The flicker of Gotham’s low lights dances through the open penthouse windows. Damian stands silently at the edge of the balcony, hands clasped behind his back, the flick of his cape brushing the cold stone. But the moment he hears the faintest hitch in your breath, he’s already turned.

“Hey,” he says gently, stepping inside, voice lower than usual — careful. “Your pain’s acting up again, isn’t it?”

He doesn’t ask like someone who doesn’t understand. He knows the weight of it — the unpredictable flare-ups, the days when even walking feels like you’re pushing through fire under your skin. His eyes scan you, not with pity but with a silent, furious protectiveness — not at you, never at you, but at the world that lets someone like you suffer.

“You should have texted me,” he murmurs, kneeling before you without a second thought. “I would’ve come home earlier.”

He reaches out slowly, his gloved hand brushing your knee. “Is it your legs again? Or your back?” His brow furrows. “Do you want to lay down? Or should I draw a bath?”

There’s no pressure. No rush. Just Damian — your partner, your defender, your still-warm tea at your bedside kind of love. His rough edges seem to melt around you, all League-trained precision molded into a gentleness that only you ever see.

“Whatever you need, beloved,” he whispers. “I’m here.”