I spin toward the doorway and find Damon standing there. He looks like he’s been dragging frustrated hands through his dark hair, leaving the strands slightly disheveled. His broad shoulders are strained beneath a fitted black shirt, tattooed forearms exposed beneath sleeves rolled carelessly to his elbows.
His expression shifts instantly the second he sees me. “I’m sorry,” he says quickly, stepping backward like he’s intruded on something private. He pauses at the threshold, concern hardening across his features. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I answer too fast.
He doesn’t buy it for a second. His eyes move carefully over my face, taking in red eyes and tear-stained cheeks.
“Really?” he asks quietly. “Because you don’t look okay, trouble.”
Something in his tone nearly breaks me all over again. It’s not pity or awkwardness, but genuine concern.
Damon walks into the kitchen slowly, giving me enough space not to feel cornered. He opens one of the drawers near the sink and pulls out a clean dish towel before unfolding it carefully and holding it out toward me.
I hesitate; the thoughtful gesture alone almost makes me cry again. Because it’s gentle. Because he noticed. Because after spending the last ten minutes feeling fundamentally unwanted, that tiny act of care hits way too hard.
I take the towel carefully, and our fingers brush lightly. His skin is rough and warm against mine, and I flinch slightly at how much I feel it.
“It’s stupid,” I mutter while dabbing at my face with the towel.
He leans against the counter with a warm half-smile. “It doesn’t look stupid.” The softness in his voice cracks something open inside me completely. Before I can stop myself, words start spilling out hot and messy.
“My boyfriend just dumped me,” I blurt out. “Which honestly… I was prepared for that part.” I laugh weakly through tears. “But apparently, now that he got into some frat, his reputation matters and…” My throat tightens painfully. “Basically, I’m too fat to fit into it.”
Embarrassed, I bury my face in the towel, waiting for silence to fill the kitchen. The careful silence people use when they secretly agree with you but know the truth will hurt your feelings.
Damon lets out a heavy sigh, and I lift my head from the towel to find him shaking his. “Then he’s a fucking idiot.”
Heat rushes suddenly across my face so fast it makes me dizzy. “What?”
Damon rounds the island slowly until he’s standing beside my stool. Close enough for me to breathe in his sweet, woodsy cologne.
“You are beautiful,” he says simply. It’s not flirtatious or performative. It’s certain, like it’s an undeniable fact, instead of a line designed to make me feel better. “Don’t ever let anyone make you think otherwise.”
My breath catches painfully in my chest, because I believe him. For these few impossible seconds with Damon this close to me, I actually believe him.
A broken laugh escapes me. “You’re just saying that because my dad pays you.”
His eyes darken slightly, and before I can process what’s happening, Damon carefully brushes a loose strand of hair behind my ear. The touch is devastatingly gentle, his thumb delicately wiping away one lingering tear beneath my eye.
“We both know that’s not true.”
Still lightly cupping my cheek, he leans in a little closer, and warmth radiates from him. I stare up at him while my pulse pounds so hard it physically hurts, my breath turning shallow as his gaze drops briefly to my mouth. Mine flicks to his, and the tension between us becomes unbearable.
Footsteps echo suddenly down the hallway outside the kitchen, and the spell we’re both under shatters immediately. Damon steps backward quickly, almost giving me whiplash, distance slamming back into place between us like the last thirty seconds never happened at all. Except my heart is racing hard enough to rattle my ribs.
And when he looks at me one final time before turning toward the doorway, I realize his is, too.
The ceiling fan spins in slow circles above me, its rhythmic whisper the only sound in the darkness of my bedroom. I lie on my back, covers twisted around my legs, staring into the shadows that dance across the ceiling.
Three hours.
It’s been three hours since Damon and I stood in the kitchen, so close I could count the flecks of gold in his otherwise dark eyes.
My fingers drift upward, tracing the outline of my lips, as if they still feel the ghost of his proximity. We didn’t kiss, but we might as well have. The space between our mouths had been charged with electricity, unspoken words, and unfulfilled promises. His minty breath had been warm against my cheek, making my stomach clench, and my thighs press together.
I close my eyes, letting the memory wash over me again. His eyes darkened when he leaned in, and his gaze dropped from my eyes to my mouth and back again. As confident ashe is, there was a slight tremble in his breath as his lips drew toward mine, stopping mere inches before they touched.
We both know that’s not true.
