damian wayne x freshman it-girl!reader .𖥔 ݁ ˖🦇 ݁˖ ݁𖥔 . fluff
The car idles at the curb outside Harper’s house, engine humming softly beneath the thick, insulated quiet of the interior. The neighborhood is well-kept and evenly lit, the kind of place where porch lights glow warm instead of harsh and hedges are trimmed with intention. Music drifts faintly from inside the house: something bright and rhythmic, punctuated by shrieks of laughter that carry through the open front windows.
Through the tinted glass, he can already see figures gathered on the lawn.
They stand in loose clusters near the walkway, hands shoved into pockets, jackets unbuttoned, shifting their weight in that particular way teenage boys do when they’re pretending not to be nervous. One of them gestures animatedly while the others laugh. Someone checks his phone. Another smooths down his hair using the reflection in a car window.
Familiar with one another.
Damian adjusts his cufflinks. Unnecessarily.
He is dressed impeccably. The suit is black and tailored within an inch of its life, cut sharp through the shoulders and clean along the waist. The white shirt beneath is crisp enough to suggest discipline without arrogance. His shoes are polished to a muted shine — not ostentatious, simply precise.
He has faced diplomatic galas with less composure.
In the breast pocket rests a square of yellow silk.
Not bright. Not loud. A muted butter shade. Chosen with precision.
He remembers exactly how you said it two days ago, half distracted, scrolling through your phone while describing the dress.
“It’s yellow, but like soft yellow. Not highlighter.”
He had nodded at the time as if the distinction were mildly interesting at best. As if it were a passing detail that would fade with the conversation.
Instead, it had lodged somewhere permanent.
He’d rejected three other shades before settling on this one. Too pale. Too saturated. Too gold. This one, however, matched the image in his mind perfectly.
Beside him, Dick studies him with open amusement.
“You’re staring,” Damian says flatly, without looking away from the window.
“You coordinated,” Dick replies.
Damian exhales slowly through his nose. “It is courtesy.”
He finally turns his head enough to level a glare in Dick’s direction.
There’s no malice in it. No mockery. Just that infuriating, affectionate understanding Dick seems to possess in surplus.
For a moment, neither of them speaks. The engine hums. Laughter rises again from the lawn. A car door down the street slams. Somewhere, a dog barks once and falls quiet.
Dick leans forward slightly, resting his forearms against the steering wheel. When he speaks again, the teasing edge is gone.
“You don’t have to be perfect tonight,” he says. “You just have to show up.”
“No,” Dick replies gently. “You’re planning like this is a mission.”
Damian’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
Planning is not anxiety. It is preparedness. It is efficiency. It is minimising variables.
“It’s not,” Dick continues. “It’s a dance. She already likes you. You don’t need to win anything.”
Not because it is new information. But because it reframes the entire evening in a way Damian hadn’t allowed himself to consider.
The word had been there, beneath everything. Beneath the coordination, beneath the punctuality, beneath the careful calibration of how long to linger before entering the lawn.
Win her approval. Win her pride. Win the night.
He looks back out the window.
The lawn stretches wide beneath the soft spill of golden porch light. Harper’s house hums with that pre-event electricity — subtle strings of white bulbs looped carefully along the railing, glowing steady and warm against the darkening sky.
Inside, everything is movement.
Silhouettes pass in quick flashes behind curtains — four figures crossing hallways, doubling back, disappearing into bedrooms and reappearing with curling irons, garment bags, forgotten shoes. The choreography is chaotic but practiced. Someone calls for hairspray. Someone else yells that they can’t find the matching earring. Laughter ricochets off hardwood floors.
Not the clinical, detached rhythm he associates with danger.
This is heavier. Warmer. It sits lower in his chest.
“She already likes you,” Dick repeats quietly.
Damian considers the lawn again — the boys shifting, laughing, waiting. None of them look victorious. None of them look as though they are competing for anything. They simply look hopeful.
There is no battlefield here.
He reaches for the door handle.
Dick watches him carefully, as if gauging whether to say something else.
Damian pauses, hand resting against the cool metal.
“For the record,” Dick adds lightly, “if she gasps when she sees you, that’s a good sign.”
