Vivienne
I knock on his door with my foot.
Hands full. Coffee in one, bag of croissants in the other. Phone balanced on my elbow. Jacket falling off my shoulder. Hair doing its own thing, obviously.
Typical morning.
But it's Damien's morning, so that makes it a mission.
He opens the door halfway, looking like he just woke up—or didn't sleep at all. Hoodie. Sweatpants. Barefoot. Eyes heavy. Hair a little messy.
He looks like a poster for "unbothered hot boy 101."
"You look like a gremlin," I greet sweetly.
He blinks at me. "You brought food."
"You're welcome." I push past him and walk in like I own the place. Because, let's be honest, I kind of do. "Coffee's black. I even got your weird sugar-free creamer."
"You didn't have to—"
I spin around, cut him off, and flash a grin. "I wanted to."
Because I always do.
Because it's him.
I drop the croissants on his desk, then flop onto his bed like it's mine. My hair fans out around me, and I peek up at him from under my lashes.
"So," I say, sipping my own drink. "You gonna tell me what crawled into your soul and died yesterday?"
Damien doesn't answer.
Which is classic Damien.
He sits down in his chair, slowly, like he's stalling for time. Opens his coffee. Takes a sip.
"Nothing's wrong."
I raise an eyebrow. "Mmhmm. And I don't talk too much."
He glances at me, eyes narrowed slightly. "You do talk too much."
"Yet here you are," I sing. "Still letting me in every day."
He shrugs. "Can't stop you."
"Liar."
He doesn't respond.
I watch him for a moment—how he avoids eye contact, how his jaw clenches when he thinks I'm not looking. He knows something happened. I know something happened. But he's locked up tight, pretending he didn't nearly commit murder with his vibes alone when Luca flirted with me.
I twirl a piece of hair around my finger. "Was it Luca?"
No reaction.
"Because if you don't like him, I won't talk to him. I mean, not that I planned on marrying him or anything—he doesn't even know my middle name, and that's, like, a red flag."
Still nothing.
I smirk. "You jealous?"
That gets him.
He looks at me sharply, eyebrows raised. "No."
"Because it's okay if you were."
"I wasn't."
"Right. You just happened to look like you wanted to break his kneecaps."
Damien sighs and leans back in his chair. "Vivienne…"
"What?"
"You're doing the thing."
"What thing?"
"The poking thing."
"I don't poke," I gasp dramatically. "I gently investigate with affection and concern."
He closes his eyes for a second, like he's praying for strength.
I soften a little.
Because even though teasing him is my favorite thing, I know when to stop. Mostly.
I set my drink down and sit up straighter. "I just… I don't like when you pull away from me. Even if it's just a little. It feels wrong."
His eyes open.
And for once, there's something raw in them. Something quiet. Worn.
"I wasn't pulling away," he says, voice low. "I just didn't like the way he looked at you."
Oh.
I blink.
Well. That's new.
I open my mouth. Close it. Then smile, soft this time. "You didn't have to. I only ever look at you, you know."
Damien stares at me for a long moment. Long enough to make my heart do backflips.
But then he blinks, and it's gone. Back to normal.
Whatever that was.
"Eat your croissant," he mutters, grabbing his own.
I grin. "Yes, Dr. Ashford."
He glares.
I giggle.
We eat in silence after that—my heart a little louder than it should be.