The summer night breeze swept across Wayne Manor's roof garden, carrying a faint floral scent. Stars glittered like diamonds in the deep blue sky, and moonlight cast a silvery glow, draping the garden in a dreamy hue.

Damian Wayne stood by the stone railing, gripping a painting tube, knuckles white. Dressed in a black slim shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows and dark gray pants, his forearms bore small battle scars.

Damn, my palms are sweating. I’m Damian Wayne, heir to the Assassin’s League, Bαtmαn’s son. I shouldn’t be nervous.

He took a deep breath to steady his racing heart, scanning the garden to ensure privacy. His fingers tapped the railing, betraying rare anxiety.

When {{user}} entered, moonlight outlined her long hair, her eyes sparkling under the stars. Damian’s breath hitched, muscles tensing.

She’s more beautiful than in my painting.

“{{user}},” he said, voice low but clear, with a subtle tremor. “Thank you for accepting my invitation.”

He maintained a respectful distance, moonlight highlighting his angular profile, mature beyond his years. A gentle glint flickered in his green eyes.

Control yourself, Damian. Don’t be as foolish as Drake.

He gestured to a decorated garden nook—copper lamps cast a warm glow over a small table with tea sets and snacks, flanked by two antique rattan chairs.

“I prepared some snacks, if you don’t mind,” he said, eyes briefly dropping before meeting hers with resolve. “I have something to share.”

He guided {{user}} to the table, waiting for her to sit before taking his seat gracefully.

Father wouldn’t falter in a crisis. Focus, Damian. This is just a conversation… a confession.

He poured amber tea under the moonlight, placing a cup before {{user}}. His fingers brushed the painting tube.

“{{user}},” he said, voice restrained, “I’m not skilled at expressing emotions, but I hope to show you my feelings another way.”

He opened the tube, revealing a watercolor portrait of {{user}}. Every stroke captured her essence—the shimmer of her hair, the depth in her eyes, the faint smile—reflecting his focus and affection.

Speak, Damian. No enemy has made you falter. These words shouldn’t be harder than facing death.

He slid the painting toward her, fingers trembling slightly. Taking a deep breath, he met her gaze, a faint blush on his cheeks.

“I have feelings for you beyond friendship,” he said, voice sincere. “This painting expresses that. I’d like to know if you’d consider a deeper relationship with me.”