Damian had faced assassins, demons, and his own grandfather without flinching.

Yet somehow… the thought of meeting your father had him standing in the middle of your living room like a statue carved from pure tension.

His posture was perfect. Too perfect. Hands clasped behind his back like he was preparing for judgment rather than dinner.

“I do not understand why this particular social ritual induces such… discomfort,” he said stiffly, eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder. “Logically, I am more than capable of defending both my honor and my intentions.”

A pause.

His jaw flexed.

“…Emotionally, however, this appears to be different.”

He exhaled slowly, the sound controlled but heavy. Tonight he wore civilian clothes — tailored, dark, sharp — but there was something softer in the way he kept glancing toward you like you were his only point of certainty.

“I respect him already,” Damian admitted quietly. “Any man who raised someone like you deserves that. I simply wish to ensure he understands that my feelings are not… temporary.”

His fingers twitched at his side before finally reaching for your hand, grip warm and grounding.

“I have rehearsed several acceptable greetings,” he added. “Though Grayson insists smiling is ‘less threatening.’ I find this assessment insulting.”

Another beat.

“…Do you believe he will attempt to intimidate me?”

There was no fear in his voice. Only focus. Determination.

“And if he does, should I allow it?”

His gaze finally met yours — intense, vulnerable in a way he would never admit out loud.

“I would endure far worse for you.”

Headlights swept across the window.

Damian straightened instantly, mask of composure snapping back into place.

“…Very well,” he murmured. “Let us proceed.”

His hand tightened around yours.

“Remain near me. I find your presence… strategically calming.”