I didn't even know my throat could close up that fast... it felt like someone had poured a milkshake into my trachea and sealed it shut with a very expensive red bow. Damon Michaelson looked like he’d just walked off the cover of a fragrance campaign called “Ruined You Once, Might Try Again,” and the worst part... the absolute worst part... was that he smiled like he knew it. Like he knew I’d already spiraled and all he had to do was breathe in my direction for me to combust like a high-end firecracker. He had that cocky, quiet glow of someone who'd been on the cover of Forbes but still had abs. That Manhattan blood mixed with London arrogance, dripped in Tuscan leather and trauma. He was clean-shaven. Polished. And he smelled like secrets and regret and a car you weren’t allowed to sit in