He opens the door. Cool evening air spills into the car, brushing away the trapped warmth of leather and colored lights. The distant bass of music carries across the lawn, a steady pulse that settles low in his chest as he steps out onto the pavement.
Before closing the door, he glances back once.
Dick offers a casual salute.
The door shuts with a solid click.
The world outside feels louder immediately. More exposed.
Damian smooths the front of his jacket once — precise, controlled — and straightens his shoulders.
Across the lawn, one of the boys notices him approaching.
There is a flicker of recognition.
Damian steps onto the grass anyway.
Just a boy in a black suit with a yellow pocket square, standing on the lawn, waiting for a girl in a pretty dress.
The grass is softer than expected beneath his shoes.
It gives slightly under his weight, not enough to destabilise him, just enough to remind him that this is not polished marble or concrete or reinforced steel. It smells faintly of recent watering and spring air: clean and alive.
The other boys glance up when he approaches.
There it is. That flicker.
Not dramatic. Not exaggerated. Just a quick recalibration in their expressions. Shoulders straighten. One of them nudges another subtly. His last name carries weight in rooms far more intimidating than this suburban front lawn. He has grown accustomed to the microsecond shift in atmosphere when people place him.
For politeness sharpened into formality. For the careful neutrality people adopt when they’re unsure how to categorise him.
“Wayne, right?” one of them says.
The boy is tall, sandy-haired, jacket already unbuttoned like he’s trying to look less stiff. His tone is casual. Curious.
There’s no edge in it. No territorial challenge. No implication.
“Yes,” Damian replies evenly.
A pause follows. Not heavy, not tense. Just the natural beat of social adjustment.
Then someone shifts over slightly, creating space in their loose semicircle.
It’s subtle. Unceremonious. But intentional.
The circle closes again without ceremony, as if he’s been standing there all along.
They talk about safe things first.
Apparently Ava’s father refused to “do anything halfway,” which has apparently resulted in a vehicle described by one of them as “longer than my future.” There’s speculation about interior lighting, whether it has a built-in minibar (non-alcoholic, someone clarifies quickly), and whether the driver will judge them.
Damian listens at first. Observes. Calculates.
One boy — Marcus, he gathers from context — does most of the talking. Another keeps checking his phone and pretending he isn’t. A third adjusts his tie every thirty seconds without noticing he’s doing it.
They are not competitors.
They are not adversaries.
They are, quite transparently, as nervous as he was.
“The DJ better not only play remixes,” someone says. “If I hear a techno version of a Taylor Swift song, I’m leaving.”
“That’s a lie,” another counters. “You’re not leaving. You’ve been practicing for this since middle school.”
Damian allows himself a small exhale.
No one asks him about combat training. No one makes assumptions about arrogance. No one treats him like an anomaly to be navigated.
“You been in a limo before?” Marcus asks, turning to him.
“Yes.” There’s a half-second where he considers leaving it at that. Then, because silence feels unnecessarily distancing, he adds, “They are inefficient for transportation but adequate for spectacle.”
Then a snort of laughter.
“That is the most Wayne answer possible,” someone says.
“It’s true though,” another agrees. “We’re literally taking the scenic route for vibes.”
Damian inclines his head slightly. “If one is going to participate in spectacle, one may as well commit fully.”
“That’s what I’m saying,” Marcus says, pointing at him like they’ve just formed an alliance.
The conversation shifts again — this time to after-high-school plans.
Colleges. Gap years. Parental expectations thinly disguised as “suggestions.”
“What about you?” someone asks Damian. “You staying local?”
The question is direct, but not probing.
He answers without embellishment. “I intend to pursue international law. Or political science.”
There’s a brief silence — not the awkward kind, just recalibration.
“Of course you do,” Marcus says, impressed rather than intimidated. “That tracks.”
“It is a broad field,” Damian says evenly. “There are multiple applications.”
“Yeah, like running the world,” someone mutters under his breath.
Damian almost corrects him. Almost clarifies that governance is far more complex than singular leadership. Instead, he says, “One should at least attempt to improve one’s sphere of influence.”
The conversation deepens — not dramatically, but enough. They talk about which electives they’re thinking about next year. About which teachers already feel terrifying and which ones are secretly unhinged in the best way. About the strange hierarchy of upperclassmen and the quiet mystery of what high school is actually going to become. About how none of them feel entirely prepared for any of it — but are pretending they do anyway.
