Chapter 12
542 Words
Elena pov:
She didn’t sleep that night.
Again.
She lay on the bed staring at the ceiling, the silence pressing in on her from all sides. Too loud. Too soft. Too everything.
Why had she gone into his study?
Why had she talked to him?
She didn’t have a good answer. Just a hundred reasons that didn’t make sense.
Part of her hated him.
The other part… didn’t know what to feel anymore.
And that part was winning.
She sat up around dawn, eyes gritty and ribs sore from how tightly she’d curled into herself. Her palms were damp. Her mouth dry.
She didn’t know what she was doing. Only that the air in her room felt wrong. Stale.
She opened the window.
The outside world was still. A pale orange glow had started to bleed into the sky, lighting the edges of the horizon. Birds chirped somewhere far away.
It was the first time she’d heard them in weeks.
For a few seconds, she just stood there—half-lost in the sound, in the quietness of something that wasn’t a locked door or a haunted man breathing too close.
Then, she heard it.
Footsteps.
Behind her.
She turned before her brain could catch up.
Damiano stood in the doorway. No jacket. No tie. Just a dark shirt, his hair slightly messy like he hadn’t slept either.
He didn’t say anything.
Neither did she.
The silence between them was heavy, but not angry. Just… full.
Like something was building, but neither of them wanted to touch it.
Finally, she spoke. “Did you follow me last night?”
He nodded once. No shame. Just truth.
“Why?”
His eyes didn’t leave hers. “To make sure you got back to your room.”
Elena blinked. “That’s not your job.”
“I know.”
Another pause.
She crossed her arms, more out of habit than defense. “You don’t have to watch me. I’m not going to run. There’s nowhere to go.”
“I wasn’t worried you’d run.”
“Then what?” Her voice cracked at the end. Too raw. Too exposed.
He took a step inside the room.
And then another.
Until they were only a few feet apart.
“I was afraid you’d break,” he said, voice low, steady. “And I wouldn’t be able to put the pieces back together.”
Her throat tightened.
It wasn’t the words.
It was the way he said them. Like he wasn’t trying to win anything. Like he wasn’t playing a game.
Like he meant it.
“I don’t want you to fix me,” she whispered.
“I know.” He swallowed. “But I still want you to heal.”
She didn’t have an answer for that.
And something in her hated that she wanted to believe him.
He looked down at her then—not with pity, not with control—but with something warmer. Sadder.
Softer.
She stepped back before she could do something stupid. Like stay.
“Please leave.”
He didn’t argue.
Didn’t say anything else.
Just nodded once and stepped back into the hallway.
The door clicked shut behind him.
And this time, she was the one left staring after him...
- Writer
