"I would kneel on a pillow at his feet." Her voice softened with the memory. "He would say some things—affirmations, I guess you'd call them. Reminding me of my safewords. Telling me I was safe. That he was proud of me." She paused. "And then he would braid my hair."
A laugh burst out of me before I could stop it.
Vivian smiled, unsurprised by my reaction. "I know. It sounds strange."
"No, it's just—" I pressed a hand to my mouth, trying to compose myself. "I didn't expect that. It's so..."
"Tender?"
"Yes."
She nodded. "It was. Every time." Her gaze grew distant. "He'd take his time with it. Gentle fingers, slow movements. Like he was preparing me for something sacred." A soft exhale. "It was like he was thanking me for something that hadn't happened yet. For the trust I was about to give him."
I took a slow breath. Forced the images away.
This beautiful woman in front of me had knelt at Damien's feet. Felt his fingers in her hair. Heard the same tender words he'd showered on her. Words of safety and promise, in the space I'd thought of as ours.
I stared at Vivian's red hair—those perfect wavestumbling past her shoulders—and imagined Damien's hands weaving through them. Sectioning. Braiding. His voice low and soft as he told her—
What? What had he told her?
The question climbed my throat before I could stop it.
"Did he ever tell you he loved you?"
Vivian's eyebrows rose. Then she laughed—full and hearty, her head tipping back.
"God, no." She wiped at the corner of her eye, still chuckling. "It was never like that for us, Emma. Not even close."
Relief hit, sudden and overwhelming.
"We cared about each other," she continued, her laughter fading into something softer. "Deeply. But love?" She shook her head. "That wasn't what we were. I don't think either of us wanted it to be."
The question hovered on my tongue—fragile, terrifying.
I shouldn't ask. It wasn't Vivian's place to answer. It wasn't fair to put her in the middle of something so personal.
But the words slipped out anyway.
"Do you think he's capable of it?" I kept my voice light. As if the answer didn't matter. "Love, I mean."
Vivian's expression shifted. The playfulness faded, replaced by something more careful. More perceptive.
"Why do you ask?"
I shrugged, but my fingers had tightened around my mug. "Just curious."
She studied me for a long moment. Too long.
"He calls me 'love,'" I finally said. "All the time. But he's never actually said..." I trailed off, voice tight. "It's fine. It doesn't matter."
"It clearly does." Vivian's voice was gentle. No judgment. Just understanding. "Emma, look at me."
I lifted my gaze reluctantly.
"Damien Holt is one of the most guarded men I've ever met," she said slowly. "He gives and gives and gives—his time, his attention, hisprotection—but the words? The actual declaration?" She shook her head. "That's not something he would do lightly."
"But," she continued, holding up a finger, "that doesn't mean he's incapable. It means he's terrified." A sad smile tugged at her lips. "Something broke that man a long time ago, Emma. I never got close enough to find out what. But whoever finally hears those words from him?" She reached over, squeezing my hand. "She'll know she's the first. And probably the last."
