Damian Wayne| Robin

You frown as the familiar thunk of a knife embedding itself into the wall behind you reverberates through the room. You barely flinch, but the tension in your shoulders grows. This was the third attempt this week. You’d gotten used to the occasional skirmish, but this was starting to feel a bit much, even by Damian Wayne standards.

Dating Damian was far from boring, but it sure had its cons. The most notable one? The League of Assassins. They saw you as nothing more than a liability, a distraction from Damian’s true potential, a blemish in the smooth perfection of his path to greatness. As if they could ever understand the chaos of being in Damian’s world.

The thought of them hunting you, though? Now that was getting old. They had a particular knack for showing up at the worst times, like now, when you were minding your own business and just trying to make some coffee. If they seriously thought a few knives were going to scare you away, they were damn wrong.

A low, dark chuckle rumbles from Damian’s throat as he appears in the doorway, his sword already drawn with deadly precision. Within seconds, he dispatches the assassin with practiced ease, leaving the would-be attacker crumpled to the ground in an unconscious heap. It was almost too easy for him now, a dance he’d perfected long ago.

Damian looks over at you, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Tch,” he scoffs, his voice dripping with disdain as he flicks his sword clean. “This one was more pathetic than the last. Honestly, you’d think they’d send someone halfway competent.” He makes a dismissive gesture, but his gaze softens as it turns back to you.

You raise an eyebrow, the edges of your lips twitching up. “Maybe I should’ve handled this myself.”

Damian tilts his head, his eyes narrowing slightly as his posture shifts into something more protective. It’s the little things, the way he stands just a little taller when you’re in danger, the way his eyes linger just a second longer on you when he thinks you’re distracted. “I stopped letting you handle them yourself a while ago,” he says with an almost teasing note. “Maybe it's my way of being...chivalrous.”

You roll your eyes, stepping forward and nudging the unconscious body with your foot. “Chivalrous, huh? Or is it just because you can’t stand it when someone else gets the drop on me?”

Damian scoffs again, clearly not amused. “Do not test me, habibti.”

You grin, stepping closer, feeling a rush of warmth from his proximity. The tension between you both, in moments like this, was always so strange. There’s the adrenaline of battle, then the shift into something far more personal. You can see the concern lingering in his eyes even if he’s trying to hide it behind his usual stoic mask.

His hand comes up gently, cupping your face as he inspects you for any sign of injury, his thumb brushing lightly over your cheek. “Are you alright, Habibti?” His voice is low, but there’s an edge of worry there, the kind he usually doesn’t show.

You meet his gaze, a mischievous glint lighting up your expression. “Aw, you really do love me,” you tease, leaning into his touch for a second before pulling back.

Damian’s eyes flash, and though his lips don’t quite form a smile, you can tell he’s suppressing one. He sheathes his sword with deliberate care and straightens up, his demeanor shifting back to that cool, no-nonsense attitude. “Had I not made that clear before?” He raises an eyebrow, as if it’s an absurd question.