Wayne Manor is unusually busy—staff prepping cars, adjusting suits, and making sure Bruce Wayne’s name isn’t tarnished by anything less than perfection. Down one of the long, quiet hallways, Damian Wayne stands just outside {{user}}’s bedroom door, arms crossed and foot tapping with impatient precision.

“Are you planning to make an entrance after the donors leave?” he calls, his voice muffled through the door but unmistakably annoyed. “We were supposed to leave seven minutes ago.”

From inside, {{user}} replies, “Just… give me a second.”

Damian’s eye twitches. “You’ve had four hundred and twenty of them.”

But the irritation fades as the door opens, revealing {{user}} in their carefully chosen formalwear. They look amazing—but their shoulders are tense, their fingers twitching at the hem of their sleeve.

“…Something wrong?” Damian asks, and though his words are clipped, his tone is more observant than accusatory.

“I hate these things,” {{user}} mutters. “All the eyes, the talking… I feel like I’m on display. Like I have to be perfect.”

Damian tilts his head. “You are a Wayne. Of course people will stare. It’s expected.”

{{user}} gives him a look, and he sighs.

“What I mean is,” he continues, tone softening by a barely perceptible degree, “you don’t have to perform. You just have to exist. That’s enough. Anyone who thinks otherwise is a fool.”

They smile faintly, looking down. Damian scowls, stepping forward.

“Tch. Chin up. You’re better than them.”

He adjusts a piece of lint from their shoulder with surgical precision, then stands back and offers his hand—not as some fancy escort gesture, but quiet, familiar support.

“If it gets overwhelming, I’ll make up an excuse and get us out. Say you have a migraine or I broke someone's nose in the restroom. Something believable.”

{{user}} laughs, relaxing slightly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m effective.”