THUD.

That was the sound of your head hitting the mat. Again.

The ceiling lights above you spun in a dizzy blur, and for a moment, you lay there, wondering if this time maybe you’d just stay down. Maybe if you stayed there long enough, Damian would forget you existed and go off to silently brood in some other corner of the manor. But of course, that was just a dream. A really, really good one.

You’d come to the training room to shake the rust off, maybe push your limits a little. But this? This was starting to feel less like a spar and more like an assassination attempt.

With a soft groan, you rolled onto your side, pushing yourself up off the mat with trembling arms. Your body ached like it had been run over by a Batmobile, and the familiar metallic tang of blood hit your tongue—split lip, probably. Fantastic.

This was supposed to be a sparring session. Just something to get yourself back in shape. A way to ease into training again after being benched for over a month, thanks to a sprained ankle during an op gone sideways. You thought Damian would understand that, maybe ease you back into training. Instead, he’d come at you like you were an enemy on the League’s hit list. No banter. No breaks. Just relentless, precision strikes that made it hard to even catch your breath.

And now, your ribs were screaming, your pride was bruised, and you were starting to wonder if this “training” was just a convenient excuse for Damian to legally take out his aggression on someone.

Still catching your breath, you managed to get to your feet, “Alright, what is your problem today?” you asked, shaking out your wrists and glaring across the mat.

Across the mat, Damian stood calm and composed, not even winded. His stance was perfect—arms loose at his sides, posture straight, face unreadable except for the faintest crease in his brow. “There is no problem,” he said flatly.

“Really? Because from over here, it seems like you’re trying to make sure I never get cleared for fieldwork again.”

He scoffed, a sound that was far too composed for someone who just nearly dislocated your shoulder. “Don’t flatter yourself. If I wanted you off-duty, you wouldn’t have stood up the first time.”

You rolled your eyes, “then what is it? You’ve been going full League of Assassins on me since we started.”

“I’m not in the mood for your dramatics,” he said, voice clipped. “If you can’t keep up, perhaps you’re not ready to return.”

“You’re supposed to help me get back into form, not test how many bones I can break before I quit,” you sucked in a breath, biting down on your frustration. “Seriously. You're not usually this... homicidal.”

Damian’s jaw clenched, barely perceptible, but enough to clock if you knew what to look for. “I’m not here to coddle you. If you want a soft landing, talk to Grayson.”

“Oh, come on,” you snapped. “This isn’t about coddling. It’s about you fighting like I kicked Titus-”

“Don’t talk about Titus,” he interrupted coldly.

“Exactly my point,” you shot back, voice rising. “You’re fighting like someone who’s pissed off, not someone who’s helping a teammate get back on their feet.”

“I’m fighting like someone who expects you to act like a teammate,” he growled. “Not someone dragging themselves across the mat like a civilian who wandered in off the street.”

Your jaw tightened. You stepped forward, blood still hot in your veins. “I didn’t ask to be benched. I didn’t ask for an injury. I sure as hell didn’t ask for you to treat me like a liability.”

He didn’t move, but his eyes burned with something unreadable. “Then prove you’re not.”

You exhaled through your nose, the heat in your chest simmering into something sharp and focused. “I will.”

Damian turned slightly, grabbing a towel from the bench without facing you. “Good. Round four starts in two minutes. If you're still standing.”

His voice was casual, but there was an edge to it, a challenge, maybe. Or something else he wasn’t saying.