January 1, 2026.
I woke up slow, warm, tangled in Damien’s sheets with his arm heavy across my waist and his breath steady against my neck. For a few perfect seconds, everything felt right. No lies to tell, no one to hide from. Just us, skin to skin, the faint smell of last night still on us.
Then reality crept in with the pale morning light.
Downstairs, a clatter. Voices. Mia.
Shit.
Damien stirred, eyes opening to meet mine. He pressed a quick kiss to my shoulder. “Morning,” he whispered, voice rough with sleep. “She’s up. Stay here. I’ll handle it.”
He slid out of bed, pulled on sweatpants (no shirt, because of course), and disappeared downstairs.
I lay there, heart pounding, listening.
Mia’s voice floated up—cheerful, hungover. “Dad, why are you smiling like that? And where’s Li
