When Damian stepped back into his house, the silence hit him harder than the night air. The door clicked shut behind him, and he just stood there for a beat, the memory of Seraphina's meltdown still ringing faintly in his ears.
"Okay," he muttered to himself, tossing his keys into the ceramic dish by the door. "Let's pretend that didn't happen."
He peeled off his jacket and dropped it over the back of a chair, then promptly picked it back up. "No, no. We're not doing that tonight. Jacket goes on the hook. Be a person, Damian."
Click. The hook won. Barely.
He clapped his hands once, like he was rallying a crew that didn't exist. "Right. You know what clears a messed-up night? Bleach. Let's go."
He moved through the house like a drill sergeant with a grudge.
"Dishes. Yes. Because crusted-over lasagna is exactly the ambiance we need right now."
He scrubbed like it owed him money.
"Towels in the hamper. Not next to it, in it. Revolutionary idea, I know."
He started the laundry machine and saluted it like it had done something noble.
"Living room—pick up your socks, Greeves. You're not a raccoon."
By the time he reached the bathroom, he was muttering to himself in a strange blend of sarcasm and survival. "Mirror's got toothpaste spit. Unacceptable. If you're going to look like a disaster, at least do it on a clean canvas."
The place started to feel... clearer. Not good, necessarily. But less chaotic. That counted for something.
Finally, he brewed a cup of coffee—not because he needed it, but because it was ritual. The smell of burnt caffeine grounded him. Mug in hand, he dropped into his desk chair, the monitors flickering to life in the dark room.
"Alright," he exhaled, cracking his knuckles. "Let's see if the yen wants to dance tonight."
And just like that, he was back in his element. Numbers, charts, candle wicks and pips. No ex-girlfriends. No CEOs with eyes like fire and chaos in heels. Just Damian, his coffee, and the quiet hum of the forex market.
Meanwhile, across the city…
While Damian was barking orders at dirty dishes and scrubbing every corner of his apartment like the mess had personally wronged him, Seraphina Cross was quietly breaking apart behind the glass walls of her luxury high-rise.
The door clicked shut behind her.
She didn't move.
Just stood there, still in her heels and cocktail dress, staring blankly into the pristine quiet of her apartment. The silence felt unfamiliar, too clean. Too still.
Her clutch slipped from her fingers.
So did the strength holding her upright.
She sank to the floor.
A shaky breath escaped. Then another. Her head dropped back against the door.
"Six years," she whispered. "Six goddamn years."
Her voice cracked.
She pulled off her earrings with trembling hands, one by one, as tears welled behind her lashes. Her makeup didn't smear. That somehow made her feel worse.
Six years of loving Marcus. Of building a future. Of supporting his career, his goals, his image.
Of trusting him.
And for what?
A girl barely out of college. A marketing intern.
She laughed—sharp and hollow—as she kicked off one heel, then the other.
"Of course it's someone younger," she muttered, voice biting. "New. Fresh. Doesn't know yet that he snores when he's drunk or forgets to reply to texts for days."
She rose shakily to her feet, tore off her dress mid-step, and flung it over the arm of the couch. She didn't even make it to her bedroom. Instead, she wrapped herself in the nearest throw blanket like she was bracing for a storm and collapsed onto the couch.
It hit her like a wave then—grief so heavy it pressed into her chest, squeezing the breath from her lungs.
Six years. Birthdays. Vacations. Sunday mornings. Fights. Makeups. Dreams they hadn't even started chasing yet.
Gone.
"I thought you were it," she whispered into the dark. "I thought you were him."
A sob slipped past her lips. She clapped a hand over her mouth, biting it back.
"No. No. Don't cry. Don't give him that."
But her body shook anyway. Tears slipped free, hot and angry.
She wanted to throw something. Scream. Burn every picture. Every memory.
Instead, she curled into herself and muttered, "What the hell is wrong with me?"
The question echoed louder than she wanted.
And then, out of nowhere, an image flashed across her mind: Damian. That sleep-deprived, sarcastic stranger who wrapped an arm around her like it was second nature.
She groaned and pulled the blanket higher.
"Great. Now I'm thinking about some stranger from the bar. Real classy, Sera."
But his image popped up anyway—messy hair, half-lidded eyes, that deadpan voice full of sarcasm like he hadn't slept in days. He hadn't done anything remarkable, really. She'd basically dragged him out by the collar. And still… for a few fleeting seconds, his dry humor had felt like the only thing keeping her upright.
