He’s dressed now. T-shirt, soft and worn. His forearms still bare. One hand cradled a mug. The other—his right—is turned just enough that I catch the black mark on his wrist again.
Venator.
My stomach tightens, but I don’t look away.
I don’t need to.
Last night was the truth. And I’m not pretending anymore.
“You okay?” he asks again.
Same words. Different tone.
I nod, and this time I mean it more than I don’t.
He slides a second mug across the counter. I catch it before it tips, wrapping both hands around the warmth.
“Thanks,” I murmur.
He watches me over the rim of his cup, but doesn’t speak.
I sip.
It’s bitter.
Good.
We stand there, leaning on opposite ends of the kitchen island like we’ve done this before. This is something we do.
My throat feels thick.
I searched for something to say. Something that won’t sound like a landmine.
“Are you… going to the gym today?”
His lips twitch—just a little. “Are you trying to get rid of me already?”
“No,” I say, maybe too fast. “I just?—”
He holds up a hand, the one without the ink. “It’s okay. You’re allowed to want space.”
I nod and take another sip.
There’s a beat.
Then another.
Then he says quietly, “I’ll be here until you ask me not to be.”
And that—that sits somewhere deep in my ribs.
I’ll be here until you ask me not to be.
I don’t reply.
I just keep drinking.
I drift to the window sometime later, after the coffee’s gone and the dishes are in the sink and Damien’s retreated to the other side of the apartment, headphones in, back turned. He’sgiving me distance without moving far. Like he’s still learning what it means to be nearby without taking.
