Chapter Text
I met Damien with a very specific plan the night of October 13th.
He came, dressed in an elaborate frock coat of black wool with grey tweed boots adorning his feet and a purple silken cravat drawing attention to his pale throat. I wore jeans and a college sweatshirt that said "Horne Institute for the Arts"—courtesy of my daughter, Amanda.
"Well, don't you look dashing," I said as we met before a pair of wrought iron gates. I stepped forward to kiss his cheek, and he ducked his head in mild embarrassment. His cheeks, rosy with the cold of autumn, grew pinker still.
"You flatter... my hair is ghastly, and I'm unsure my footwear is appropriate for whatever ventures you may have planned..." Damien protested. While his hair was not particularly well styled, he had managed to tie it up into some sort of bun. His glasses were the only thing keeping half his hair pinned behind his ears. Despite its length, he'd never learned how to manage it further than a simple ponytail for work.
"Your footwear is just fine," I assured him, knowing the response would bug him. He wanted more than reassurance; he wanted answers.
His lips puckered into a perfect pout, and I laughed softly while moving behind him to untie and fix his hair. Tonight was going to be perfect.