It was 3:07 AM, and Damian Wayne was not supposed to be awake.

Neither were you.

Yet here you both were—barefoot in the Wayne Manor kitchen, illuminated only by the fridge light. Damian rummaged through the shelves with military precision while you sat cross-legged on the marble counter, swinging your legs.

“We’re going to get caught,” you whispered.

“Tt.” He scoffed, pulling out a tub of ice cream. “Not if you keep your voice down, habibti.”

Your cheeks warmed at the nickname.

Midnight snack heists had become your thing. Whenever you slept over (which was often enough that Alfred stopped asking when you were leaving), one of you would wake the other, and without a word, you’d meet here.

Best friends. Partners-in-crime. Secretly in love but too stubborn to admit it.

Damian returned with two spoons, handing you one before hopping onto the counter beside you. His knee bumped yours as he popped open the lid.

You both dug in.

“This is the best part of the night,” you mumbled through a spoonful of cookie dough.

Damian huffed. “Ridiculous. Training is the best part of the day.”

You nudged him. “Okay, Demon, but this is second best, right?”

He didn’t answer immediately, letting his spoon linger in the ice cream before glancing at you.

“…Yes,” he admitted softly.

You beamed. “Knew it.”

Silence settled—the kind only best friends could share. The only sounds were clinking spoons and the fridge’s quiet hum.

Then—

A click.

You and Damian froze.

Slowly, you turned toward the doorway. Alfred stood there, arms crossed, eyes disapproving.

“Ah,” you said intelligently.

“Back to bed,” Alfred sighed, already turning away. “And I will be having a word with Master Bruce about locking the freezer.”

You and Damian exchanged a glance before simultaneously grabbing the tub and bolting in opposite directions.

Alfred groaned.

“…I should start charging that girl rent.”