EUPHORIA

Him

The clock read 2:47 a.m. when Raven woke.
The rain had slowed outside, but thunder still rolled far away — soft, distant, like the remnants of a memory.

The other side of the bed was empty. Again.

Her fingers brushed the cool sheets where Damian should’ve been. He hadn’t slept in days; she could feel the tension even in his absence. The restless energy that haunted him had been building — like a storm that refused to break.

She slipped quietly from the bed, her bare feet soundless against the floor. The faint rhythmic thud from the next room drew her forward.

She found him in the training area.
The lights were dim, the room awash in silver from the moonlight filtering through the glass wall. Damian’s bare back glistened with sweat, muscles taut as he drove his fist into the training dummy again and again. Every strike was too sharp. Too precise. The kind of focus that only came from trying to silence something darker.

“Damian.”

He didn’t turn. Another hit. The dull thud echoed through the apartment.

“Habibi,” she said quietly, voice softer this time.

Still nothing. He pivoted, landed a kick, then reset, breathing harshly through his nose.

“Damian.” Her tone held a quiet firmness now.

He froze mid-motion, shoulders rigid. His jaw clenched before he finally spoke. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“I can see that.” She took a slow step forward. “You haven’t, in three nights.”

“I’m fine,” he said flatly, picking up a towel from the floor and wiping his hands. “You should go back to bed.”

“You’re not fine,” she countered, her voice steady, calm. “You’re bleeding inside your own head.”

He turned then — his expression unreadable, but his eyes sharper than glass. “Don’t start with me, Raven.”

“I’m not starting anything.” She crossed her arms loosely, unfazed. “You’re the one fighting ghosts that aren’t here.”

His jaw flexed. “They’re always here.”

The silence between them thickened.

She took another step closer. “Then talk to me.”

“There’s nothing to say.”

“Damian—”

“I said I’m fine.” His tone cut sharper this time, defensive, almost desperate. “You don’t need to fix me.”

“I’m not trying to fix you,” she said quietly. “I’m trying to keep you from drowning in something you already survived.”

That made him pause. His eyes flicked to her — a flicker of conflict behind the usual composure.

“I’ve seen this before,” she continued, softer now. “The way you move when you’re running from your own memories.”

His shoulders tensed, fists curling at his sides. “You think you know what it’s like? To see faces every time you close your eyes? To remember every detail?”

Her voice stayed calm. “Yes. I do.”

That silenced him.

She moved closer until only a few feet separated them. “You and I—we both have darkness in our blood. The only difference is yours came from training and mine from birth. But it’s the same war, Damian. The same silence after.”

He looked away, exhaling slowly. The tension in his frame didn’t break, but it faltered.

“I keep seeing them,” he admitted finally, his voice low. “The ones I killed. The ones I couldn’t save.” His eyes darkened. “It doesn’t matter how long it’s been. The League made sure I remember every one.”

Raven’s heart ached at the vulnerability in his tone — the kind he rarely allowed to surface. She reached out, her hand resting on his forearm. He flinched, almost imperceptibly.

“Don’t,” he murmured.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m broken.”

“You’re not.” Her voice didn’t waver. “You’re haunted. There’s a difference.”

He tried to pull back, but she held firm, her fingers cool against his skin. “Let me in,” she said quietly. “Just this once.”

He hesitated, chest rising and falling unevenly. “You don’t understand—”

“I do,” she interrupted gently. “You built walls because no one else ever stayed long enough to help you take them down.”

He blinked, caught between anger and exhaustion. His throat bobbed. “You shouldn’t have to—”

“I want to,” she said simply.

That stopped him.

Something inside him gave way then — not fully, but enough. His hands trembled once before he exhaled, the sound shaking slightly.

Raven stepped closer, her hand sliding up to his neck, fingertips brushing damp skin. “You can stop fighting for one night, Damian.”

He didn’t respond, just stared at her, breathing shallow. The air between them felt heavy — charged, quiet, and honest.

Finally, he whispered, “If I stop, it all comes back.”

“Then let it,” she said. “I’ll hold what you can’t.”

For a moment, he looked at her as though trying to believe that was possible. Then, slowly, the fight drained from his body.

When she reached for his hand, he didn’t resist this time. She guided him back to the bedroom, her thumb brushing over his knuckles with each step.

Titus lifted his head from his spot on the floor, tail thumping softly as they entered.

Raven sat first, tugging Damian gently down beside her. He hesitated, but the exhaustion in his eyes betrayed him. When she pulled him closer, he finally let go — shoulders collapsing forward as his forehead pressed against her chest.

Her fingers slid into his hair, stroking slow and steady. “You’re safe,” she murmured. “Right here.”

His breath hitched, the sound raw. “It’s never quiet,” he admitted. “Even when I try.”

“I know,” she said softly. “That’s why I’m here.”

He stayed silent, his hand finding hers and gripping it like a lifeline. Little by little, the tension bled out of him. His breathing slowed.

“You shouldn’t have to see me like this,” he muttered.

She smiled faintly. “I’ve seen worse. And you’ve seen me worse.”

That earned a weak exhale that almost resembled a laugh.

Minutes passed before his voice returned, softer now. “I didn’t think it would ever go away.”

“It won’t,” she said honestly. “But it doesn’t have to control you anymore.”

He tilted his head, green eyes half-lidded now, the exhaustion finally winning. “Stay,” he whispered.

She brushed a strand of hair from his face, pressing a light kiss to his temple. “Always.”

He closed his eyes, her heartbeat steady beneath his ear, grounding him in a way no training ever had.

Within minutes, the ghosts faded, the tension melted, and Damian Wayne — the boy who was never allowed to rest — finally slept.

Raven stayed awake long after, fingers still tracing through his hair, whispering softly to the quiet.

“You don’t have to fight alone anymore,” she said, barely audible.

And for the first time in days, the night felt still.