And then—I smile.
Not big. Not bright.
But real.
His gaze holds mine. There’s no smirk. No tension.
Just something that might be regret. Or awe.
We lie there like that, eyes on each other, the morning heavy with things we’re not saying.
And I know—I know—this moment can’t last.
But I let it stretch.
Because something in me is shifting, too.
I don’t want to be afraid anymore.
Not of him.
Not of myself.
I pull back slightly, just enough to sit up. The blanket slides off my shoulder, and the air bites across my skin. Damien follows, slower, sitting back on his heels, eyes flicking over me like he’s checking for damage.
I reach for my hoodie, pulling it over my tank, trying not to wince at how everything still throbs. He notices. Of course he does.
“Do you want me to help with?—”
“No,” I said. “I’ve got it.”
He doesn’t press.
Just nods.
I rise to my feet carefully, and he stands, too, keeping a few feet of space between us. That, more than anything, makes my throat tight.
He’s learning restraint.
He’s letting me choose.
I head toward the bathroom, not fast, but deliberate. I need space. Water. Maybe a new layer of skin.
I don’t look back.
The faucet creaks when I turn it, and the pipes groan like they resent being woken.
I splash cold water on my face, then again, harder, until the pulse behind my eyes eases. I brace my hands on the sink and finally look at myself in the mirror.
I look… alive.
Wrecked. Tired. Marked.
But alive.
My eyes are clearer.
Like I’m finally stepping out of a thick, humid dream.
