He grins, a bit self-deprecating, a bit proud. “Just from watching you, Babygirl. I felt you tense, felt you shaking, heard the way you came undone, and my body just… checked out.” He snorts quietly. “Didn’t stand a chance.”
I swallow, suddenly hyper-aware again, of the mess on my stomach, of the way my body still feels sensitive and open. “That’s not embarrassing,” I say, even though my voice wobbles a little. “That’s just… really hot.”
His eyes darken at that. “Yeah?” he murmurs.
I nod. “I like knowing I did that to you.”
His grin is a little cocky now, but the affection is there, running under every word. He leans in and kisses me slowly, his tongue teasing mine as he groans into my mouth. When he finally pulls back, he brushes my hair out of my face, searching my eyes for any trace of doubt.
“Be right back,” he says and gets up and walks to my bathroom, giving me a few minutes alone—long enough to feel myself slowly spiral. But he’s back too soon, carrying a cloth in one hand and dumping his dirty briefs in my laundry basket.
He touches my knee first, just a gentle squeeze, then glances at my hips, checking in. “Can I?” His voice is so soft it almost doesn’t sound like him, but it’s everything I need right now.
I nod, biting my lip, still sniffling, but the urge to bolt is gone. Damien’s hands are careful as he helps me slide the lace down my legs, not fumbling or gawking or making a spectacle out of any of it.
I flush, but this time it’s from how tenderly he holds the things I keep hidden, the things I was always so afraid to share. There’s nothing rushed or embarrassed in the way he handles me—no sense that this is awkward or shameful, or anything other than normal.
It hits me then that this is Damien Moore. The only one who’s ever made space for all my‘too-muchness.’All my‘weird.’All the ways I don’t fit with anyone else. He’s always known how to read my moods, always been patient when I stumble over words or get overwhelmed.
We only lived in the same house for three years, but somehow, that was enough for him to memorize the rhythms of my life better than anyone else ever bothered to try. Not even Ryan, who tries so hard but never quite hits the mark.
Damien never made me feel like I was too much to handle or treated my mental health as a problem to fix or erase. Whenthe rest of the world felt like static, Damien always found a way to tune me in to his frequency. He understood that some days I didn’t want to be touched, and other days I couldn’t breathe unless someone anchored me with a hand on my shoulder. He learned that quiet didn’t always mean I was angry or sad; sometimes it was just how I recharged.
In three short years, Damien mapped out every shortcut through my walls, every off-limits room in my head, every tangled, impossible part of me. He’s been holding out his hand for years, and I was too afraid to see it for what it was.
He glances up when he finishes, tossing the cloth and panties into the laundry basket by my dresser, and just sits there for a second, hands still cradling my hips, thumbs stroking soft, grounding circles. He’s close enough to kiss, a crooked smile tilting his mouth when I finally manage to meet his gaze.
“I don’t know why you’re so good to me,” I whisper, and I mean it. “Even when I was a mess, even when I never knew what you wanted.”
Damien’s smile gentles. He reaches up, brushing damp hair back from my forehead, and presses his lips to my temple. “Because I’ve loved you for so long, I don’t even remember what it felt like not to.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, letting myself lean into his touch. My heart aches, full and raw and so soft it almost hurts. I want to tell him I love him, that I always did, even when I was too scared to call it that. But the words don’t come out—just this thick, clumsy wave of gratitude and longing that swamps everything else.
He helps me sit up and get back into my sweats, then grabs his hoodie from the floor and slips it over my shoulders, tucking me in. “Soft enough?” he asks as he rubs my shoulders, and I simply hum in response.
I wrap my arms around myself, breathing in the familiar scent of him—spice and cinnamon gum. It always felt like home to me.
Damien climbs into bed beside me, lying on his side, one arm draped across my waist, fingers tracing idle patterns along my hip. “You okay right now? Anything hurt? Anything feel bad?”
I shake my head. “No. Just… overwhelmed.”
“That makes sense. You want to talk?” he murmurs. “Or just lie here for a while?”
The fact that he’s asking, that he’s giving me a choice, makes my chest ache all over again. I lean into him, exhausted but safe. “Can we… just stay like this for a minute? If that’s okay?”
He smiles softly, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “That’s more than okay, Blue.”
I press my forehead to his chest, let him wrap around me. It takes a few minutes for my brain to stop spinning. The ache in my chest is sweet this time, and when I tip forward to kiss him, I let myself fall all the way into the deep end.
Damien
Iwakewithsunlightpooling across my face and the kind of soft, warm ache that’s got nothing to do with basketball or weights and everything to do with the boy in my arms.
My brain’s not fully online yet, still floating somewhere between sleep and waking, but every inch of me is aware that I’m not alone in this bed. There’s a weight pressed along my side—narrow shoulders curled into my chest, legs tangled with mine, the kind of closeness I used to dream about so often it almost hurt.
For a second, I think I must be imagining it, that I’ve built this moment out of wishful thinking and old longing. But then I move a little, and Noah makes a tiny, sleepy noise when turning his face into my neck.
I keep my eyes closed, refusing to let reality interrupt, even as my heart beats too fast. If this is a dream, I’m going to stay in it as long as I can.
