Elena's POV
It was late.
Too late for visitors.
I stood slowly, the glass still in my hand.
Walked quietly to the door.
Checked the monitor.
Blurred image.
The angle too high.
I hesitated.
Then opened it.
Just a crack.
My breath caught.
My breath caught.
Damian.
He stood there, hands in his pockets, eyes softer than I remembered—like he hadn't shattered me into pieces and watched me bleed.
"Can we talk?" he asked, voice low. Careful.
I didn't move.
Didn't speak.
My fingers tightened around the door.
"You shouldn't be here," I said flatly.
"I know." His gaze dropped for a second. "But I couldn't stop myself."
I opened the door wider—just enough to make my point.
"What do you want, Damian?"
He didn't answer right away. Just looked at me like he was searching for something that wasn't there anymore.
"You," he said.
And that was when I laughed.
Not because it was funny—
But because it was pathetic.
