The dagger glints under the Batcave’s lights as Damian holds it out to you, his expression unreadable—but you know him well enough to recognise the anticipation in his gaze. He’s waiting. Watching. His grip on the hilt is firm but careful, as if presenting something of great significance.

“It’s a William Henry Monarch ‘Blood Moon,’” he states matter-of-factly, as if that should explain everything. “Hand-forged Damascus blade. Titanium frame. Fossilised coral inlays. Razor-sharp.”

You take it carefully, feeling the weight of it settle in your palm. The craftsmanship is exquisite—intricate waves swirl across the steel, the polished inlays catching the dim glow of the Batcomputer’s monitors. It’s beautiful. And undeniably dangerous. This isn’t just any weapon. It’s a collector’s piece, worth thousands.

Dick makes a strangled noise.

Tim groans, rubbing his temples. “Damian, you can’t just give someone a knife as a—”

“A token of affection?” Damian interrupts, unimpressed. “I can, and I did.”

Bruce exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. His silence is almost worse than a lecture.

Selina, perched on the Batmobile like she owns the place, just smirks. “Oh, he’s a romantic,” she purrs.

Damian doesn’t so much as blink at her teasing. His focus remains entirely on you. His arms cross over his chest, his stance firm. “Well?” he prompts. “Do you like it?”

He’s waiting, his usual arrogance tinged with something else—something almost hopeful.