It turns into a real conversation.
Just boys in suits standing on a lawn under soft porch lights, discussing futures that feel both close and impossibly far.
At one point, someone admits, “I’m low-key terrified I’m gonna step on her dress tonight.”
A chorus of agreement follows.
“Yeah, if I trip her, I’m actually moving states.”
“You should place your hand at the midline of her back during turns,” he says calmly. “It stabilises both parties.”
“Why do you know that?” Marcus asks.
Because he has trained in formal ballroom since childhood. Because footwork and balance are muscle memory. Because leading without appearing to dominate is a skill he was required to master.
“It seemed prudent to learn,” he replies.
“Okay, but if you’re secretly amazing at dancing and don’t tell us, that’s betrayal,” someone says.
“I am… competent,” Damian allows.
“That’s terrifying,” Marcus laughs.
The tension — if it ever truly existed — dissolves completely after that.
They begin speculating about slow songs. About who will panic first. About whether pretending not to know how to dance is a viable strategy.
Damian does not comment on that.
As they talk, he becomes aware of something unexpected settling beneath his ribs.
He is not performing here.
He is not being evaluated.
The porch light flickers brighter as the front door opens briefly — another appeal for hairspray. The boys glance instinctively toward the sound, collective anticipation tightening the circle.
They fall quiet for a moment.
Because somewhere behind that door are four girls adjusting earrings and smoothing skirts and taking final steadying breaths.
Just… boys standing in suits on a lawn waiting for girls they are all slightly terrified of disappointing.
The realisation is oddly grounding. For once, he is not the anomaly in the vicinity. He is not the most intimidating presence.
He is just another fifteen-year-old hoping he does not misstep — literally or otherwise — when you walk out that door.
And when he glances toward the porch again, pulse steady but warm, he understands something simple and almost startling:
And then the front door opens.
The conversation on the lawn cuts off mid-sentence.
Harper steps out first, framed by warm hallway light like she’s making an entrance onto a stage instead of a suburban porch. Her dress catches the light with every step, and she pauses dramatically at the top of the stairs, hand braced on the railing.
There is immediate applause from the lawn.
Someone wolf-whistles. Marcus executes an exaggerated bow. Harper rolls her eyes and does a mock curtsy, nearly losing her balance before recovering with a grin.
“Careful,” one of the boys calls. “We just got here.”
She flips him off affectionately and descends.
There’s a collective intake of breath. She looks impossibly polished, confidence radiating from her like a second accessory. She pretends not to notice the reaction, but the corner of her mouth gives her away.
Chelsea follows, softer in her entrance but no less stunning. Compliments are thrown like confetti. Dramatic hand-over-heart gestures. Someone mutters, “We are severely outmatched.”
He offers Harper a respectful nod when she passes close enough. He tells Ava she looks “exceptionally well put together,” which earns him a delighted laugh. Chelsea beams when he says her dress suits her.
Time does something treacherous. It stretches. Thins.
The porch light behind you flares softly, outlining your silhouette before you step fully into view. For a split second, you are just a figure framed in gold.
The dress is softer than yellow should be. Not bright, not loud — just warm, like late afternoon sunlight distilled into fabric. The butter-toned background glows beneath the porch lights, and scattered across it are delicate florals in dusty rose and sage, painterly and almost dreamlike.
The structured bodice fits you perfectly, corset-like without being severe. The square neckline frames your collarbones, your throat, the gentle rise and fall of your breath. At your waist, sheer panels hint at structure beneath softness, the illusion of traditional corsetry rendered in something lighter, airier.
The sleeves — fluttering, ruffled straps — sit wide on your shoulders, barely there and impossibly elegant.
Tiered and voluminous, edged in lettuce-frill ruffles that ripple with every step. The organza catches the air as you move, holding its shape just enough to look intentional, just enough to look like you’re walking through a cloud of your own making.
You descend the stairs carefully at first.
Not in a loud way. Not in the way that demands attention.
In the way that makes attention inevitable.
Damian forgets to breathe.
The lawn disappears. The boys beside him fall away into peripheral blur. Even the porch light seems dimmer than you.
You spot him halfway down the steps.
