Page 213 of Damián

So the feeling still stands.

My first stop is the kitchen, where I pace around, looking at his collection of cups, his tiny spoons, and the weird amount of flavored chips he has.

I pull open the enormous refrigerator and blink, staring at the shelves as a laugh breaks out of me.

“Damián, the fridge is nothing but protein shakes, chicken breasts, which are also protein, and a ridiculous amount of cake.”

“What are you talking about?” he asks, pointing at a bunch of glass bottles on the top shelf. “There’s also salsa.”

“Oh, my bad! The salsas change everything.”

“Do they?”

“No.” I glare at him and close the fridge. “We are definitely going to have to work on your grocery shopping.”

He chuckles, stepping in close enough that his chest brushes my shoulder. “If you want, I’ll fill the fridge with nothing but green.”

“You mean it?”

“Anything to make you happy, amor.”

I tilt my head, trapping him. “Even if that green is Brussels sprouts?”

“Ugh,” he grunts, clutching his chest dramatically. “Not even a day, and you’re already testing my love for you.”

“Ass.” I shove his shoulder, and he laughs, catching my wrist mid-air and spinning me around.

I try to step back, but Damián pins me, my chest pressing against the fridge, and his body crowding into mine.

“You were saying?” he whispers in my ear, and then bites my neck softly.

“Fine!” I gasp and turn my head back to look at him. “We can do half greens and half protein.”

He grins, letting me go. “Deal.”

Amused, I kiss his cheek and move toward the hallway. The rest of the apartment is incredibly cozy, filled with deep-toned woods, warm lighting, and oversized furniture that practically begs you to sink into it and binge the four seasons of Bridgerton while drinking rosé.

I don’t know how else to explain it… Everything in here feels like him.

From the colors, the textures, the warmth, and the smell, it’s all Damián.

I walk down the hallway and notice it branches into three rooms and a bathroom, so I check the closest one, push the door open, and find a family room.

Shelves cover the walls, packed with board games, books, and stacks of vintage vinyl, while a beautiful acoustic guitar rests on a stand in the corner. Damián follows a half-step behind me. His hands are buried in his pockets, but his gorgeous eyes never leave my face.

I can tell he’s nervous about my opinion, and it’s incredibly cute.

I stroll around the family room, looking at the books, the vinyls, and the pictures. On a small side table, a framed photograph catches my eye. I walk over and pick it up, and see a teen Damián standing shoulder-to-shoulder with an older man who looks just like him.

“Your dad?” I ask, looking back at him.

Damián nods. “That picture was my last birthday with him.”

“I’m so sorry,” I put the picture back in its place. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked you.”

It’s okay, amor. It doesn’t hurt the way it did before.” Damián picks up the frame, and the look on his face breaks my heart.

It breaks me because I hate seeing him grieve, but also because I envy what he lost. I wish I could have known a father I loved and admired the way Damián does his. Instead, I’m left hating what my father was, what he did, and everything he stood for, while still desperately wishing he had loved me enough not to become a monster.