He steps past me, looking around with a casual curiosity that somehow doesn’t feel judgmental. “Nice place. Smells good,” he says, dropping his bag by the entryway, and I’m suddenly hyper-aware of the way my pulse is pounding in my ears.
I shut the door and try not to hover as he toes off his sneakers, leaving them neatly at the door beside mine.He still remembers that I don’t like others wearing shoes in my space.“Thanks. I, uh, bought a new candle. I think it’s grapefruit or something citrus. Didn’t want my place to always smell of chlorine.”
“Mission accomplished,” he says as he removes his cap and ruffles his hair out.
I fidget with the hem of my sweatshirt and step into the kitchen. “Do you want something to drink? Water? I have tea. Or soda? I have coffee if you prefer that, but it’s instant. I mean, it’s not terrible, but definitely not barista level.”
Damien follows me into the kitchen and leans with his side against the counter—god, he’s so tall, I’m gonna die—and arms crossed, watching me with a softness I’m not used to anymore.His eyes don’t wander; they stay fixed on my face, patient, almost amused. He looks so at home in my space that I feel sick. In a good way.
“I’m good,” he says.
I nod. “I was going to—uh, I was thinking we could order something together. Unless you’re starving? Then we can do pizza. Or—” I break off, heat creeping up my neck. “Sorry. I didn’t even ask what you like now.”
Damien just watches me, his eyes tracking every word, mouth curved up at the corners. “Whatever you want, Blue. I’m easy.”
The nickname settles in my chest, warm and familiar. Then I go back to fussing with the pile of takeout menus I left on the counter, sifting through them to hide how flustered I am. “Well, there’s a new Thai place I’ve been meaning to try. Unless you hate Thai now, which would be a first, but there’s Chinese or—this place that does these rice bowls—”
Damien’s chuckle is quiet, but not mocking, and it stops my tangent. He closes the space between us in three steps, taking the stack of menus from my hands and setting them aside. “Breathe, Noah. Thai sounds good. I’ll eat anything that isn’t frozen pizza.”
I exhale hard as I nod, all my practiced lines falling away. He takes some of the menus, walks toward the couch, and pats the space next to him. “Come on, let’s figure out dinner. We’ll get something good, watch something stupid, and you can laugh at how much I sweat when I eat spicy food.”
That makes me laugh. I move to the couch, keeping some space, pulling my knees up, and wrapping my arms around them. We decide on dinner and type in the order on my phone—pad thai, red curry, spring rolls, and a few other extras just in case. I’m proud of myself because my hands only shake a little.
“Should be here in thirty,” I say when I’m done. “Sorry if it’s weird being here. I’m just nervous, and I haven’t had anyone over yet.”
He smiles, and my heart does that thing again. “I’m honored to be the first. But it’s not weird. Or, if it is, it’s a good-weird; a familiar weird. Besides, it’s your place, so you get to make all the rules.”
I shrug, picking at the seam of the cushion. “Still getting used to it, I guess. Living alone. Being able to decide things for myself.”
He leans back, stretching out his long legs. “You’re doing good. The place feels like you.”
For a moment, we just sit in it—the hum of the fridge, the low flicker of the candle on the table. It should be awkward, but the longer he’s here, the more it starts to feel like the old days—a rhythm I can slip into if I just let go of the panic.
Damien glances at me. “You doing okay? You’ve been quiet since I walked in.”
I snort, burying my chin on my knees. “That’s just… me. You know I’ve always been bad at talking. Ryan used to say I was a walking ellipsis.”
He laughs. “Yeah, but you always said more in a look than half the guys do yelling. That hasn’t changed.” His eyes find mine, and for a second, neither of us looks away. The weight of that is almost too much. I drop my gaze, heart pounding.
I fumble for the remote and switch on the TV, nerves shot. “So, um. What are we watching?”
“Dealer’s choice, just not anything sappy, please,” he groans, throwing his head back. “Sage made us watch some romantic drama last weekend, and I nearly gouged my eyes out.”
A giggle slips past my lips because that’s just so Sage. I flick through the options, more to have something to do with myhands than because I care. My mind is still spinning; half caught in the sound of his voice in my apartment.
“We could start something new, or we could just watch The Office again. That’s safe, right?”
Damien groans again. “Okay, I know I said dealer’s choice, but if I hear Michael Scott say, ‘that’s what she said’ one more time, I might actually die.”
I shake my head and grin, relaxing more than I mean to. “Fine. Brooklyn Nine-Nine, then.”
“Much better,” he says, lifting both hands in mock surrender.
We fall quiet again, but this time, it’s less loaded. I can feel his attention like static—present, never heavy, just there. When I glance at him, he’s smiling—soft and fond, the kind of smile that says he’s happy just to be here. My face burns under it, and I look away, fidgeting with the hem of my throw pillow.
Damien moves closer, resting one arm on the back of the couch. “You don’t have to play host, you know. I’m not expecting five-star service.”
I huff a laugh, some of the tension bleeding away. “You say that, but if you get food poisoning, I’ll never hear the end of it.”
