Aria's POV
She hadn't meant for it to happen.
Not the kiss. Not the way her hands found their way into Damien's hair. Not the heat between them, or the way her body leaned into his like it remembered something her heart was trying to forget.
But it did happen.
Now, here she was—pressed against the cool marble of his bedroom wall, her blouse haphazardly pushed up, his mouth trailing fire down her neck. She should've stopped this before it began.
"I told myself this wouldn't happen," she whispered, her voice trembling against his skin.
Damien's hands tightened on her waist. "I told myself the same thing. But then you walked in…"
His words were ragged, unfinished, swallowed by the space between them.
Her blouse slipped from her shoulders, the sound of buttons scattering across the floor far too loud in the quiet room. Damien kissed her like a man starved—like he'd dreamed of this moment in silence and shadows.
When he laid her down on the bed, he didn't rush. His hands moved over her like a memory, like he was trying to trace the woman she had become.
Her breath caught as his mouth found her skin, and her fingers wove into his hair. She didn't say a word to stop him. She couldn't.
Because for one night, she didn't want clarity. She wanted the weight of his body, the comfort of something familiar, even if it was dangerous.
He kissed down her body slowly, reverently, until his mouth met the ache she'd buried beneath weeks of pretending. When he touched her there—when his name fell from her lips like a plea—it wasn't gentle. It was raw. It was real.
And when he entered her, they didn't make love.
They collided.
It wasn't tender or quiet—it was years of miscommunication and unsaid things, all crashing into this one moment. Each thrust was a question neither of them had dared to ask out loud. Each moan, an answer they couldn't ignore.
When it was over, she lay still, her body trembling.
No words.
No apologies.
Just silence.
Damien lay beside her, one arm draped across his eyes. She stared at the ceiling, heart thudding in her chest like it didn't know how to slow down.
"I shouldn't have," she said quietly.
"I know," he replied. But he didn't move either.
She didn't know what she expected—guilt, comfort, even shame. But all she felt was tired. Hollow.
And in the morning, she told herself a lie she knew all too well.
Just one night.
---
She rose quietly, trying not to wake him. Her clothes were scattered across the room, but she didn't reach for them. She picked up his robe instead—soft, warm, smelling like him.
Like memories.
The fabric clung to her shoulders as she stepped out onto the balcony. The night air was sharp against her skin, a bitter contrast to the heat still radiating inside her. Lights from the city sparkled below, too far away to mean anything.
She closed her eyes and took a breath.
It should've been just one night. But it never was. Not with him.
She felt him behind her before he spoke.
"I didn't think you'd stay."
"I didn't," she said, her voice thin. "I'm still leaving."
He stepped onto the balcony beside her, barefoot, quiet. Shirtless. His hair was a mess. He looked beautiful in a way that made her ache.
"Aria—"
"Don't," she cut in, turning to face him. "Don't try to make sense of this. We'll only make it worse."
He studied her. "Do you regret it?"
She paused.
"No," she said, and the honesty stung more than she expected. "That's the problem. I don't regret it. I regret how easy it was to fall back into us."
His face faltered, the pain visible in the downturn of his mouth.
"It wasn't easy for me."
She gave a hollow laugh. "Then why does it feel like a cycle? We fall together like gravity's pulling us, but nothing ever changes. It doesn't fix anything. It just… delays the crash."
He reached for her hand, gently, and for a second—just one—she let him hold it. His fingers were warm. Steady. And she hated how much she missed that feeling.
"I know last night didn't solve anything," he said. "But it wasn't meaningless either."
She shook her head. "It was everything. That's why it's dangerous."
She pulled her hand away and walked back inside, the robe swirling around her like something she couldn't shed.
---
Twenty Minutes Later – Damien's Kitchen
The coffee maker sputtered as Aria leaned against the counter, staring into nothing. Her lips still tingled from his kiss. Her neck bore the marks of a night that shouldn't have happened. She looked like someone who'd lost and won the same war.
Damien entered a moment later, slower now. Watching her like she might break.
"Still take it black?" he asked.
She didn't answer.
Her eyes were fixed on the fridge.
A photograph. One she hadn't seen before.
Juliette—laughing barefoot in some garden, sunlight in her hair.
And Damien beside her.
In the background, barely visible, was Aria. Clipboard in hand. Out of focus.
Forgotten.
The way she always felt when Juliette was around.
She turned away, lips pressed tight.
"I didn't put that photo there," Damien said gently.
"You don't have to explain," she murmured, wrapping her hands around the mug.
He rubbed the back of his neck. "Do you want me to take it down?"
"No," she said. "It's not about that."
He crossed to the opposite counter, watching her carefully. "Then what is it about?"
She finally looked up.
"It's about knowing the difference between who we were... and who we are now." Her voice was low but steady. "And deciding if that difference still leaves any room for us."
Damien didn't answer.
Because they both knew the truth.
Last night had opened a door neither of them were ready to walk through.
And closing it again wouldn't be easy.