January 10, 2026.
The week settled into a rhythm that felt almost normal—if normal meant constant low-level ache and stolen moments.
Damien’s schedule was brutal: early meetings, late calls, a short business trip to Chicago mid-week. We texted nonstop—flirty in the mornings, filthy at night, soft when one of us couldn’t sleep.
I landed a small freelance gig redesigning a local café’s menu. Spent hours at my desk, headphones on, trying not to check my phone every five minutes.
We saw each other twice.
Once for lunch in his car in an empty parking garage—quick, desperate, windows fogged.
Once when he came to my house late, after my parents were asleep. We didn’t even make it past the basement couch—clothes half-on, hands over mouths, coming together in whispers.
Every time we parted,
