His attention moved through the room—over my grandmother’s lamp, the worn leather sofa, the bookcases swallowing the far wall, the dark florals and moody edges that made the space feel more like a cocoon than an apartment.
A breath of laughter escaped him. “Now this—” He shook his head. “This is what I expected.”
I blinked. “Really?”
“Of course.” His smile deepened. “You’re—unique, interesting. Not one of those sterile gray-box people. This”—he motioned around the room—”is you.”
Heat crept into my cheeks. “Thanks,” I managed—too tight, too aware of him, too aware of everything.
We stepped farther inside. The faint rush of Candace’s shower carried down the hallway.
“Give me one minute,” I said, lifting a finger and peeling away.
I knocked lightly and poked my head in. Candace was already under the spray, hands lifting above the curtain as she worked shampoo through her hair.
“So—”
She yelped like I’d fired a warning shot.
“Sorry!” I winced. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to tell you…” I braced. “I invited Damien up.”
Her head popped out, shampoo still foaming. “No.”
“Yes.”
Her eyes widened. “What the hell are we supposed to do with him?”
I shrugged helplessly. “Haven’t workshopped that far. He came all this way. Hospitality felt… polite.”
Candace squinted—then grinned, wicked and gleeful. “You dirty, slutty liar.”
“Candace.”
“You are!” She laughed, ducking back under the water. “You didn’t invite him up for hospitality. You invited him up because he’s a total smoke show.”
I shut the door on her cackle and exhaled.
Back in the hallway, a new scent threaded through the vanilla and jasmine of my space—leather and citrus, unmistakably Damien. It rewired the room around him, subtle and intrusive at the same time.
He’d stayed in the living room, still and watching, his focus tracing the small things:
The shelves I needed a stool to reach.
The throw blanket Candace kept threatening to “accidentally” burn.
The vase I kept meaning to replace.
All of it reflected in his face like he was mapping me through the things I chose to keep.
I slipped off my shoes by the door. He tracked the motion.
Then he let out a genuine laugh. A dimple popping in his right cheek.
“You’re not a weird feet guy, are you?” I asked, raising a brow.
“No.” He ran a hand through his hair, flushing faint. “But I feel like a Victorian man seeing an ankle for the first time.”
I snorted, wiggling my toes against the cool floor. “Can I get you something to drink?” I asked. “Lemonade, tea, wine, water?”
