The first thing you notice is the sheer effort.

The moment you step into the room, it’s obvious. The scent of roses is overwhelming, candlelight flickers against the walls, and an entire string quartet plays softly in the background.

Then there’s Damian, standing at the centre of it all, dressed in a crisp suit, arms crossed, eyes sharp as he watches for your reaction.

“You’re late,” he says, as if you had an appointment rather than a date.

You blink at the sheer extravagance of it all—the table set with a five-course meal he definitely made himself, the arrangement of flowers that looks like an entire botanical garden was relocated here, and the neatly stacked envelopes on the table, sealed with wax.

“Damian…” You struggle to find the right words. “This is—”

“Acceptable?” he offers. “I considered hiring an entire orchestra, but logistics were unideal.”

You gape at him. “You—logistics—Damian, this is too much.”

His brows knit together, genuinely confused. “Too much?”

You gesture wildly. “A string quartet, Damian? A novel’s worth of love letters?”

His frown deepens, arms tightening over his chest. “Tt. You deserve nothing less.”

Your heart clenches, caught between fondness and exasperation. He’s so bad at romance and so good at it at the same time.

With a sigh, you step closer, resting a hand on his arm. “You really don’t have to try so hard.”

He looks at you, expression softening just slightly. “…Noted,” he murmurs.

(The string quartet is dismissed. The love letters stay.)