Quiet Heat, Quiet Truths
The hot spring lay hidden at the heart of Damian's personal dimension, steam rising in slow, lazy curls that caught the soft glow of the artificial sky above. The air smelled faintly of minerals and warmth—clean, calming, untouched by the chaos of the outside world.
Damian stood at the edge of the water, wearing only the lower half of his Robin gear—black combat pants reinforced with light armor plating, the red accents dulled by shadow. . No symbol demanding expectations from him.
Just Damian.
Raven was already in the spring.
She had reshaped her clothes with a thought, magic folding fabric into something simpler: a deep purple bikini that contrasted sharply with her pale skin. Steam clung to her like a veil, beads of water tracing down her shoulders and arms. Her short, dark hair—tinted faintly violet in the light—rested against her neck, damp and unguarded. Her eyes, usually guarded behind layers of discipline and restraint, were half-lidded in rare peace.
For once, she looked… relaxed.
Damian didn't move for several seconds.
Not because he didn't want to—but because his mind had gone dangerously quiet.
No missions.
No calculations.
No contingency plans.
No systems whispering warnings.
No legacy weighing down his spine.
Just her.
He realized, distantly, that his heart was racing—not from combat, not from danger, but from the terrifying clarity of the moment. For the first time in longer than he could remember, Damian Wayne wasn't thinking about what came next.
He was thinking about now.
About how Raven's usual aura of restrained darkness felt softer here.
About how the steam curled around her like it was afraid to touch her too harshly.
About how, if the world ended tomorrow, this moment would still be worth everything.
The thought struck him suddenly and violently:
I don't care anymore.
Not about the League of Assassins.
Not about Ra's al Ghul's expectations.
Not about the system's rewards or hidden dangers.
Not even about being Batman's son.
If anyone—hero, villain, god, demon—
If anyone, including Trigon himself, ever tried to hurt her…
Damian knew, with terrifying certainty, that he would burn the world to ash to stop them.
A hand closed around his.
Warm. Real.
Raven's fingers laced with his, grounding him instantly.
"Damian," she said softly. "You okay?"
He blinked, the weight of his thoughts shattering like glass. He looked down at her, really looked at her, and realized she was watching him with concern—not fear, not distance, but care.
"I'm fine," he said after a moment.
Then, without thinking, he tightened his grip on her hand.
There was no tactical reason for it.
No calculated benefit.
Just instinct.
He inhaled slowly.
"I should've asked you this months ago," Damian said, his voice lower than usual. "I planned to. I wanted to. But something always came up. Another deal. Another fight. Another threat."
Raven's eyes widened slightly.
He turned fully toward her now, the steam swirling between them.
"Raven," he said. Then, more quietly, "Rachel Roth."
She froze.
Damian took a breath—not as a warrior, not as an assassin, but as a sixteen-year-old boy standing on emotional ground he'd never been trained to navigate.
"Will you be my girlfriend?" he asked. "Officially."
The words hung in the air, heavier than any oath he had ever sworn.
"I wanted to ask a month ago," he admitted. "But I didn't. And that's on me. So… yes or no."
For a few seconds, Raven said nothing.
Her face flushed—just a little—but enough that Damian noticed immediately. Shock flickered across her expression, followed by embarrassment, then something warmer, something softer. She looked away briefly, composing herself, steam hiding the faintest tremble in her breath.
When she looked back at him, there was still a blush on her cheeks.
"It took you long enough," she said.
Damian stiffened slightly.
Then she smiled.
Not a teasing smile.
Not a guarded one.
A real one.
"Of course, you idiot," Raven said gently. "Yes. I'll be your girlfriend. Officially."
Something in Damian's chest broke open.
He didn't speak.
He just stepped closer.
Raven rose slightly in the water, one hand resting against his chest. Damian leaned down, hesitating for half a heartbeat—long enough to give her time to pull away if she wanted to.
She didn't.
Their lips met softly at first, uncertain, like both of them were learning a language neither had been taught. Then the kiss deepened just a fraction—warm, real, unhurried.
No destiny.
No prophecy.
No last stand.
Just two people choosing each other.
The steam continued to rise around them, the world outside forgotten—for now.