Episode Eight: Out in the light
1168 Words
The first thing Ava noticed was how normal everything looked.
The sky was too blue. The sidewalk too ordinary. Coffee shops buzzed with chatter, joggers passed without a second glance, and Damien Cross—devil in a suit, master of her darkest nights—was walking beside her like he belonged in the daylight.
And maybe that was the problem.
He didn’t.
Not really.
She stole a glance at him as they moved down the street. Tailored suit, sunglasses, jaw locked like he was grinding through every second of this experiment.
Her hand brushed his.
He didn’t take it.
Not in public.
Not yet.
She didn’t say anything.
But her fingers curled in on themselves.
It was her idea.
One dinner. In public. Like regular people.
She wanted to see what it felt like.
If there was anything between them that existed beyond bruises and breathless begging.
To his credit, Damien didn’t say no. He just raised an eyebrow and asked, “Are you sure you want to find out?”
And now here they were—reservation at a rooftop restaurant that overlooked the city, both dressed like this was a date instead of a dare.
But it felt wrong.
The waiters smiled too wide. The menus were too thick. The wine list was a hundred pages and she barely drank.
And Damien?
Damien was quiet.
Too quiet.
She shifted in her seat, legs crossed beneath the table, ankles tense in heels he once made her keep on during a scene.
That memory made her flush.
He noticed.
His mouth twitched.
“Embarrassed?” he asked.
“No,” she lied.
“You’re blushing.”
“You’re quiet.”
He took a sip of whiskey. “I don’t like small talk.”
“You don’t like talking, period.”
“I talk when it matters.”
“Then make it matter now.”
He studied her, head tilted. “Fine. Let’s talk.”
“Okay.”
He leaned in. “You’re nervous.”
“Maybe.”
“You think this won’t work.”
“I think this isn’t your comfort zone.”
“It’s not.”
She paused. “But is it mine?”
He smiled. “You look bored.”
“I'm trying not to be.”
Silence.
Not the charged kind they shared in the bedroom.
This was awkward. New. Honest.
And uncomfortable in a way they couldn’t tie up or punish into submission.
The waiter came. Took their orders.
Ava barely remembered what she picked.
Damien didn’t look at the menu at all—just said “Same” when she ordered.
The moment the server walked away, he said, “You’re overthinking.”
“I’m allowed.”
“You want me to pretend to be someone else?”
“No. I want to know if this person—the one sitting across from me—is real.”
He tapped his fingers on the table.
“You think the man who tied you to a mirror isn’t real?”
“I think he’s part of you.”
“And this?” he gestured at the table. “The date?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
He didn’t answer.
Because he didn’t know either.
Dinner came and went in quiet bursts.
She told a story about college.
He mentioned a failed deal from last year.
They traded polite jokes. Brief smiles.
It was like dating in a world that didn’t know the truth.
That didn’t know how he’d made her scream just two nights ago.
That didn’t know he once whispered you’re mine into her throat while her body begged for more.
She wanted to ask him if he was pretending.
But she wasn’t sure she could handle the answer.
After dinner, they walked.
No destination. Just silence and city lights.
Ava tried again.
“You haven’t touched me once.”
“We’re in public.”
“That didn’t stop you the night at the bar.”
“That was control. This is exposure.”
She stopped walking. “You think people can see what we are?”
“I know they can.”
“Then let them.”
He turned. “You want me to hold your hand like we’re in love?”
“No,” she said. “I want you to hold my hand like I exist outside your bedroom.”
He looked at her.
Really looked.
And for the first time, Ava saw him struggle.
Not to dominate.
But to decide.
After a long beat, he reached out.
Fingers brushed hers.
Then curled around them.
Tight.
Warm.
Real.
Her breath caught.
And for the first time that night, she smiled.
Back at her apartment, the air between them shifted again.
No straps.
No orders.
Just them.
Damien stood in her kitchen, drinking water like a man who didn’t belong in domestic spaces.
She leaned against the counter, watching him.
“You’re different here,” she said.
“You’re braver here.”
“Are you?”
He met her gaze. “I don’t know how to do this part.”
She stepped closer. “Then let’s figure it out.”
“And if I can’t?”
“Then we end it.”
He flinched, just barely.
“But I want to try,” she added.
That softened something in his eyes.
“You’d really give all of it up,” he said. “The s*x. The control. The obsession. For this?”
Ava nodded. “If it meant being seen beyond my skin? Yes.”
He walked to her.
Tucked hair behind her ear.
“I’ve always seen you.”
“No,” she said. “You’ve seen what I give you. But not what I hide.”
He didn’t speak for a long time.
Then, “Show me.”
And that was how it began.
They didn’t undress each other that night.
They talked.
Curled up on the couch.
Ava told him about the miscarriage she’d had at twenty-three. The one she never told anyone about.
He told her about his mother. How she left when he was eight. How he blamed himself for it. Still did.
They weren’t confessions.
They were trades.
Pain for pain.
Wound for wound.
And in the quiet that followed, they both understood something neither of them had dared admit:
What they were doing wasn’t just s*x anymore.
It was survival.
It was intimacy without safe words.
It was risk.
The kind that couldn’t be undone.
Ava woke up the next morning in his arms.
No ropes.
No restraints.
Just breath. Warmth. Skin.
She stretched. Looked at him.
He was already awake, staring at the ceiling.
“You stayed,” she said.
“I did.”
“No regrets?”
“Only the things I didn’t say.”
“Like what?”
He turned his head.
Looked her dead in the eye.
And whispered, “I’m still afraid.”
She nodded. “Me too.”
And that, for now, was enough.
- Writer
