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My thoughts are interrupted when he hands me a cup of steaming tea, the zesty smell of lemons wafting up and filling my senses.
"Thank you," I manage, cradling the warmth in my hands. "Can I ask you something?" I venture, his nod prompting me to continue, "Why did you and Lucy move to Willow Creek?"
He inhales deeply, taking a tentative sip of his tea before leaning against the kitchen counter, the lines of his face etching deeper as he collects his thoughts.
"I've always tried to do my job, to serve and protect," he begins, his voice quiet, "But I had to think of Lucy... I promised myself when she was born that I would never leave her the way my father left me." His voice wavers, the words hanging heavily in the air between us.
I swallow hard, listening intently, drinking each word. Each is a precious glimpse into Damien's complexity, a puzzle I'm becoming more determined to piece together, while a small, hopeful part of me wonders if I could be the missing piece he needs, the final piece that brings everything together.
His grip on the cup tightens, knuckles paling as he continues, his voice thick with emotion.
"My father... he was reckless. He kept getting himself into dangerous situations even after I was born." His gaze grows distant, a veil of pain clouding his eyes as he shares his most vulnerable memory. "He was killed in a shootout when I was a year and a half old. And although I don’t blame him now, I did, for a very long time."
The confession leaves him trembling, his tea sloshing dangerously close to the edge of the cup. I see the tears threatening to spill from his bloodshot eyes, a potent mixture of grief and fury simmering beneath his typically calm surface.
“But when my wife left me, leaving only a letter saying she wasn’t born to be a mother, I was forced to work extra hours and put myself in the same position my father once was. I almost had the same ending, too.” He says, his words now tumbling out of his mouth faster, “I got shot at, but, luckily, I didn’t get hit. After that, I knew what I had to do. I still wanted to be a cop but couldn’t stay in the city. I wanted better. I couldn’t risk my future with my daughter anymore.”
Instinct propels me forward, a need to comfort him burning brightly within me. But he steps back, a flash of panic crossing his face.
"No, Sophie," he whispers, his voice cracking, "I shouldn't have dumped all this on you. You've done more than enough."
His words are a punch to my gut, but I understand. He's hurting, and in his pain, he's pushing me away. It's not personal. It's protective.
"I understand, Damien," I whisper, respecting his boundaries but wanting him to know I'm here for him.
"But just so you know, I'm here. Whenever you're ready." I say, my voice quiet but firm.
He looks at me, really looks at me, and I see a flicker of gratitude in his eyes. I just hope he'll let me in someday.
My eyes flicker over him as he lifts the cup to his lips again, the steam fogging up his face. His hands still tremble, a reminder of the raw emotions he’s just laid bare before me.
In the meantime, an uncomfortable silence stretches between us, and I wish I knew the right words to break it and comfort him.
But I don't.
He's made it abundantly clear that he doesn’t want my help, and I've already pushed my luck by prying so deep into his past. The only thing I can do now is retreat and hopefully salvage my job in the process.
My heart pounds in my chest as I gather my courage, the words spilling from my lips in a rush, like ripping off a bandaid.
"I should probably go..."
He looks up at me, surprise and confusion flashing across his face. After a few seconds, he nods, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out his wallet. He silently hands me a few bills, his apology tumbling out.
"Sorry if I scared you... I talked too much."
I shake my head, tucking the money into my pocket.
"It's okay. You didn't scare me," I assure him. "I... I don't mind hearing you."
His lips twitch into a smile.
"Are you always this patient and kind?"
"I try to be the best version of myself," I say, a soft chuckle escaping my lips, "And hopefully, inspire others to do the same."
Damien steps forward, closing the space between us. He takes my hand in his, his fingers tracing delicate patterns over my skin.
"It's working," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "Sophie, you're beautiful."
