Morning light painted the apartment in gold, soft and hesitant, like it was afraid of interrupting. Amelia lay on the couch with her legs tucked beneath her, a blanket draped across her shoulders, and a coffee mug resting warm in her hands. Damian sat across from her, elbows on his knees, eyes trained on her face as if memorizing it would keep her from slipping away again.
Neither of them had spoken for a while.
They hadn't kissed.
They hadn't touched.
And somehow, that made everything more intimate.
"I don't usually do this," she said, voice barely above a whisper.
He tilted his head. "What part?"
"This—letting someone in. Letting them see me when I'm not performing. When I'm not... trying so hard to be okay."
Damian's gaze didn't falter. "You don't have to try around me."
Amelia let out a small breath. "That's what scares me."
He understood more than she thought. Because in her vulnerability, he saw his own. He hadn't slept since he left her building the last time. And when he finally did, he dreamed of her. Not the glamorous version—the one with coffee stains on her shirt, her fingers tapping keys with fury, her laugh unfiltered and too loud in a quiet café.
The real her.
The one no one else was allowed to see.
"You're not a performance to me," he said softly. "You're... relief. From all of it."
She looked up, startled. "From what?"
He gave a tired smile. "From pretending I like being the man I had to become."
A stretch of silence followed, but it didn't ache the way silence used to between them. It pulsed with something else. Possibility.
Then Damian stood.
Amelia's body tensed, unsure if he was leaving or drawing closer.
He stepped toward her, slowly, carefully. When he reached her, he didn't touch her hand or her shoulder. Instead, he sat down beside her on the couch, his thigh barely brushing hers.
"I need to tell you something," he said.
She turned to face him fully.
"When I kissed you on the rooftop," he began, "that wasn't a moment of weakness. That was a decision. I knew what I was doing. I knew what it would risk."
Amelia's heart was thudding now. "Then why did you stop?"
"Because you deserve someone who gives you the world in daylight," he said. "Not someone who hides you in the shadows."
She stared at him. "But you didn't hide me. You protected me."
His eyes searched hers. "And I'll keep doing it—if you let me."
Her fingers tightened around her mug. The fear was still there. But beneath it, something louder: want.
Not lust. Not infatuation. Want—in the purest, simplest form. She wanted to know what his laugh sounded like when he wasn't holding back. She wanted to hear the things he only whispered after midnight. She wanted to learn the language of his silence.
She set her mug down and leaned in, her forehead brushing against his. He didn't move. Didn't breathe.
"I don't need you to give me the world," she whispered. "I just need you to stop shutting me out of yours."
And that was it.
The moment it shifted.
The moment everything that had been building—between their glances, their half-finished sentences, their almost—finally spilled over.
He kissed her again.
But it wasn't like the rooftop.
It wasn't desperate.
It was deep and deliberate, like a promise being made without a single word.
Her hands tangled in his shirt, and he exhaled like he hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath since the moment she opened the door last night. He cradled her face gently, his thumb brushing her cheek, his touch reverent. Every movement was slow. Every heartbeat loud.
They didn't rush.
They didn't need to.
Because this time, it wasn't about fire.
It was about belonging.
And as rain tapped softly against the windows—this time gentle, not violent—they melted into each other, piece by piece, like the world outside had finally slowed down enough to let them catch up to it.