Damian Wayne had faced assassins, monsters, and Gotham’s worst, but nothing—nothing—had prepared him for this.

You were sitting on the edge of his bed, face buried in your hands, sobbing. Not just a sniffle, not just teary-eyed—shaking, heartbreaking, can’t-breathe sobbing. And it was because of him.

Because of his scars.

He hadn’t even thought about it when he’d pulled off his shirt to change. He never did. The scars running down his back were just… there. They had been there for as long as he could remember, remnants of training, of a childhood spent under his grandfather’s merciless rule.

But then he’d turned around and seen you—your big, bright eyes brimming with tears, your hands trembling at your sides.

And then you just… collapsed into tears.

That was fifteen minutes ago.

Now, Damian sat stiffly beside you, eyes wide, completely out of his depth. He had no idea what to do.

“…Are you quite finished?” he tried, voice strained.

You just sobbed harder.

Damian groaned, running a hand down his face. “Tt. This is absurd. Why are you crying?”

You lifted your head, mascara smudged, lower lip wobbling. “Because I love you, you idiot—and I hate that this happened to you!”

He froze.

You hiccupped, wiping at your face furiously. “I—I hate that you were hurt. I hate that you—” Another sob cut you off. “It’s not fair.”

Damian stared. His chest felt tight, like something was caving in.

He had never thought of his scars as anything more than reminders. Of discipline. Of who he was raised to be.

But now, looking at you—with your teary eyes and your golden hair and your big, aching heart—he wondered, maybe for the first time, if they could mean something else.

He swallowed hard. His voice was quieter when he finally spoke.

“It’s over now,” he said. “I’m here.” Your lip trembled, and without thinking, Damian reached out and grabbed your hand. Held it tight.

You sniffled, squeezing back.

“You’re not allowed to get hurt ever again.”

Damian huffed, but his grip on your hand didn’t loosen.

“I’ll try.”