I realized I was in love with Damien Vale while he was standing barefoot in his penthouse kitchen at two in the morning eating toast straight from the pan because he was too tired to find a plate.
Not during the kisses.
Not during the violence.
Not during the moments where he looked at me like I hung the moon over Ashbourne with my bare hands.
Toast.
Apparently my emotional collapse had standards.
Rain moved softly against the windows while the city glowed silver beneath storm clouds. Damien stood near the kitchen counter in black sweatpants and absolutely nothing else, fresh bandages wrapped around his ribs beneath inked skin and old scars.
And somehow this version of him felt more dangerous than the Devil of Vale ever had.
Because this version was real.
Tired.
Quiet.
Human.
H