Your gaze lands on his face first.
Your steps falter — not from imbalance, but from recognition.
It shifts from something bright and performative into something softer. Smaller. Private.
Not the one you give to the crowd.
The one that belongs to him.
He feels it like a physical impact.
And then you’re moving faster.
You smooth the hem down instinctively, fingers brushing the fabric as you step forward. The short skirt sways with quick, nervous energy as you take the last two steps in a near-run, heels clicking sharply against the floor.
Someone behind you calls your name in warning.
You bolt the final distance across the lawn.
Damian has half a second to brace before you collide into him with full momentum.
His hands come up, catching you at the waist, fingers splaying against the structured fabric of your bodice. The force of you knocks him back a fraction of a step, but he holds steady.
He lifts you slightly off the ground without conscious thought.
Your laughter bursts against his shoulder, warm and breathless and real.
For a moment, he is acutely aware of everything.
The faint scent of your perfume.
The softness of organza beneath his palms.
The way your arms wrap securely around his neck without hesitation.
“You matched,” you murmur, voice muffled against the fabric of his jacket.
He huffs the smallest breath of something that might be a laugh.
You pull back just enough to look at him, still close — close enough that he can see the careful detail of your makeup, the faint shimmer at the corner of your eyes, the way your lashes catch the light.
Up close, you are devastating.
He lowers you slowly, carefully, as if gravity itself might mishandle you.
Your heels touch grass again.
His hands remain at your waist.
Just a fraction too long.
The fabric is cool beneath his fingers, smooth and structured, but the warmth of you seeps through it anyway. He can feel the subtle rise and fall of your breathing under his palm, steady and close.
You do not move away. You do not step back. You linger.
Around you, the lawn erupts belatedly — cheering, teasing, someone dramatically gagging at the “cute factor.” Harper shouts something about “finally.” Ava demands pictures immediately.
But for one suspended second, it is just the two of you standing far too close beneath porch lights and early evening sky.
Your eyes flick down once more to the pocket square.
“I can’t believe you remembered,” you say softly.
Damian tilts his head slightly.
“I remember everything you tell me.”
The words come out before he can temper them.
Your expression shifts again — something tender, something almost shy.
The music inside swells. Someone calls everyone in for photos.
You slip your hand into his like it has always belonged there.
The lawn transforms from soft anticipation into full-scale production in under thirty seconds. Parents spill out onto the porch with phones already raised. Someone produces a DSLR from nowhere. Harper’s mother begins issuing instructions with the authority of a seasoned director. Ava’s father stands near the curb, grinning like he personally funded the concept of spring.
“Chelsea, turn slightly—yes, like that!”
Damian has been in rooms with press conferences calmer than this.
He stands where he’s placed.
Shoulders squared. Chin level. Hands hovering at his sides like he’s awaiting inspection.
The porch lights glow warm against the gathering dusk, casting everything in a soft gold haze. The lawn smells faintly of crushed grass and perfume and someone’s overly enthusiastic cologne.
He does not know what to do with his hands. He is aware of them in a way that feels deeply inconvenient: at his sides looks stiff, behind his back looks severe, in his pockets feels careless. He settles for neutral. Which, unfortunately, reads as mildly militant.
You notice immediately. Of course you do.
You tilt your head slightly, studying him with fond exasperation before stepping closer—close enough that the ruffles of your skirt brush against his trousers.
“Okay,” you murmur under your breath, voice low enough that the chaos around you swallows it.
“Relax your shoulders.” He had not realised they were tense. He exhales deliberately and his shoulders lower a fraction. “Good,” you say softly.
Another parent calls out, “Closer together! You don’t bite, do you?”
Damian does not dignify that with a response.
You close the remaining space yourself.
“Put your hand here,” you instruct gently.
You take his wrist — light, careful — and guide his palm to your waist.
The structured bodice beneath his hand holds its shape, but he can feel the warmth of you through the layers. His fingers spread instinctively, settling at the curve of your back like they’ve rehearsed this placement.
He did not anticipate how natural it would feel.
“Other hand?” you prompt.
He hesitates only briefly before letting it rest more loosely at your side. Your hand slides up to his chest, fingers curling lightly against his lapel near the yellow pocket square.
There’s something purposeful in that.
