I had bled for him—more than he would ever fully understand.
But underneath the hurt, another part of me stirred. The reckless part. The part that remembered his late-night messages, the gentleness in his voice, the way he’d shown up yesterday without hesitation, then stayed until the adrenaline left my body and I could settle again.
And logic be damned—I wanted him. I wanted this. Even if it burned.
My throat tightened, words scraping out.
“I… I think I have feelings for you, too,” I said, voice small but certain.
His breath caught.
I forced a smile, crooked and vulnerable. “Real ones.”
His eyes went wide—saucers of shock and something dangerously close to hope. “Really?”
I chuckled lightly. “Really.”
His expression shifted—skepticism, sharp and fearful, crept in around the edges. “Don’t fuck with me, Emma.”
The fear in his eyes startled me—so raw, so pleading.
My laugh cracked open anyway, brighter and honest. “I’m not.”
The moment barely finished forming before he moved.
One second, he was across the table. The next, he was kneeling beside me, hand sliding to the back of my neck, touch steady and reverent, like he was afraid I’d vanish.
And then the world snapped clean open.
His lips brushed mine—tentative, questioning, unbearably gentle. A test. A plea. A promise.
But he didn’t need permission. The moment he kissed me, heat tore through me in one unstoppable wave, lighting every nerve, every bruise, every want I’d tried to bury.
I kissed him back—slow at first, then deeper, matching him stroke for stroke. Letting everything I didn’t know how to say settle into the space between our mouths. Letting him feel it. Letting myself feel it, too.
When he finally pulled back, he was winded—wide-eyed and reverent. Like he couldn’t believe I was real. “Holy shit,” he whispered.
“Yeah.” I nodded, lungs barely cooperating. “Holy shit.”
A beat—then something wild cracked open between us. The sound felt foreign—like something unused finally working again.
We laughed, quiet at first, then louder, bubbling up from a place neither of us had touched in a long time.
“I can’t believe it,” he breathed, voice paper-fragile, every ounce of confession exposed on his face.
“Me either.” My smile faltered, dipping into something truer. “I’m not usually the kind of girl that gets the guy.”
His brows snapped together, confusion cutting clean. “What are you talking about?”
My hands jittered against my thigh. He eased down onto his knees in front of me and took my hands without a word, holding them like something fragile but important.
“I…” I swallowed, looking away, the truth clawing up like something long-buried. “I’ve never had great success with relationships.”
He stared at me, completely at sea. “I’m still not following.”
“Ever since high school, boys—men—they always looked past me to Candace.” My voice tightened. “I was always the weird one. Too opinionated. Too strict. Too… me.”
My father’s voice slithered in, sharp and unwelcome, threatening to rebuild every wall Damien had dismantled.