He hadn't known her, hadn't asked questions, hadn't tried to fix anything. Just stood there, tossing back cynical remarks like grenades, and somehow made her feel like less of a wreck for a second.
"D.G. Creative," she muttered to the ceiling. "What a dumb name. Who even calls themselves that?"
Still, it had stuck.
And now it wouldn't leave her alone.
By the time sunlight started slanting across the floor and poking him in the eyes, Damian had crashed face-first on the couch, still in yesterday's clothes. The scent of old takeout and bleach lingered in the air from his midnight cleaning spree.
When his stomach finally growled loud enough to startle him awake, he rolled over and groaned.
"Ugh… Right. Food," he mumbled into the cushion. "That thing humans need."
He shuffled toward the kitchen, opened the fridge, and immediately shut it again. A single bottle of hot sauce stared back at him like it was judging his life choices.
Damian scratched his head. His dark hair stuck up in tired waves.
"Nope. Not doing this today."
He pulled on a plain black hoodie, grabbed his keys, and slung his leg over his motorbike parked just outside. The engine rumbled to life with a satisfying growl, almost as if it knew he hadn't left the house in days.
The wind hit his face as he cruised down the street, clearing away the fog of sleeplessness. His brain still felt like cotton, but at least the world outside didn't smell like cleaning spray and broken dreams.
He parked at a small corner grocery, yanked off his helmet, and muttered,
"Don't forget the coffee. Don't forget the coffee. Don't forget the—oh look, donuts."
A tired, sarcastic smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he walked in.
Damian stood in front of the donut display, staring at the tray of glazed happiness like it held the answers to his life. He reached for one, half-asleep, one hand in his hoodie pocket.
Beside him, another hand reached for the same tray.
He glanced over, still chewing the inside of his cheek.
Oh no.
His heart sank.
Standing inches away, dressed in a simple white blouse and jeans, was her. Seraphina. From the bar. The woman who dragged him into a scene he had absolutely no emotional insurance for.
She was looking down, deciding between jelly-filled and chocolate—completely unaware.
Damian blinked. Once. Twice. Then backed away slowly like he was in a wildlife documentary and just spotted a predator.
Seraphina finally turned toward him.
Their eyes met.
Her brows lifted in polite confusion. She clearly didn't recognize him.
But Damian?
Panic mode: activated.
His mouth opened—no sound came out.
He dropped the donut.
"Nononononono—nope," he muttered under his breath like a malfunctioning NPC. "I don't want drama. I don't want drama. I don't want—"
And then he turned around and bolted.
Didn't pay. Didn't explain. Just ran. Full sprint. Out the automatic doors, helmet under his arm, hoodie flapping behind him like a cape of shame.
Seraphina blinked after the fleeing man.
"...What the hell?"
She looked down at the tray.
Her donut was gone.
She huffed, picked up a new one, and rolled her eyes.
"Some guys really don't pay for what they order," she muttered, biting into the chocolate one. "Figures."
Damian paced behind a row of parked bikes, helmet in hand, eyes peeking over the top of the cart corral.
He squinted toward the donut stall.
"Is she gone?" he muttered, ducking behind a cart like he was evading a hitman instead of a woman he barely knew. "Okay. Calm down. Maybe she didn't see me. Maybe she thinks I'm just a hallucination from last night. A donut ghost. Sure."
He peeked again.
Seraphina was gone.
Relief washed over him like caffeine on an empty stomach.
He exhaled hard, pulled his hoodie up, and trudged back inside with all the regret of a man returning to the scene of a crime.
The cashier at the donut stand narrowed her eyes as he approached.
"You ran," she said flatly.
"I know," Damian said, sliding a crumpled bill across the counter. "Sorry. Emergency."
"What kind of emergency involves leaving behind a donut and running like a maniac?"
"Uh… dental?" Damian offered. "Spiritual? Existential?"
The cashier stared.
He cleared his throat and tapped the glass. "One glazed. I owe you one glazed and possibly a therapy session."
The cashier handed him his donut with a dramatic sigh and a look that said men.
Damian walked away, muttering to himself as he shoved the donut into his mouth like it owed him rent. "All this for a bit of sugar and a woman with too much poise and an ex-boyfriend issue…"
He turned the corner toward the produce aisle, glancing around as if Sera might jump out from behind the lettuce.
"She's gone. Chill," he whispered. "Just buy some eggs, Damian. Eggs. That's all. Not drama. Not destiny. Just eggs."
