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“Every room.”

A smile breaks free.

A real one.

“Belinda, that's⁠—”

“I did it.”

“Yeah, you fucking did. I am so proud of you, Sweet.”

He is. I can see it. Pride shines in his eyes. And that means more than it should.

“You know, I think you're the first person who's ever said that to me and meant it.”

His smile disappears.

“Sweet.”

It’s not a warning this time. It’s compassion. Emotion. And it touches me.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean that like a pity thing. Anyway, I just wanted to, um, share that with you.”

“Thank you, Belinda. You have no idea what that means to me.”

“I do⁠—”

“No.” He leans closer. “I don't think you do.”

His forehead almost touches mine. Our breaths mingle.

His hand slides up my arm.

Slowly.

Giving me plenty of time to stop him. But I don't.

“This is a mistake,” he whispers again.

“Probably.”

“I can't give you what you deserve.”

“You don't get to decide that for me.”

His eyes flash red.

“Damian.”

“What?”

He looks at my mouth.

“No more thinking. Not tonight,” I whisper breathlessly.

Then he kisses me. And this time there is nothing careful about it.

His hand cups my jaw as my fingers fist in his shirt, and every bit of tension we've been building since the day we meet finally snaps.