Scene: Doubt and Arrival
Eric stood stiffly near the penthouse balcony, earpiece tucked behind one ear, tablet in hand, concern etched deep into his face.
"Sir," he said slowly, choosing his words with the caution of a man walking through a minefield. "Are you seriously giving your private location to… a stranger?"
Damian, seated comfortably in an armchair with his phone in hand, didn't look up. He was still scrolling through messages, the ghost of a smile on his lips.
"She's not a stranger."
Eric blinked. "Sir, with all due respect—you met her four days ago. You don't know her last name. You don't know her background. Hell, we don't even know if that's her real face under those glasses."
Damian arched an eyebrow but still didn't look away from his screen.
"And even if she's who she says she is," Eric continued, voice growing firmer, "she doesn't fit you. She's not from our world. She's awkward, unpolished, weirdly dressed—and forgive me, sir, but completely unremarkable."
Now Damian looked up.
"What exactly are you worried about, Eric? That she'll rob me blind? Or that I might actually enjoy someone who doesn't care about the size of my bank account?"
Eric hesitated. "I'm saying she's not worth the risk. She's not… your level. I just think you should rethink this."
Damian leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, eyes now serious.
"I like her," he said simply. "As strange as it sounds, I like her. And I don't even know why yet. But I know it's real."
Eric opened his mouth, then closed it again.
"I invited her into my world," Damian continued. "Because for once, I want to stop watching love happen in other people's lives and see if it can happen in mine. I know I'm not wired like most people. But I want to try. I want to give love a shot."
He stood up, straightened the cuffs of his shirt, and walked toward the window.
"And she's not that bad," he added quietly. "Look beyond the glasses. She's beautiful. And more importantly, I think I am starting to really like her."
Scene: Damian's Penthouse - A Night of Vulnerability
The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, revealing Damian's private penthouse high above the city. A wall of glass framed the skyline like a living painting, the lights below twinkling like stars trapped in concrete.
Ana stepped inside slowly, her eyes drinking in the space sleek, modern, expensive. Tasteful art hung on matte-black walls. The air smelled of cedar and something faintly like bergamot.
"Wow," she whispered. "You live here?"
"No," Damian said, tossing his keys onto a marble counter. "This is my spaceship. I just borrow Earth occasionally."
She laughed, and it echoed in the silence soft, surprised, real.
He looked at her from across the room. "Drink?"
"I'll take water," she said.
"Dangerous woman," he teased. "Living on the edge."
He poured two glasses and handed her one.
For a moment, they just stood there, sipping. No pretense. No seduction. Just stillness.
"You're quiet tonight," he said finally.
She shrugged. "Your view's loud."
He smiled. "That's poetic. I didn't think you had poetic in you."
She shot him a mock glare. "I'm a mystery, remember?"
They moved toward the windows, and she stared out.
From this height, everything looked small. The people, the cars, even the buildings.
"You ever feel," she said softly, "like you're standing in a glass box? Watching a world you can't really touch?"
He turned to her slowly. "Every day."
Something shifted between them.
She took another sip. "So what made you build all this?"
He thought for a long time before answering.
"When I was a kid," he said, "my father worked twelve hours a day building systems that made other people rich. He didn't care about fame. He just wanted to create something that would outlive him. I think, I just wanted him to see me do the same, but eventually I think I found a calling in it."
She turned to look at him, and in his face she saw something raw. Not the cocky billionaire. Not the public figure. Just a man who was perhaps chasing his father's shadow.
Well, she's not so sure but maybe he perhaps looks like it.
"Erh, your father must be great, I would have loved to meet him someday," she said quietly.
Damian's jaw clenched slightly, but he nodded. "He would definitely like you, you know. Maybe even more than I do."
Her heart dropped.
"Are you saying this just to make me feel good?". "Nope. I know exactly what I am saying". She set her glass down.
"Can I ask you something?" she said, voice low.
He nodded.
"Why me?"
His eyes flicked to hers. "Because you didn't want anything from me. At least, that's how it felt. No pretenses. No games. Just this nervous little gremlin with oversized glasses and a sad, brave smile."
She smirked through the ache in her chest.
"That's a weird compliment," she said.
"I'm a weird man," he replied.
He took a step closer.
And another.
Now they were only inches apart. Her breath caught. She could feel the warmth of him. The power. The danger.
"If I kissed you right now," he said, "would you let me?"
Her lips parted but no sound came out.
Say no, her mind screamed. Say no and leave before it's too late.
Instead, she whispered, "Yes."
He leaned in.
Their lips met in a slow, searching kiss tentative at first, like neither of them wanted to admit how badly they needed it. Then deeper, warmer. It wasn't just a kiss it was a question neither of them could answer.
When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers.
"You scare me, Tyler Ross," he said quietly.
She closed her eyes.
"You have no idea," she whispered.
His hand grazed her arm, barely a touch and it was enough to send shivers dancing across her skin.
Ana felt her breath catch, but she didn't move away. Not yet.
Damian stood just inches from her now, his scent wrapping around her something clean, expensive, and impossible to name. She tilted her head up, caught in that magnetic field between wanting and warning.
"Tyler…" he said her name like a confession.
And then he kissed her.
It wasn't desperate. It wasn't greedy.
It was slow, like he was asking a question with every inch his lips moved.
Her hands found his chest firm, warm, solid and she let herself melt into him for one suspended moment. The kiss deepened, his hand sliding gently along her jaw, down her neck, resting lightly on her waist.
She let out a breath that wasn't quite a moan. Then,
"Wait…" she murmured, just as he began to press her back gently toward the couch.
Damian stopped instantly.
His eyes searched hers. "Too fast?"
She nodded, heart pounding. "Yeah, I just I'm not ready."
"Okay," he said without hesitation. "We stop."
His hands fell away from her waist, respectful, steady. But he didn't step back. Not entirely.
They stood there, caught in the afterglow of something unspoken.
Ana exhaled slowly, grateful. Nervous.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"Don't be," he said, brushing a thumb lightly across her cheek. "I told you I'm not in this for the usual reasons."
She smiled faintly, and then without realizing she bent down to fix her sock that had slipped beneath her heel.
As she adjusted, her skirt lifted just slightly above mid-thigh.
Just a sliver.
And Damian saw it.
A small, faint birthmark just above her right thigh shaped oddly like a teardrop.
He didn't say a word.
Didn't react.
But something in his gaze sharpened, held it for the briefest second longer than necessary.
Then it was gone.
She straightened up, pulling her skirt down without noticing anything had shifted.
"So," she said quickly, trying to lighten the air, "are you always this well-behaved, or is this just your 'good boy billionaire' routine?"
He grinned. "Depends. Is it working?"
"Almost too well."
They both laughed. The tension thinned just enough for her to breathe again.
"You want me to call you a car?" he asked.
"Only if you promise to call me tomorrow."
"I promise."
He walked her to the elevator. Before the doors closed, she turned to him once more.
And for a second, she looked like she wanted to say something else.
Something dangerous. Something real.
But all she said was, "Goodnight, Mr. Lopez."
The doors slid shut.
Damian stood there a moment longer, arms crossed, jaw slightly tight. That little mark on her leg, It tugged at something in the back of his mind.
Something oddly familiar.