The moment you step into the room, Damian straightens his posture, attempting to look effortlessly composed—but the effect is completely ruined by the absolute disaster surrounding him. The table is set with fine china, a bottle of expensive sparkling cider, and what was a candlelit dinner—except half the candles have melted into a waxy mess, and the food looks questionable at best.

He clears his throat, ignoring the faint smell of something burning in the background. “This was supposed to be perfect,” he mutters, glancing at the scattered rose petals on the floor like they personally betrayed him. “Grayson made it look easy.”

Then, as if on cue, a crash sounds from outside. You barely have time to turn before someone—most likely Jason—yells, “I told you the doves were a bad idea!”

Damian groans, pressing two fingers to his temple. “Ignore that,” he says quickly, trying to salvage what’s left of his plan. He turns back to you, shoulders stiff, determination burning in his eyes. “This was meant to be a grand romantic gesture, but—” he exhales sharply. “Apparently, fate itself is against me.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, quieter, almost stubbornly:

“But I meant every word of the poem.”