The house was bathed in shadows when Damian finally pulled into the long, winding driveway.
The grand marble columns, the towering windows -
all of it stood silent under the heavy weight of the night.
He exhaled slowly, the tension of the day knotting painfully between his shoulders.
The office had bled late into the evening - unexpected meetings, emergency calls, endless damage control.
And through it all, the only thing gnawing at his mind had not been spreadsheets or mergers.
It had been her.
Celine.
Sitting across from him at dinner, brushing his hand by accident - or was it? - smiling like a quiet sunrise he had forgotten how to see.
He gripped the steering wheel harder, breathing through the storm inside his chest.
"Don't think about her," he told himself.
"Don't hope."
But it was too late.
Hope had already found a crack to slip through.
---
The heavy door groaned open under his hand.
The house was quiet.
No staff bustled about.
No laughter.
No grand parties or drunken music.
Just the soft scent of roasted herbs and candle wax lingering faintly in the air.
He stepped inside, his cane tapping gently against the marble floor.
"Celine?" he called softly, voice low, uncertain.
No answer.
He frowned, glancing around.
Then - in the sitting room just off the hall - he saw her.
And the world stopped.
---
She was curled up on the long velvet couch, a light knitted blanket half-tangled around her slender frame.
Her head rested against the arm of the sofa, hair spilling over the cushions like a river of molten gold.
The faint light from the standing lamp painted her features in a soft, tender glow:
the delicate curve of her cheek,
the flutter of her dark lashes against pale skin,
the slow, steady rise and fall of her chest.
She looked...
Serene.
Untouchable.
Painfully beautiful in a way that wasn't staged or posed - just... real.
Damian stood there, frozen, his hand tightening around the handle of his cane.
He had forgotten she could look like this.
So peaceful.
So innocent.
Like the war that had raged between them had never happened.
---
He took a hesitant step closer.
A half-finished dinner tray sat on the low table in front of her - plates covered, food untouched.
Realization hit him with the sharp sting of guilt.
She had waited.
She had made dinner.
Waited for him.
Fallen asleep alone in the cold, echoing house.
Waiting.
For him.
Something twisted deep in his chest - something that hurt worse than anger ever could.
Because he didn't deserve this.
Not after all the nights he had given up hoping she would ever care.
---
He was turning to leave - to retreat into the safety of distance -
when she stirred.
A soft, sleepy sound left her lips.
Her lashes fluttered.
She shifted under the blanket.
And then - slowly, dreamily - her eyes opened.
For a second, confusion danced across her face.
And then she saw him.
And her entire face lit up.
---
"Damian," she breathed, sitting up, brushing her hair back with clumsy, sleepy fingers.
"You're home..."
Her voice was soft, warm, full of relief.
No bitterness.
No sarcasm.
Just simple, open-hearted gladness that he was there.
---
He couldn't move.
Couldn't breathe.
Not when she looked at him like that - like he was something precious that had finally returned after being lost.
"I'm sorry," she said quickly, swinging her legs off the couch, the blanket slipping to the floor. "I must have fallen asleep. I made dinner but... you must have been so busy-"
She broke off, biting her lip.
Worry flashed across her face - not for herself, but for him.
For the long day she imagined he had endured.
For the late hour.
For the tension he carried like armor.
No accusations.
No demands.
Just worry.
Just... love.
---
Damian set his cane against the wall before he even realized he was moving.
He crossed the room - slowly, carefully - and crouched awkwardly down in front of her.
Close enough to see the faint freckles scattered across her nose.
Close enough to hear her shallow, nervous breaths.
Her eyes widened slightly, uncertainty flickering there.
He reached out - hesitated - then brushed a strand of hair gently behind her ear.
Her breath hitched.
The contact was so soft, so tentative, it barely registered -
and yet it sent a jolt through both of them.
Their eyes locked.
And in that charged, trembling space between them, something shifted.
Something ancient and broken began to knit itself, stitch by painful stitch, back together.
---
"Thank you," he said hoarsely.
Celine blinked rapidly.
"For what?"
"For waiting," he whispered.
"For caring."
She smiled - small, fragile, radiant.
And for the first time in a very, very long time, Damian Wylder let himself believe:
Maybe she had changed.
Maybe she wasn't a ghost of his past mistakes.
Maybe she was here.
Really here.
For him.
---
He rose slowly, his knee aching, and she moved to help him without hesitation -
hands light against his arm, steadying him without pity, without a single word.
And that simple, silent gesture undid him more than any declaration ever could.
---
"Come on," she said softly, tugging him toward the kitchen with a shy, hopeful smile.
"Dinner might be cold... but we can warm it up together."
And Damian -
for the first time in years -
let himself follow her without fear.