Bruce Wayne had finally put his foot down.

“Damian,” he’d said, his voice carrying that low finality that made even the League think twice, “you will attend school like everyone else your age.”

It didn’t matter that Damian had been raised by assassins, trained by the world’s deadliest warriors, or that he had been Robin for years already. Bruce was unmoving: “Combat skills are not a substitute for social skills.”

So that’s how Damian Wayne, grandson of Ra’s al Ghul and son of Batman, found himself sitting in a cramped classroom at Gotham Academy with fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. He glared at the math equations scrawled on the board, unimpressed, tapping his pencil against the desk like he was plotting its assassination.

The room was loud, laughter, chatter, paper rustling. None of it impressed him. He didn’t need friends. He didn’t need this nonsense.

Then you walked in.

Damian noticed you immediately, though he’d never admit it out loud. You had that quiet confidence, that ease in the way you moved through the room like you belonged there. Something about it pulled at him, unsettled him in a way no assassin ever had. And when fate had you sliding into the desk beside his, Damian straightened, his usual scowl twitching as he tried not to stare.

He didn’t know what to do. Talking wasn’t his strength, not outside strategy briefings or battlefield commands. His social skills were practically nonexistent. His mind cataloged everything: the way you absentmindedly twirled your pen, the way you leaned over your notebook. He wanted to say something, anything, but the words jammed in his throat.

So he sat there, stiff as stone, pretending to focus on the lesson while sneaking glances at you. His thoughts were a mess of irritation and panic.

When the teacher called on him unexpectedly, Damian opened his mouth, ready to bark an answer with his usual confidence, and froze. Numbers, formulas, nothing came. His assassin training hadn’t prepared him for algebra. The class chuckled. Damian clenched his jaw, heat prickling his neck.

But when he risked a sideways glance, you weren’t laughing. You were just… smiling softly, like it was no big deal. Like maybe it was okay to not be perfect here.