The house was too quiet.
Too still.
Too perfect.
It wasn't the kind of silence that calmed you—it was the kind that made you notice everything. The low hum of the central AC, the soft creak of the wooden stairs settling, the faint trace of his cologne lingering in the hallway.
Damon was downstairs.
And I couldn't stop thinking about the way he'd looked at me earlier.
Like I wasn't just a girl he'd known since I was thirteen. Like I was… a woman.
The realization buzzed under my skin like static electricity. I'd spent the last hour pacing in the guest room, trying to forget the brush of his fingers when he handed me that glass of wine. The warmth of his gaze. The way his voice dipped when he said my name.
"Serena."
He always said it so slowly.
Like tasting it.
Like he knew it made me shiver a little every time.
I hated that I was noticing all of this now—hated it and wanted it more than anything.
It had only been a few days since I moved in after the break-up, and he'd been nothing but kind, respectful, calm. But tonight, something in the air had shifted. Or maybe it had always been there, and I was finally letting myself see it.
The mirror across the room reflected more than I wanted to admit. I saw myself—barefoot, in one of his oversized shirts I had borrowed, legs bare beneath the hem, hair loose and tumbling over one shoulder.
And I looked…
Not like a girl seeking comfort after heartbreak.
Not like a houseguest.
But like temptation itself.
I knew how I looked. I always had. It was both a blessing and a curse growing up being told I was "too much"—too curvy, too confident, too aware of the way eyes followed me. But for the first time, I didn't feel like I had to shrink myself. Not here.
Not with him.
A floorboard creaked outside.
My heart skipped.
Then—his voice.
"Serena?"
God. Just his voice through the door made my breath catch.
"I didn't mean to wake you," I called, smoothing my hair and trying to sound unaffected. "Just… couldn't sleep."
There was a pause. I could almost feel his hesitation. Then, the soft rustle of movement.
"Would a walk help?"
I opened the door. And there he was, standing with his sleeves pushed up and the top buttons of his shirt undone, shadows and warm light playing across his sharp features. His eyes dropped for a half-second—just one—but it was enough.
He noticed the shirt I wore.
His shirt.
And he swallowed.
He was quiet for a moment, then offered a small, almost uncertain smile.
"There's a breeze tonight," he said, "might be good to clear your head."
We walked down the hall like strangers pretending we didn't know the weight of every step. The patio doors opened with a soft push, and the night air kissed my bare legs like a secret.
Outside, under the stars, everything felt slower. The air was thick with unspoken things. He poured two glasses of wine without asking and handed me one. Our fingers brushed.
That stupid spark again.
"You're… different," he said after a moment.
I turned toward him, raising an eyebrow. "Different how?"
He looked at me, really looked, like he didn't know if he should say the next thing out loud. "You don't hide anymore. Your eyes—they used to carry this… innocence. And now..."
I swallowed. "Now?"
"Now they carry fire."
We were too close.
I could smell the scent of him—warm, masculine, expensive. I felt it settle low in my stomach, thick and heavy.
"And is that a good thing?" I asked.
He didn't answer right away. His jaw tensed, and he looked out at the garden like it held the answer.
"It's dangerous," he finally said.
Silence fell.
Not awkward. Just charged.
He was the one who broke it.
"Why did you really come here, Serena?" His voice was low, unreadable.
I should've lied.
I should've said to heal. To get away. Because your daughter's my best friend and I needed a place to crash.
But none of those were the whole truth.
So I gave him the only one I had.
"Because with you… I don't have to pretend."
His chest rose slowly, like he was trying to breathe through the answer. I watched his fingers tighten around the wine glass. He stepped closer, and I felt the heat radiate off his body.
He reached out and touched a strand of hair that had fallen across my cheek. He tucked it behind my ear with careful fingers.
"You don't know what you're doing to me," he said.
My lips parted.
"I think I do."
His eyes darkened.
"That's what scares me."
The wind picked up. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. But here, under the patio lights and the weight of everything unsaid, it felt like the world had narrowed to just the two of us.
I didn't know who moved first.
Maybe we both did.
But suddenly, his hand was on my waist and I was leaning into him, and the glass fell from my fingers and shattered somewhere on the tiles but I didn't care—
Because his mouth was on mine.
Hot.
Slow.
Hungry.
He kissed like a man trying to hold back and failing. Like someone who knew this was wrong and didn't care anymore. And I kissed him back like I was starving.
His hands roamed my back, my hips, my bare thighs under the shirt. He groaned against my mouth, deep and rough, pulling me closer.
I gasped his name—Damon—and it made something in him snap.
He lifted me, one arm under my thighs, the other around my back, and set me down on the outdoor couch like I weighed nothing.
But then… he pulled back.
His breath was ragged.
His eyes were wild.
And he said the last thing I expected.
"We have to stop."
I blinked, stunned.
"Why?"
He ran a hand through his hair. "Because if I keep going… I won't be able to stop next time."
I sat there, lips still tingling, pulse racing, heart aching from the absence of his touch.
"I don't want you to stop."
He knelt in front of me, his hands on my knees, forehead leaning against them. "You don't know how long I've wanted this. But I can't ruin you. I can't be the man who breaks your heart."
I reached down and tilted his chin up so he'd look at me.
"You won't break me," I whispered.
But even as I said it, I felt the danger in every word.
Because love—real, overwhelming love—never comes without the risk of ruin.
And I was already falling.
Hard.