“Damn. Hope it works out for her.”
“Me, too.” Her tone shifted. The telltale shift before the question I always dreaded. “Speaking of finding love…”
I groaned under my breath. Here we go.
When are you getting married?
I want grandbabies.
You’re not getting any younger.
The same script. Every year. The same guilt-stained performance I never had the heart to shut down. It was also the reason I’d ended up on that damn dating site in the first place.
I’d never brought anyone home. Never even hinted. My relationships had always been the kind you didn’t introduce to your mother—arrangements built on convenience, control, need. Never connection. Never risk.
Until Emma.
With her, I wanted everything I’d sworn I didn’t need.
Sunday dinners. Lazy mornings. A home that didn’t echo when I walked through it.
Her voice in the kitchen. Her laugh in my bed. Her.
I wanted her fire, her wit, the way she could cut and heal in the same sentence.
For the first time, I wanted a partner. A real one.
“Jesus. Every year,” I muttered, forcing a grin that fell flat. The thud of my wine glass betrayed me.
“I want my grandbabies, Damien.”
A vision pressed against my mind.
Emma.
A baby tucked against her chest.
Our baby.
The thought hit like blasphemy—something I had no right to imagine, no right to want.
My jaw locked.
Teeth grinding until pain sparked behind my molars.
As if I could punish myself into deserving it.
How fucking pathetic.
The thought sliced through the ache, clean and merciless.
How had a crush turned into this—an obsession wearing the shape of affection? How had I let her crawl so deep under my skin that even now, after she’d looked at me like I was a stranger wearing my own face, I still wanted her forgiveness more than air?
This isn’t healthy.I rubbed a hand over my face.These are the thoughts stalkers have right before they kill the girl just to wear her skin.
“I know.” The words came through clenched teeth. “I’m just… focused on work right now.”
“You say that every year,” shetsked.
