Then he kissed me—sweet and careful.
Behind us, Susan made an unnecessarily loud clatter—metal spatula against the Brussels sprout pan, steam puffing up in small bursts.
I startled in his arms, pulling back.
"Smells great in here, Susan," Damien said by way of greeting.
"Yeah, yeah." She tsked, but I caught the edge of a smile.
He turned back to me. "Now—enough about Candace. Tonight is about you."
My first instinct was to argue. To tell him I was fine, that I'd be here for him, for all of them.
But Susan's words drifted back:
Sometimes the kindest thing you can do for someone who's drowning is give them an hour where they don't have to swim.
And I knew Damien's version of that kindness would be this—caring for me instead.
I looked at him, let a smile bloom, and lied through my teeth. "That sounds amazing."
Susan finished dinner in record time—roasted Brussels sprouts pasta. An interesting and surprisingly delicious combo.
We loaded up plates and carried them to the living room, settling into the couch like we used to before everything went sideways. Feet tucked beneath me, his thigh warm against mine, the TV glowing soft in front of us. Almost normal. Almost easy.
"Do you want to watch a show or talk?" I asked.
"Whatever you want to do." He smiled, licking sauce from his fork.
I tried to hide my grimace, the uncertainty twisting under my ribs, but he caught it—his face dimming. "Unless you—"
"No. No!" I blurted, lunging for the remote with far too much enthusiasm. The plate nearly slid off my lap, and Damien caught it before it spilled.
"I've been dying to watch this new documentary."
"Which one?"
"It's the one on…" I stalled, scrolling blindly through the options and selecting the first thumbnail I saw. "Fast food employees and their 401(k) plans."
I winced.Worst pick imaginable.
He shot me a look—flat, unimpressed, painfully deserved.
"We can watch something else if you want," I said quickly, already scrolling back.
With a mouthful of Brussels sprout, he said, "No. That sounds good."
Liar.
I hit play, cringing as liquefied goop poured into chicken-nugget molds on the screen. Damien set his plate down on the table, not even half-eaten.
Fuck.He'd been eating—really eating—and I picked this steaming pile of garbage to watch?
"You know what, this isn't hitting my spot." I reached for the remote. "Let's watch something else."
I scrolled for what felt like forever. When we hit one hundred and fifty titles, I gave up—dropping the remote beside me with a huff.
"What's wrong?" he asked, concern cracking the carefully crafted support he'd been holding up between us all night.
