The storm inside him
1377 Words
Damon Blackwell
The rain had returned that night heavy and restless, beating against the tall glass windows of the mansion. It was the kind of rain that swallowed the city whole, turning lights into soft blurs and the streets into mirrors.
He used to love nights like this.
The storm always made sense to him wild, unpredictable, loud enough to drown out the noise inside his head.
But lately, even the rain couldn’t silence her voice.
Ava Monroe.
The woman who had come into his life quietly, without warning, and unsettled everything.
She spoke to him as if he were still human. As if the man beneath the rumors, beneath the walls and sharp suits, was worth something.
He hated it.
He hated that she smiled at him without hesitation.
He hated that she didn’t flinch at his coldness or his temper.
He hated that when she walked into a room, the air shifted warmer, lighter, alive.
And most of all, he hated that he couldn’t stop thinking about her.
He stood by the window of his study, one hand in his pocket, a glass of whiskey in the other. The amber liquid barely moved as he tilted it, watching the firelight flicker across the walls. Outside, thunder rumbled softly, like a distant heartbeat.
The reflection staring back at him in the glass looked the same as always a man carved from precision and control. Sharp jaw, dark eyes that revealed nothing, posture straight as a blade. But beneath all that… he felt hollow.
He lifted the glass, then set it back down untouched. He hadn’t had a proper drink in months, not since the nightmares started again. They didn’t come every night, but when they did, they dragged him straight back to the night everything fell apart.
And somehow, in the middle of it all, her face kept finding its way into his thoughts.
Ava, with her quiet determination and soft hands. The way she fussed over small things the right temperature of tea, the timing of his meals, reminding him to breathe when work consumed him.
It was infuriating. Because it mattered.
Because she mattered.
He pressed a hand against his forehead, trying to shake the thought off when a soft knock echoed from the door.
He didn’t turn. “What is it?”
“Mr. Blackwell?” Her voice floated through the room, gentle, uncertain.
He closed his eyes briefly. He’d know that voice anywhere.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, his tone sharper than he intended.
“You missed dinner again,” she replied quietly. “I thought you might be hungry.”
Her footsteps were soft against the polished floor as she entered. He didn’t have to look to know she’d brought another tray her small peace offering for a man who didn’t deserve kindness.
“You don’t have to keep pretending you care,” he muttered.
“I’m not pretending.”
That made him turn. Slowly.
She stood there, her hair slightly damp from the rain, a strand sticking to her cheek. She must have come from the kitchen or maybe from outside; he couldn’t tell. The cardigan she wore looked too thin for this weather, clinging to her arms as she balanced the tray.
The sight did something strange to him.
“You think you’re helping me?” he asked, stepping closer. His voice was low, the kind that filled the quiet room. “You think bringing me food or speaking softly is going to fix what’s broken?”
Her fingers tightened around the tray, but her voice didn’t waver. “No. I just think no one deserves to eat alone every night.”
Her words struck him harder than he expected. Simple. Honest. Without pity.
He turned away again, jaw tightening. “You don’t understand what kind of man I am, Ava.”
“Then show me,” she said.
His eyes snapped to hers. “What?”
“Show me,” she repeated, stepping closer this time. “You keep saying I don’t understand. Then stop hiding behind your anger. Let me see what you’re so afraid of.”
He laughed once quiet, humorless. “You have no idea what you’re asking for.”
“Maybe not,” she whispered, “but I’m not afraid of you.”
And that those six words cut straight through him.
Because everyone was afraid of Damon Blackwell. His employees spoke to him like every word was a risk. His business partners smiled too quickly. Even his family what little was left of it kept their distance.
But Ava didn’t.
She looked at him like he was more than a name, more than a billionaire headline. Like he was still a man who could be saved.
He took a slow step forward. Then another.
Testing her words. Testing himself.
She didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. Her chin lifted slightly, her breathing unsteady but brave.
“I ruin things I touch,” he said quietly. “Everything I’ve ever cared for I destroy it.”
Her voice was barely a whisper. “Then don’t touch to destroy.”
He frowned. “What?”
She met his gaze, eyes bright despite the dim light. “Touch to heal.”
For a heartbeat, the air between them shifted. Something fragile and real sparked to life.
Then thunder crashed outside, a deep growl that shook the glass. The lights flickered once twice and then dimmed, leaving the room in half-darkness.
Ava gasped softly, the tray tilting in her hands. Damon moved before thinking, catching her wrist to steady it.
Warm skin met cold fingers.
The contact sent a jolt through him sharp, alive. She froze, eyes wide, lips parting as she looked up at him. He could feel her pulse racing beneath his touch, each beat loud and desperate.
He should have let go. He should have stepped back.
But he didn’t.
Instead, his thumb brushed lightly against her skin an unintentional motion that made his chest tighten. The room felt too small, the air too thick.
She swallowed hard. “You should let go,” she whispered, though her voice trembled.
“So should you,” he murmured back.
Neither of them moved.
Seconds stretched into something longer, heavier.
He could smell the faint trace of roses on her subtle, not overpowering. It reminded him of the garden his mother used to tend before everything went wrong. Before death and guilt and money turned his world into something sharp and hollow.
He blinked, pulling himself back from the edge. “You should go.” His voice was softer now, strained.
“Do you want me to?”
Her question hung in the air like lightning.
He opened his mouth to answer but nothing came. Because the truth the raw, dangerous truth was that he didn’t want her to leave.
But he couldn’t say that. Not yet.
She looked at him one last time, her expression unreadable but full of something that made his chest ache. Then, slowly, she stepped back.
“Goodnight, Damon.”
It was the first time she’d said his name without “Mr.” in front of it.
And somehow, that made all the difference.
He didn’t reply. He couldn’t. He just watched her go, her footsteps fading down the hall, leaving behind silence and the faint warmth her presence had carried.
When the door closed, the sound felt too loud.
He stood there for a long time, staring at his hand the same one that had touched her. The same one that had destroyed too many things before.
But tonight, it didn’t feel like destruction.
It felt like… something else.
He turned back toward the window. The rain was still falling, heavy and endless. The world outside blurred into light and motion, but all he could see was her face.
Her eyes. Her voice.
And the way she’d said his name soft, careful, as if she already saw the storm inside him and wasn’t running away.
He closed his eyes, whispering into the silence.
“She should be afraid.”
But deep down, Damon knew
He was the one who was afraid.
Because the storm outside was nothing compared to the one Ava Monroe had just awakened inside him.
- Writer
