The county fair was loud enough to drown out the hum of the Ferris wheel and smelled like fried dough, hay, and animals. It was Jon’s element, but Damian had been suspicious from the second he stepped out of the car.

Jon grinned like he was born for this. “See? This is perfect. Sun’s out. Food everywhere. You two are gonna love this.” He pointed toward the barn where the livestock judging was taking place. “Damian, look. Chickens. You can’t glare at chickens. It’s scientifically impossible.”

“I assure you, Kent, my capacity to glare is without limit,” Damian replied, voice dry as he adjusted his jacket. His eyes, however, lingered on the barn.

You nudged him lightly, and for a moment, Damian looked at you instead of Jon. His expression shifted almost imperceptibly, like he was caught between his usual sharp-edged composure and something softer.

“Fine,” he said finally. “We’ll look at the animals. Then we leave before Kent gets any absurd ideas involving tractor pulls.”

Jon only laughed, slinging an arm across both of your shoulders like you were already halfway through the day’s agenda. “No promises.”

Inside the barn, it was a different world. The air was warm and filled with the low sounds of animals shifting in their pens. Damian crouched in front of a goat pen, his sharp green eyes focused with the same intensity he usually reserved for missions. He extended a hand toward a kid goat, and it nuzzled his fingers.

Jon leaned down next to you, voice low. “Is he… petting it?”

“Yes,” you murmured, grinning.

Jon’s grin could have lit the entire barn. “Oh, this is a core memory.”

Damian shot him a look over his shoulder, sharp enough to cut steel. “If you speak of this, I will poison your coffee.”

Jon raised his hands innocently, still grinning. “Not a word. Scout’s honor.” He leaned closer to you. “But you saw it too, right?”

You nodded, secretly taking a picture of Damian looking ridiculously soft over a baby goat.

The moment passed quietly after that, Damian methodically moving from pen to pen while pretending he was only doing it for “inspection purposes.” You stayed close, occasionally brushing against Jon’s side when the barn got crowded. Jon noticed, of course. He always did, and each time, his posture seemed to shift, almost protective, like it was instinctive.

When the three of you finally emerged into the bright sunlight again, Jon stretched his arms like a man coming home. “Alright. My turn.”

You didn’t even need to ask. He was already heading for the row of game stalls.

Jon was a menace there. He had to hold back constantly, deliberately throwing darts slightly off-center and pretending to struggle with the ring toss until Damian accused him of “losing with intent.” Then Jon made a perfect shot without even looking, grinning like a kid as the stall owner reluctantly handed over an oversized stuffed highland cow.

“For you,” Jon said, holding it out toward you. His voice had that easy warmth that made it hard to say no. You hugged it once and his grin grew wider.

Damian was unimpressed. “Bribery. How quaint.”

“Jealous?” Jon teased.

Damian’s reply was wordless. He stepped past Jon, took the next set of darts, and with precise, surgical accuracy, landed three perfect throws. The stall owner didn’t even hesitate. He handed Damian an enormous stuffed frog. Damian held it out to you without a word.

You blinked at him. “Thanks.”

Jon groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You can’t just out-gift me, man.”

“I just did,” Damian replied coolly, adjusting his jacket as if he hadn’t just treated the fair’s dart game like a tactical exercise.

Jon grumbled something about “competitive gremlins” and moved on to the milk bottle toss, where he won a squishy shark just to “reclaim his honor.” By the time the sun started setting, you were carrying nothing, Jon had a bag of kettle corn tucked under his arm and the two stuffed animals he won you, and Damian was carrying your purse and the two stuffed animals he won you.

"We need funnel cake!" Jon lit up, veering towards the food truck.