Something claiming, like your fingers where curling straight through his chest and to his heart.
“Now just…” You glance toward the camera, then back up at him. “Look at me.”
The first flash goes off.
Because he is looking at you.
Up close, your eyes reflect the porch lights, catching gold and brown and something softer. There’s a faint dusting of shimmer at the corners, subtle but intentional. Your lips curve like you’re trying not to laugh at how serious he still looks.
At least, not for the lens.
You lean in slightly, your forehead almost brushing his shoulder.
“You look like you’re being arraigned,” you whisper.
His mouth twitches before he can stop it.
“You know,” you continue softly, “if you glare at my mother’s camera like that, she’s going to think you hate her.”
“I do not hate your mother.”
“Then maybe look like you don’t.”
There it is. The smallest upward curve at the corner of his mouth — unintentional, uncontrolled. Another flash captures it. You beam, victorious.
“There,” you murmur. “That’s better.”
The photographer — your mom, apparently self-appointed — adjusts her stance.
“Okay, now one where you’re both laughing!”
“That cannot be forced,” Damian replies automatically.
You lean closer again, this time brushing your nose lightly against his jaw as if by accident.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” he murmurs.
The photo captures the exact second his composure fractures just enough to show something real.
They shift you into different configurations after that.
All four couples together. Then just the girls. Then just the boys. Then “everyone but parents.” Then “parents but no dates.”
Each time you find your way back to him without hesitation.
Each time, his hand returns to your waist more confidently.
By the third round of couple photos, he no longer needs instruction.
He angles slightly toward you on instinct.
When someone says, “Okay, look at the camera this time!” he tries. He truly does. But the moment you say something teasing about how serious he’s being again, his gaze flickers back to you automatically. The camera captures that instead.
Every photo where he is looking directly at the lens?
Impeccable. Composed. Polished.
Every photo where he is looking at you?
Unmistakable. Soft. Utterly yours.
There’s something in his expression that doesn’t belong to public events or gala evenings or carefully curated appearances.
It belongs here, on a front lawn under porch lights with your hand resting just over his heart.
At one point, you study him between flashes and tilt your head thoughtfully.
“You know,” you say quietly, “you’re allowed to have fun.”
“I am having fun,” he replies.
Another round of flashes goes off.
He doesn’t notice them this time.
Because you’re laughing at something Ava just said, and your head tips back slightly, and your hand tightens unconsciously against his lapel.
And he is looking at you.
Like you are the only thing in frame.
For a moment, everything else fades: the camera flashes, the shouted instructions, the shuffle of shoes on pavement. There is only the quiet gravity of his attention, steady and unguarded. Then a car horn chirps lightly at the curb, headlights sweeping across the driveway, and the spell breaks.
Not merely large, but excessive.
It stretches along the curb like a glossy black statement piece, polished to a mirror sheen that reflects porch lights and camera flashes in warped streaks of gold. The driver stands near the front, composed and professional, as if shepherding groups of overdressed teenagers into luxury vehicles is a perfectly ordinary Friday night occurrence.
Inside, it’s even more absurd.
Leather seats wrap around the perimeter in a continuous crescent. The stitching is immaculate. The ceiling is threaded with fiber-optic lights that pulse softly in shifting colors — blue to violet to pink — like a restrained galaxy. There’s a speaker system embedded discreetly along the panels, already humming with bass-heavy music that makes the floor vibrate faintly beneath their shoes.
Someone whistles low. “Ava’s dad did not come to play.”
“He never does,” Ava replies serenely, ducking inside first.
There’s a shuffle of skirts and suit jackets as everyone piles in. The confined space forces proximity: knees brushing, shoulders bumping, hands steadying one another against sudden movement. The door shuts with a heavy, insulated thud that cuts off the outside world entirely.
For a brief second, the air inside feels tight.
Damian braces for awkwardness.
Confined spaces amplify social missteps. Limited exits. No strategic retreat. He anticipates forced small talk, uneven silences, the subtle exclusion that sometimes occurs when groups close ranks around familiarity.
“Wayne, you good with sitting here?” Marcus asks, scooting over to create space.
He slides into the seat beside you. The leather is cool against his back, smooth and faintly scented. Your skirt spills slightly into his lap before you gather it, laughing under your breath.
