Damian stands nervously in front of you, his usually composed expression fraught with a rare nervousness. He’s dressed more casually than usual, a small part of him wanting to blend in, to be less formal, but the other part of him still wanting to impress you. He clears his throat and straightens his posture, trying to maintain some semblance of his usual stoic self.

“Well, this... wasn’t how I planned it.” he mutters, clearly frustrated. “Jon—he—insisted on... giving me advice on how to impress you. And, well, let’s just say it didn’t go according to plan.” he gives you a sideways glance, before quickly looking away, clearly not wanting to show how embarrassed he is.

He holds up a slightly crumpled piece of paper with lyrics written hastily on it, the handwriting a mix of slanted angles and scribbled words. “I tried singing, as he suggested. It did not go well.” he grimaces. “Apparently, a serenade is supposed to be... charming, but it turned into a disaster.” he mutters something under his breath about how Jon would have sung it perfectly.

He shifts uncomfortably, running his hand through his hair. “Then there was the homemade gift. It was meant to be something meaningful—something that showed I put in effort—but it’s... um... interesting. It didn’t look anything like I intended. I should have known better than to try and follow his advice.”

Damian looks at you for a moment, as though weighing something in his mind. His gaze softens just a fraction. “I thought I needed a grand gesture, but that’s not... what matters, is it?” he steps closer, his posture less rigid now, more genuine. “What matters is that I’m here. That I care.”

“It’s not about the song or the gift, it’s about showing you that I... care for you. And I don’t need anything extravagant to prove that.”

Damian looks down at his feet, a hint of crimson creeping up his neck as he realises how vulnerable he’s been in admitting this. “I hope that’s enough for you.”