You sat beside Damian on the edge of the couch, both of you in sleek black training gear, just a little too big in the sleeves and knees. Yours had a golden stripe down the side—Damian insisted on it. Something about “complementary aesthetics,” but really he just liked how it matched your hair.

Your feet didn’t quite touch the floor. His did, barely.

Bruce stood a few feet away, arms crossed, face tight with the kind of controlled fury only someone like Bruce Wayne could hold. Across from him, Marcus—the head pool tech for all the Wayne estates—was pacing, his voice already raised.

“You got me twisted, Bruce,” Marcus snapped, “I’ve been here since before that little gremlin even knew how to wipe his nose.”

You glanced sideways at Damian. His expression didn’t change, but you could feel it—how still he went. Like a hawk watching a mouse.

“Three no-shows in one month,” Bruce said flatly. “We’re done. Alfred will handle your severance. Hand in the keys.”

Marcus scoffed, digging into his pocket. He pulled out the jangling ring of keys and slapped it into Bruce’s palm. For a second, it looked like it might end quietly.

Then Marcus turned on his heel, halfway to the door.

“Y’know what?” He spun around, pointing. “That’s why I fucked your bitch, you motherfucker!”

The words dropped like a bomb. You blinked. Damian’s entire posture changed—straightened, sharpened. You heard your own gasp and felt your hand instinctively shoot out, brushing against his gloved fingers.

The front door slammed hard enough to rattle the picture frames.

Silence followed. The kind that buzzed in your ears.

Selina stood near the fireplace, one hand resting on the mantle. Her mouth was a thin line. Her eyes—guilty.

Bruce didn’t move.

You swallowed hard and turned to Damian. His face was unreadable, but his hand closed around yours. Not tightly, not like he was angry. Just steady.

He leaned in a little.

“This,” he said, voice quiet and edged with disbelief, “was not how I imagined our first day of training going.”