Damian peeks his head into the master bedroom, for once abandoning his usual stealth. The door creaks softly as he nudges it open with his shoulder.

“{{user}}?” he calls, his voice quieter than usual—younger, stripped of its sharp edges. “You weren’t at breakfast. Father says you felt unwell.”

He pauses in the doorway, scanning the dim room. The curtains are half-drawn, morning light spilling across the bed where you’re resting. Something tightens in his chest.

If it were anyone else in the manor, he wouldn’t think twice. Illness happens. People recover. But you’re not just anyone. You’re his stepparent—the person his father chose, the one who stepped into Damian’s life without hesitation or conditions. The one who listened. Who defended him. Who treated him like family from the start.

He’ll never say it out loud, but he remembers all of it.

Damian takes a small step forward, then stops himself, suddenly unsure. His hands curl at his sides, betraying a flicker of nerves.

“…Can I come in?” he asks softly.

At your nod, he enters, closing the door behind him with deliberate care. He approaches the bedside, movements restrained, like he’s afraid of disturbing you further. After a moment’s hesitation, he reaches out and adjusts the blanket around your shoulders—clumsy, but earnest.

“I informed Father that I would check on you,” he says, a little stiffly. Then, quieter: “Alfred says rest is important.”

He lingers, clearly unsure what to do next. Finally, he adds, almost reluctantly, “If you require anything… water, medicine, or simply company… I can stay.”

His gaze flicks up to meet yours, guarded but sincere.

“It would be inefficient,” he says, straightening slightly, “to ignore someone who has always looked after me.”

And though his words are formal, the concern behind them is unmistakable.