“It is not an inconvenience.”
The limo lurches gently into motion.
Someone immediately connects a phone to the sound system. Music swells — bright, loud, unapologetically teenage. Colored lights shift rhythmically with the bass.
And then, without ceremony, the conversation resumes as if it had merely paused on the lawn.
Someone hands him a soda without asking what he prefers.
He accepts it with a nod.
Another boy leans forward from across the aisle. “So I heard you fence?”
Damian glances up. “Yes.”
“Like, with actual swords?”
“They are foils,” he corrects automatically. “And occasionally sabers.”
“Okay, that’s objectively cool.”
There’s no sarcasm in it.
He explains briefly — footwork, timing, discipline. He avoids sounding instructional. Keeps it conversational. When someone jokes about dueling rivals for dance dominance, he raises an eyebrow.
“That would be inefficient,” he says dryly.
Laughter ripples through the cabin.
The music changes again. Someone dramatically sings along off-key. Ava threatens to revoke playlist privileges. Harper counters with an even worse song.
The kind that feels harmless.
The kind that belongs to people who trust one another.
You’re pressed close at his side because the limo, for all its grandeur, was not designed for four girls in layered, pastel-hue dresses and their dates. Your knee rests against his thigh. Every time the vehicle turns, you shift slightly closer for balance.
At one point, as the others argue about whether slow songs should be outlawed entirely, he leans down slightly so only you can hear him over the music.
“Did you instruct them to include me?”
You blink up at him, genuinely confused.
“They are making a concerted effort,” he clarifies. “To engage me.”
Your brows lift, and then you laugh softly.
“No.” He studies your face for signs of mischief — there are none. “They just like you,” you say simply.
He leans back slightly, considering that. The phrase settles somewhere unfamiliar, like you are offering him something he hasn’t quite learned how to hold.
“They do not know me,” he says after a moment.
“They know enough,” you reply. “You showed up. You’re not being weird. That’s like eighty percent of it.”
“I am rarely ‘weird,’” he says.
“In socially destabilising ways.”
Marcus nudges him lightly with the toe of his shoe. “Wayne, hypothetical. If someone bumps into her during a slow song, what’s the recovery strategy?”
“Stabilise her first,” Damian replies without hesitation. “Create space second. Identify the cause third.”
“See?” Marcus says to the others. “He’s got plans.”
“It is basic situational awareness,” Damian insists.
But there’s warmth beneath it now.
He takes another sip of his soda and lets the conversation flow around him instead of analysing it.
Someone asks you how long it took to get ready. You launch into a dramatic retelling involving hairspray casualties and a near-makeup emergency. The others chime in with their own disasters.
He interjects when appropriate.
He lets out a brief, awkward chuckle — more surprised than amused — when Chelsea takes off her seatbelt and dramatically reenacts how Harper almost walked out wearing two completely different heels and didn’t notice until she tried to walk straight.
The limo glides through the city, lights streaking past the tinted windows in blurred ribbons of white and gold.
At some point, you shift again and rest your head briefly against his shoulder.
Just for balance, you’ll probably claim later.
He doesn’t comment on it, he simply adjusts slightly so you’re more comfortable.
He had expected this ride to feel like a test. An assessment. Instead, it feels like… transit. Like moving together toward something rather than navigating something alone.
He replays the words quietly in his mind. It unsettles him less than expected. Not because he fully believes it yet, but because it doesn’t feel impossible anymore.
The limo slows, tires humming against asphalt as the glow of the school comes into view. Music spills faintly through closed doors each time they open for arriving couples. Colored lights flicker through high windows, shifting like something alive inside. Conversations taper off. Jackets are adjusted. Dresses are smoothed. There’s a shared breath — that quiet, collective brace before stepping into something bigger than the ride there.
The gym is unrecognisable.
The harsh overhead fluorescents are gone, replaced with warm string lights draped from rafter to rafter like constellations pulled low. Streamers cascade from the basketball hoops. The bleachers are hidden behind fabric and glittering backdrops. A rented DJ booth pulses at the far end, bass vibrating through polished floors that usually echo with sneakers and whistles.
Tonight, it’s heels and dress shoes.
You barely make it five steps inside before you’re intercepted.
“Oh my god, you guys are so cute.”
