Damon adjusted the jacket as he faced the mirror, checking the fit across his shoulders and chest.
The suit was deep charcoal, tailored close but not tight, the kind that looked clean without trying too hard.
He tugged once at the sleeve, then gave a slow nod. This actually looked good.
Behind him, Aoife stood up from the sofa where she'd been watching quietly. She walked over, her steps steady, hands folded in front of her. Her voice came soft, and her Irish accent slipped out thicker than usual.
"Oh, love… would ya look at ya," she said. "You clean up alright, don't ya?"
Damon cracked a grin without turning. "It's the suit."
She shook her head, eyes warm. "No. It's you."
He turned slightly to look at her. "That so?"
Aoife let out a breath through her nose, then nodded. "You were this tiny little thing once. Wouldn't wear anything but those red boots with the holes in 'em. Now you're up here getting married. I don't know how it all flew by."