Still, he stuck to the outer aisles, weaving around corners like he was avoiding laser tripwires. The goal was simple: groceries without emotional turbulence.
But fate, he suspected, had terrible comedic timing.
Damian clutched his shopping basket like a lifeline. Eggs, milk, instant noodles, bread. Essentials. He could see the finish line. Just grab coffee, pay, and get out.
He turned into the aisle.
There she was.
Seraphina Cross. Again.
This time, standing by the cereal shelves, inspecting a box of granola like it held the secrets of the universe.
Damian swore under his breath and pivoted so fast he almost knocked over a display of canned tuna.
"Why is she everywhere?" he hissed, power-walking toward frozen goods like it was Narnia. "Does she live in this store? Is she haunting me? This is what I get for being nice."
He ducked into the freezer aisle and hid behind a stack of frozen peas, peeking through the glass reflection to check if she followed. Nothing. Good.
He breathed.
And then—turning to double back—
There she was.
Again.
This time pushing a cart, looking directly at him.
Damian froze mid-step.
Sera tilted her head, recognition dawning on her face.
"Oh my God," Damian whispered. "Abort. Abort—"
She smiled.
It wasn't flirtatious. Just...warm. Polite. Maybe a little amused.
She opened her mouth, like she might say something—
But Damian was already halfway down the next aisle.
He could hear the squeak of his sneakers on the linoleum floor as he sprinted toward the checkout lanes.
"Not today. No drama. No conversation. No memory lane rerun," he muttered like a prayer. "Get out, get home, drink coffee, never feel feelings again."
He slammed his groceries onto the self-checkout. Bread. Eggs. Milk. Donuts. A sad-looking salad. He threw bills at the machine like it had personally wronged him.
Beep. Beep. Pay. Done.
He booked it out of the store like a man fleeing a crime scene, plastic bags rustling violently in his grip.
Only when he reached his motorbike and set the bags down did he realize something was missing.
He stared at the receipt.
"Coffee," he said blankly.
The universe answered with silence.
Damian looked at the sky, eyes dead.
"…I forgot the coffee."
Ten minutes.
That's how long it took before Damian cracked.
He stood in his kitchen, dead-eyed, staring at a sad mug of hot water.
"Coffee," he muttered like a broken prayer.
He glanced at the clock.
He could make it back.
If he was fast. If the universe didn't hate him. If she wasn't there.
"I'm just going in. One aisle. No ghost encounters. No mysterious women with shiny hair and ruinous smiles. Just coffee."
He grabbed his helmet, hopped on his motorbike, and raced back like a caffeine-deprived lunatic.
Inside the Grocery Store
It was quiet.
No sign of her.
No haunting violins. No strange sense of fate creeping up his spine.
Just rows of snacks, a few bored customers, and the warm, fluorescent promise of fresh-ground beans.
Damian practically floated to the coffee section, found his favorite brand, and hugged the bag like a long-lost lover.
"Never again," he whispered.
Checkout. Done.
He stepped out of the store, victorious.
And then—chaos.
Just a few feet away, on the edge of the sidewalk, Damian spotted her.
Seraphina Cross.
Being yanked roughly by some guy in a tailored blazer with anger in his face and entitlement in his grip.
Her expression was tight. Uncomfortable. She was trying to pull away.
Damian's heart did a somersault.
"Nope. Not my business," he muttered. "Not my story. I am not the hero. Just a guy who wants to go home and drink his damn coffee. Keep walking, D."
He took one step.
Then another.
"Don't be a hero. Don't be a hero. Don't—"
"Hey, baby!" Damian called out, loud and clear, waving like a cheerful lunatic.
Both heads turned.
Seraphina blinked in shock.
The man scowled.
And Damian?
Damian walked toward them like he meant it, flashing the most unhinged smile of his life, all while screaming internally:
What the actual hell are you doing.
You've been avoiding her like she's a romantic landmine for 24 hours straight and now you're strutting into live combat?
You just wanted coffee!
He reached Seraphina's side and casually slipped between her and the blazer guy.
"Sorry I took so long, babe," Damian said, arm lightly brushing hers. "You know how I get when I forget coffee. Total disaster."
He shot the ex a lazy, bored look.
The guy looked ready to explode.
But Seraphina?
She just blinked.
Then, like it clicked, she gave Damian the faintest nod.
And for some insane reason, Damian smiled.
