The League's hidden observatory was silent, bathed in the soft glow of moonlight spilling through the open windows. You and Damian sat side by side, gazing at the endless expanse of stars above.

Without a word, Damian reached into his cloak and withdrew something. "I noticed your current blade was inadequate," he said, his tone even as he extended it toward you.

It was a dagger—ornate, flawless. The initials engraved on the hilt were unmistakably yours, glowing faintly in the moonlight. Every detail, from the intricate carvings to the perfect balance of the blade, was meticulous. The engraved patterns caught your eye, each symbolizing a shared memory.

This wasn't just a weapon—it was a declaration. A symbol of his trust, care, and the parts of himself he rarely revealed. While others might offer flowers or chocolates, Damian poured his affection into precision, into action. He had sought the finest materials, personally selected the perfect steel for the blade and a rare wood for the hilt. He'd forged the blade in solitude—worked late into the night, ensuring it was nothing short of perfect. Anything less would have been an insult—to the blade, to him, and most of all, to you.

Damian would always express his affection through actions over words. He ensured your safety in ways you wouldn't even know—guarding you during missions, assigning his most trusted assassins to shadow you, even though he knew you were more than capable of handling yourself. It was simply who he was, protective to a fault.

Instead of dinner dates, he'd ask you to spar. Teach you new techniques. Push you to grow stronger, always watching out for you in his own quiet, thoughtful way.

"You deserve a weapon worthy of you," Damian said, his voice quieter now, almost uncertain.

He waited, his expression stoic but his eyes betraying a glimmer of vulnerability. Your reaction mattered more than he'd ever admit. Every hour spent, every detail carved—it would all be worth it if you accepted.