The words come rapid-fire, layered over perfume and camera flashes and quick hugs that threaten the structural integrity of your hair.
You thank them, glowing, breathless.
Damian stands slightly behind you at first.
Who approaches first. Who commands attention. Who lingers at the edges. He maps it instinctively, like assessing a room for exits — but here, the exits are social.
He notes how easily people orbit you.
How naturally they lean in.
He is not unused to attention.
He is unused to this kind.
No calculation. No deference. No expectation.
By the fifth interruption, you notice the shift in his posture. The way he angles half a step back when someone squeals over your earrings. The way he yields conversational space without trying to reclaim it.
The next time someone approaches, you loop your arm through his before they fully reach you.
It’s fluid enough to look instinctive.
“This is Damian,” you say, tone warm, proud. “He actually helped me choose the color.”
It’s a lie. A clean one. But it hands him an opening.
The girl’s eyes widen. “Wait, really? That’s so sweet.”
He registers the cue immediately.
“It was statistically optimal,” he says smoothly. “The shade complements her undertones and photographs well under warm lighting.”
“Okay, that’s actually kind of genius.”
You squeeze his arm once, a small, approving gesture.
The next conversation is easier.
When someone asks where he got his suit, he answers with measured ease, then redirects: “She selected the boutonniere.”
You don’t overdo it, you just keep the door propped.
When someone compliments you both together, you tilt slightly toward him instead of away. When someone asks a question directed only at you, you occasionally widen the circle with your body language so he’s not peripheral.
You guide without making it obvious. He recognises the tactic by the fourth introduction; You are redistributing gravity. Not forcing him into the center, just ensuring he isn’t left at the edge.
A group from your chemistry class approaches next. One of them squints at him.
“Wait. Aren’t you the guy who corrected Mr. Alvarez about the combustion ratios?”
“It was incorrect information,” he replies evenly.
The group laughs. Not at him. With him.
You glance up at him, eyes bright.
He exhales — almost imperceptible.
The conversations start to layer rather than stall. He finds himself asking questions back. Offering brief commentary that lands sharper than expected. Someone mentions debate club; he dismantles a recent argument structure with clinical precision and earns a chorus of amused groans.
“Okay, we get it, you’re terrifying,” someone jokes.
“Only selectively,” he says.
And move closer instead of away.
At some point, as you’re pulled briefly into another round of compliments about your dress, he feels the absence of your arm through his.
It lasts maybe twenty seconds.
Then you return, slipping back into place beside him as if that is simply where you belong.
“You good?” you murmur quietly, under the music.
He studies you for a moment. Really studies you. You engineered entry points without making him feel managed. You handed him space without spotlighting him. You trusted him to fill it.
He leans slightly closer so only you can hear.
“You are very strategic.”
You smile faintly. “I have my moments.”
There’s something unspoken there.
You did not assume he could not navigate this world. You simply removed unnecessary friction.
Another classmate approaches. This time, before you can introduce him, Damian extends his hand first.
“Damian,” he says calmly.
The boy shakes it. “Ethan.”
They start talking. You watch for a second, then step back half a pace. He doesn’t need you to rescue him anymore.
Across the room, lights flicker over polished floors. Music swells. Laughter collides in bright bursts.
And for the first time since walking in, Damian is not observing from the perimeter.
He’s in it. He catches your eye across the small circle forming around him and there’s the faintest curve to his mouth.
You don’t say I told you so.
The lights dim without warning.
One second the gym is a riot of neon and noise — bass thudding, sneakers squeaking against polished wood, laughter ricocheting off fabric-draped walls — and the next, everything softens. The overhead glow fades into something warmer. Gold and violet wash across the streamers. The disco ball above the basketball court catches the new light and scatters it into slow-moving constellations.
There’s a collective groan-laugh from the crowd.
The opening notes of a slow song spill from the speakers: something earnest and dramatic and unapologetically romantic. The kind of song people pretend to hate and secretly know every word to.
Couples shift instinctively.
Friends scatter toward the edges of the floor with exaggerated theatrics.
Your expression changes. Not playful, not strategic. Soft.
You don’t wait for the rest of his protest. You catch his hand and tug.
