May 10, 2027.
Damien knew something was wrong.
He didn’t say it outright.
Not at first.
But I felt it in the way he looked at me.
Longer.
Searching.
The way he touched me—careful, like I might break.
Or like he was checking I was still there.
It started small.
A Friday night.
I came home late from “drinks with the team.”
Showered immediately.
He noticed.
Asked if everything was okay.
I said yes.
He held me.
But his arms were tense.
Saturday morning.
He made coffee.
Watched me over the rim of his mug.
“You’ve been quiet.”
“Work stress.”
He nodded.
Slow.
That night, we made love.
He was gentle.
Intense.
Eyes locked the whole time.
Like he was looking for something.
After, he traced my face.
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
But my voice caught.
He heard it.
S
