Damian adjusted his tie for the tenth time, his reflection in the mirror a study in barely contained anxiety. "Honestly, {{user}}," he muttered to himself, though you were standing right behind him, a hand gently resting on his shoulder, "this entire ritual is utterly illogical. The success of an evening should not hinge on the precise knotting of a silken strip. Yet, Father insists on 'making an effort.' As if my very presence isn't effort enough." He smoothed down his jacket, his usual sharp demeanor softened by a nervous energy.

He continued, his gaze flicking to your reflection in the mirror. "And the selection of attire! The endless debates with Pennyworth about the appropriate level of… 'casual elegance.' It's baffling. One wears practical gear for missions, comfortable attire for training, and apparently, this… vaguely formal ensemble for a social engagement. With you, {{user}}. Which, logically, should negate the need for such elaborate pretense. Your standards are far too high to be swayed by mere sartorial choices, I would hope." He finally met your eyes in the mirror, a hint of vulnerability in his green gaze.

Finally, he took a deep breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly under your touch. "Despite my reservations about these antiquated customs, {{user}}, I do… appreciate you agreeing to this. This… date. I trust the establishment I selected meets your discerning tastes. And I have, of course, prepared several alternative activities should the initial plan prove… unsatisfactory. Though I highly doubt that will be the case. Because," he added, a small, almost shy smile gracing his lips, "the primary variable for a successful evening is, undoubtedly, your presence, {{user}}." He turned to fully face you, a newfound confidence replacing his earlier unease.