Congratulations, he told himself grimly. You're in the drama now.
Seraphina stared at the man who'd just thrown himself into her drama like he wanted to die via ex-boyfriend.
Wait.
Was that…?
"D… G?" she whispered, still trying to process.
Damian leaned closer, smiling like this was the most natural thing in the world. "That's right, babe. You didn't finish your donut, by the way. Tragic waste."
The man beside her, Marcus, narrowed his eyes. "Who the hell are you?"
Damian didn't flinch. "Boyfriend," he said smoothly, dropping the word like a bomb. "You must be the ex."
Marcus scoffed. "Funny. I don't remember her having a boyfriend."
Damian shrugged. "That's probably because you're not in her life anymore."
Sera blinked.
And then, as if waking from a trance, she slid a little closer to Damian. His presence was warm. Solid. Entirely unexpected. But… oddly comforting.
Marcus looked between them, nostrils flaring.
For a second, Damian thought he might actually throw a punch.
Please don't throw a punch, he begged internally. I'm just a coffee-deprived man with no interest in romance or drama.
But then Marcus scoffed again, stepped back, and muttered something under his breath.
"This is a joke," he said, then turned to Sera. "We'll talk when your little act is over."
And just like that, he walked off.
Damian exhaled sharply, his shoulders finally dropping.
Sera turned to him slowly. "You again."
He scratched the back of his neck. "Yeah… sorry about that."
"Sorry?" Her brow arched. "You just showed up out of nowhere and saved me from having to explain my entire breakup to a public sidewalk."
"Right," Damian said. "Which, by the way, I definitely didn't mean to do."
"You were just passing by?"
"I was getting coffee. Saw you. Told myself to ignore it. Failed."
A silence settled between them.
Sera studied him for a moment, head tilted. "You really don't like drama, do you?"
"It's in my bones to avoid it."
"Then why jump in?"
Damian looked at her—really looked at her. Eyes still a little hurt. Still tired. Still fighting.
"…because you looked like you needed a way out," he said quietly. "Even just for a second."
And just like that, Seraphina smiled. Just a little. A flicker of gratitude.
"Well," she said, folding her arms, "I guess I owe you another thank-you, Mr. D.G. Creative."
Damian groaned. "God, you still don't know my name."
"You never told me."
He paused, sighed in defeat, and offered a hand. "Damian Greeves."
She took it. "Seraphina Cross."
He blinked. "Yeah. I know."
They stood there for a beat too long.
Damian cleared his throat and let go. "Right, I should—uh, I really need to get this coffee home before I lose my soul."
Sera laughed. "Go. Before the universe throws more chaos at you."
"Too late," he muttered, walking off.
And this time… he didn't run.
Just as Damian turned the corner—coffee bag in hand and dignity barely intact—he heard footsteps behind him.
"Hey—wait!"
He winced.
Run.
No.
Be an adult.
But run.
Before his legs could betray him again, Seraphina caught up, slightly breathless.
"Before you disappear again," she said, "can we at least exchange numbers? Or social media?"
Damian blinked. "Why would you want that?"
Her lips quirked. "Because you keep accidentally saving me from embarrassing public scenes. And because I think I owe you donuts now."
His mouth opened to politely decline—but his cursed personality trait kicked in: the 'can't say no to anything that sounds remotely polite or guilt-tripping' disease.
"…Sure."
He pulled out his phone like he was handing over his soul. "Here. Number. Instagram. Take your pick. Just don't message me after midnight unless it's life or donut-related."
Seraphina grinned as she tapped into his contacts. "Noted. I'll send you a 'thanks for being my fake boyfriend' gift card."
"Make it for coffee," Damian muttered. "Or therapy."
When she handed the phone back, there was a slight warmth in her fingers that lingered.
He stepped back with a half-smile, half-grimace. "Alright. That's my quota of human interaction for the week. I'm going to go hide in a cave now."
Seraphina laughed softly. "Okay, Damian. Go be a hermit."
He nodded once, turned, and this time… walked away without tripping over his own feet or yelling at the sky.
As he vanished down the street, Seraphina looked at his contact info on her screen.
Damian Greeves.
@dg.creative
Bio: "Freelancer. Coffee critic. Sleep optional."
She smiled—just a little.
Maybe things were still messy.
Maybe her life was still a storm.
But somehow, a grumpy, sarcastic coffee addict had wandered into her orbit…
…and it didn't feel so heavy anymore.