“Flattery won’t get you anywhere,” I said, attention still on my feet.
“Are you kidding me?” he balked. “You’re the third person who’s said that to me this week. I’m starting to think it’s a personality issue.”
I blinked. “Seriously?”
“Yes!” he said, wide-eyed. “My mom said it on Saturday, and Lucio said it earlier today.”
I stared. “You ate at Lucio’s today? After eating it last night?”
“What can I say? I’m a man of habit.” He grinned, sheepish and annoyingly charming.
I huffed, unable to stop the smile tugging at my mouth. “With an undiagnosed personality disorder,” I muttered.
“That’s it,” he announced dramatically, already pulling out his phone. “I’m making an appointment immediately.”
I laughed, nudging his phone back down with my fingertips.
Something passed between us—light layered over something heavier in my chest. Truths finally laid out between us, and the knowledge there were still more waiting in the wings made the air shift, sparking with anticipation.
“Can I get you something to drink?” he asked, taking a step back like the ground had tilted under him. “Wine? Water? I’ve got a pinot noir open.”
“Wine sounds good.”
“Perfect. I’ll—uh—be right back.”
He practically jogged down the hall.
I watched him go, caught somewhere between disbelief and satisfaction. He stumbled slightly, and I bit back a smile.Good. Suffer with me.The thought gentled something still buzzing in my veins.
The realization slid through me like warm syrup, settling some of the nerves still sparking beneath my skin.
I looked around: snapshots tucked between sleek frames, art that belonged here, whiskey catching the light. The space felt deliberate but not sterile. Structured but warm.
This was his world.
“Wine,” Damien said softly as he reappeared, two glasses in hand. The deep red shimmered between us as he crossed the space and offered me one.
“Thank you,” I said, fingers sliding along the cool stem.
He shifted his weight, nerves still buzzing lightly around him. “I thought we could sit on the terrace,” he said, nodding toward the glass doors. “It’s too beautiful a night not to.”
“That sounds wonderful.” And it truly did.
“Good,” he said, voice dipping lower. “Just this way.”
He hesitated one breath before moving, and that pause told me the truth: He was just as rattled. Then his hand grazed the small of my back—barely a touch, more intention than contact—and warmth unfurled through my stomach in a slow, disorienting sweep.
I let him guide me. Past the couch. Across polished floors. Through the open terrace doors—and straight into a dream.
Fairy lights scattered overhead like flecks of gold. Vines curled along the railing, weaving around lanterns until the city blurred into a watercolor of lights beyond. A small table waited at the center—candles flickering low, their glow mirrored in crystal glassware. A single white daffodil stood in a vase, luminous as moonlight.
“It’s beautiful.” The words caught in my throat. “You did all this for…”
“You.” Simple. Certain.
The word trembled in the warm air between us. A shaky exhale followed, almost self-conscious. “I hoped you’d like it.”
An unguarded smile tugged at my mouth, blooming from something deeper than politeness. Something tender. Something dangerous.
