December 27, 2025.
I arrived at his house just after eight, the lie to my parents easy now—“late freelance call with a client.” Snow crunched under my tires as I pulled into the driveway. The porch light was on, soft and waiting.
Damien opened the door in a black t-shirt and gray sweatpants, hair still damp from a shower. He looked younger like this. Less guarded.
He didn’t kiss me right away. Just took my coat, hung it, and led me to the living room. The tree lights were off tonight—only the fireplace glowing, casting long shadows across the leather couch and the thick rug where we’d ended up last time.
He poured two glasses of red wine, handed me one, then sat on the couch. Not close. A careful foot of space between us.
I curled into the opposite corner, knees to my chest, watching
