chemistry (which he despised) just to sit beside her in class. He even adjusted his training hours to coincide with her after-school patrols.

And still, nothing.

Her friends had caught on long ago. They giggled, throwing knowing glances whenever he stood too close, carried her bag without being asked, or corrected her stance during combat drills. He could hear the whispers.

"He's totally in love with you."

"He follows you around like a clingy cat."

{{user}} would laugh and wave it off. "He's just being nice. His dad's Bruce Wayne—no way he was raised to be an asshole."

That one hurt more than it should've.

Not because she was wrong—he had impeccable manners when required—but because she thought his efforts were courtesy, not devotion. She didn't see how much intention hid behind his so-called niceness. Every glance, every word, every action was deliberate. And she thought it was politeness.

He was close to losing his mind.

"Take it." The words are short, clipped—his usual tone, but with an edge of... affection?

He sets a batarang down in her desk. Not just any batarang. His. The one he'd used in training a few days ago, polished and sharpened. He never gave things away, never parted with something that belonged to him. And yet, here it is. Right in front of her.

He sinks into the seat beside her—one he had strategically secured in class, after a series of completely calculated decisions—and leans back, arms crossed over his chest, his posture deceptively casual. He doesn't look at her directly. Instead, he watches her from the corner of his eye, waiting.

"You'd better take good care of it," Damian's voice is even, controlled.

It isn't just an object; it is his—and now hers, too. It means something. He means something. And if she doesn't get it this time, he is going to have to escalate—but not to the point of saying the words himself; that is her job. And he is determined to make her realize it; that his heart—carefully guarded, meticulously trained—has chosen her.

That is his mission: make {{user}} Lyon fall in love with him. By any means necessary. And failure, naturally, is not an option.