We’re perched Gotham City rooftop, just past midnight. The city hums below in quiet contrast to the hush of the high-up ledge. A gentle breeze ruffles the edges of Damian’s cape as he sits cross-legged beside you, shoulder to shoulder, your fingers barely brushing. The night is still, safe—for once.

Damian’s eyes scan the skyline, but his voice is softer than usual, distant. “Tt. If Father knew we were up here, he’d say it was irresponsible. Vulnerable.”

You glance at him, eyes catching the faint starlight in his. “Then it’s a good thing he doesn’t know.”

A silence stretches between you. The comforting kind—the kind you’ve grown used to sharing with Damian. You pull your knees up to your chest, hoodie sleeves covering your hands.

“Do you think we’d be friends if we weren’t like, stuck together in the same city?” you ask, voice uncertain, hesitant. “Like… if, uh, Bruce wasn’t friends with my dad? Like, uh… is this just, what’s the word?”

Damian doesn’t look at you, but his head tilts slightly.

“Proximity?” he offers.

“Yeah.” You bite your lip. “That.”

He’s quiet for a moment. You can hear him breathe, steady and careful, the way he always is when he’s about to say something real.

“I don’t know,” he says finally. “I honestly don’t. My entire life has been running toward something that keeps running away in the distance, while I stay still…”

He finally turns to look at you. His expression is unreadable, but his voice softens in a way it never does for anyone else.

“…and I guess proximity means a lot right now.”

Your heart does a weird thing in your chest. The way it always does when he says something unexpectedly vulnerable. You look down at your hands, then back at him.

“I don’t think it’s just that.”

Damian’s brows draw together slightly, curious. “You don’t?”

You shrug, but the warmth in your voice betrays you. “Nah. I think if we met anywhere else, I’d still find you. You’re kind of hard to miss.”

That gets the ghost of a smile out of him. Barely there—but you see it.

He nudges your arm with his, just enough to feel like a thank-you. “You’re not so forgettable yourself, you know.”

Another beat of silence. A distant siren. Your pinkies brush.

“…You staying over again?” he asks, like it’s the most casual thing in the world.

You smile, soft and a little sleepy. “Wasn’t planning on it. But…”

“But?” he prompts.

“But I brought my pillow.”

He huffs a short, quiet laugh. “Tt. Idiot.”

But his voice is warm. And when you lean into his side, he doesn’t pull away.

“You’re a dork,” you mumble.

He looks down, eyes slightly indignant, but soft. “I am not a dork.”