The center of the gym is no longer chaotic. It’s gentler now, clusters of couples swaying in uneven circles, some close, some awkwardly separated by too much space and too many nerves.
You stop beneath the drifting lights and turn to face him.
For a split second, he looks like he’s assessing a sparring partner.
Then he seems to remember this is not a duel.
He places his hands at your waist.
As if you are something delicate. As if he is calculating pressure points and margin for error.
“Relax,” you whisper, stepping closer. “I’ll show you.”
His jaw tightens slightly.
He has been trained in more formal styles than this — structured, technical, precise. He knows how to lead. How to anticipate movement. How to control rhythm.
But this isn’t a ballroom.
This isn’t a performance.
This is you, smiling up at him like you’ve just claimed something important.
So he pretends not to know.
He allows the slight stiffness to remain in his shoulders. Lets you adjust his stance with light touches, your hand nudging his elbow lower, guiding one palm a fraction higher on your waist.
“Here,” you murmur. “And just… sway. Like this.”
You shift your weight gently from one foot to the other.
Because you are smiling like this is sacred.
The music swells softly around you. Other couples blur at the edges of his vision. The world narrows to the space between your bodies — the faint scent of your perfume, the warmth of your hands, the way the lights catch in your hair.
Your forehead nearly brushes his chin when you step closer.
He adjusts instinctively so you don’t have to strain.
Your hands slide up slightly, resting more securely against him.
“You know,” you say quietly, almost lost beneath the music, “I think you’re really sweet.”
You lean back just enough to look at him, brows lifting.
“It is statistically improbable.”
You laugh under your breath. “You walked me to every class this week.”
“That is efficient route alignment.”
“You stayed up helping me study for calculus.”
“You carried my bag when my heel broke.”
“It was impractical footwear.”
You shake your head, eyes warm.
“You notice things,” you say softly. “You take care of people. You just pretend you don’t.”
There is nowhere for him to redirect that.
Just the truth, sitting between you.
The song shifts into its chorus. The gym glows dimmer, more intimate. Around you, couples pull closer.
You hesitate for half a second.
You rise slightly onto your toes.
And press a soft, shy kiss to his lips.
The world does not slow down.
Your lips are gone before he fully registers them. The warmth lingers like an imprint, phantom and electric.
Your eyes widen instantly.
“Oh my God—I’m sorry—was that—too much? I just thought— I mean, you were looking at me like— I shouldn’t have just assumed—”
Your words begin to tumble over each other, panic rising in your voice. Your hands start to retreat from his chest.
He does not let you spiral.
One hand at your waist tightens, not possessive, but certain. The other lifts, fingers brushing along your jaw, warm and steady.
There is no hesitation this time.
His lips press against yours with quiet intent, learning the shape of you. It isn’t practiced. It isn’t perfect. It is real.
The world resumes in fragments — music humming low, lights shifting overhead, distant laughter that no longer matters.
Your fingers curl lightly into the fabric of his jacket.
He kisses you like he has made a decision.
When he pulls back, it is only far enough to look at you.
His composure is in ruins.
His hair is slightly disordered from your hand. His breathing is uneven. His usual carefully assembled restraint has cracked clean down the center.
“I think I have a crush on you,” he says quietly.
Then your entire face softens into something radiant.
“I had a crush on you first.”
He exhales something that might almost be a disbelieving huff.
You grin at him, a little shy now that the air between you has shifted into something undeniable.
“And for the record,” you add softly, “that was a very good kiss.”
He studies you for a long second.
Then something unfamiliar breaks fully loose in his chest. A sound escapes him, unexpected and unrestrained; he laughs.
It’s not the dry, clipped version he offers at strategic moments.
You stare at him like you’ve just witnessed something rare.
“There it is,” you whisper.
He shakes his head slightly, still smiling, as if he cannot quite believe the situation he has allowed himself to enter.
But neither of you are counting steps anymore.
His hands settle at your waist with less caution now.
Yours rest easily against him.
Around you, the gym glows and hums and sways.
But inside the small circle you’ve created, it feels quieter.
You lean your forehead lightly against his chest this time, not nearly brushing — actually resting there.
He lowers his chin against your hair.
And for the first time in a long while, Damian Wayne is not analysing, not calculating, not bracing.
And when the song fades, neither of you step away immediately.
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