I knew that voice. Low, steady, familiar in a way that hit me like a punch to the chest.
Slowly, I turned.
Damian.
He stood a few feet behind me, shoulders slouched, a half-empty bottle of liquor dangling from his fingers. His dark hair was mussed, his shirt wrinkled as though he’d pulled it on without care, and shadows clung beneath his eyes. He looked tired, no, exhausted, like the world had drained the life from him.
For a second, I forgot to breathe. I hadn’t been this close to him in weeks, not since the distance between us had grown too heavy to bridge.
His gaze flickered past me, landing on Marianne across the room, glowing under the neon lights as she laughed with someone who wasn’t him. For the first time, Damian didn’t move toward her. Instead, he just stared, weariness soft
