Damian sat with his elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped loosely — a man who'd built walls so high even he couldn't see over them. But tonight, something about him was… different.
high even he couldn't see over them. But tonight, something about him was… different.
Layla's voice came soft. "Do you always live like this?"
He glanced at her.
She gestured at the apartment — the quiet, the cold. "All this space and nothing to fill it?"
"I never had a reason to," he replied simply.
She studied him. "That's sad."
He didn't argue.
"Don't you ever get lonely?"
He looked straight ahead. "I don't know what that feels like anymore."
The way he said it — not with arrogance, but with quiet acceptance — made her chest tighten.
She pulled the throw blanket over her legs and sank back against the couch.
"You make it hard for people to see you, you know?" she said. "Even when you're standing right there."
Damian turned his head. "But you see me anyway."
Her lips parted slightly. She hadn't expected him to say that.
"Yes," she whispered. "I do."
Something shifted in the air.
He leaned back, finally relaxing into the couch. Close enough that she could feel the heat of him now, even though they weren't touching.
She looked down at her hands. Her fingers trembled slightly. Why?
Why was it so easy to be strong at work — in meetings, in deadlines, in dealing with his moods — but sitting beside him now, she felt transparent?
"I thought about quitting," she said suddenly.
Damian tensed beside her.
"After Geneva," she added. "I thought maybe I needed distance. That maybe I was starting to care too much. And that wasn't part of the job."
His voice was lower now. "Is it still just a job to you?"
Her head turned. Their eyes locked.
Everything inside her screamed to look away. But she didn't.
"No," she said, honest and breathless. "It's not."
He leaned in — not fast, not slow. Just enough.
Close enough that she could see the way his lashes framed his eyes, how his breathing shifted, how his gaze dropped ever so slightly — lips, eyes, lips again.
She didn't pull back.
She didn't want to.
"You're shaking," he said, voice almost inaudible.
"I don't know why," she whispered.
He looked like he wanted to say something more, but didn't.
Instead, his hand lifted — slowly, hesitantly — to brush a loose strand of hair from her cheek.
It was the gentlest thing she'd ever felt.
Layla's breath caught.
His fingers lingered there, just below her ear.
Everything stopped moving.
Their foreheads nearly touched.
And then—
She closed her eyes.
Just as his did too.
Just as his lips hovered over hers.
Just as—
A phone buzzed.
Loud. Unwelcome.
They both froze.
Damian pulled back first. Not far. Just enough.
Layla opened her eyes, blinking the spell away.
The silence that followed felt like a scream.
His phone flashed on the kitchen counter. He didn't move.
Neither did she.
"I'm sorry," she murmured, pulling the blanket tighter.
"Don't be," he said.
But the moment was gone.
Not broken. Not ruined.
Just… paused.
He stood slowly and crossed the room to check the phone. She watched him in the reflection of the glass.
Then he said, without turning around, "You can stay. If you want."
Layla's voice was softer than ever. "Do you want me to?"
A beat.
Then a quiet reply: "Yes."
The guest room was immaculate. Predictably so.
White sheets. Folded corners. A single pillow, fluffed but untouched. No personal touches. No sign anyone had ever laid there. Just like the rest of his home.
Layla stood at the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around herself.
Damian had shown her to the room without a word, only pausing once at the door.
"If you need anything," he'd said, not quite meeting her eyes, "I'll be in the study."
Then he disappeared.
And now the silence roared.
Layla sank onto the bed, the mattress too stiff, the air too sterile. It didn't feel like a place made for rest. More like somewhere you waited for a life that never arrived.
She lay back, stared at the ceiling.
Closed her eyes.
Opened them again.
Got up.
She paced the room.
Tried not to think about how close their mouths had been earlier.
Tried not to think about how steady his hand had been, brushing her hair like she was glass.
Tried not to think about how his voice — usually clipped and cold — had softened just for her.
God, she hated this.
This not-knowing.
This half-drawn line between something and nothing.
She padded out of the room barefoot, quietly down the hallway. The door to the study was slightly open. Light spilled under it like a whisper.
She tapped lightly.
No answer.
She pushed it open.
Damian was on the couch, not at his desk. Still dressed, one arm resting on the back cushion, his head tilted back.
His eyes were open, staring at the ceiling.
He looked… undone.
Like even here, in the only space that belonged to him, he couldn't rest.
Layla stepped inside.
"I thought you'd be asleep," he said, voice hushed but steady.
"I tried."
A pause.
"Me too."
She moved slowly toward him. Sat in the armchair across from the couch.
"I keep wondering…" she said quietly, "what happened to make you so good at pushing people away."
Damian turned his head. Their eyes met across the low table.
"You don't have to say that."
"But it's true."
"I'm not trying to push you away, Layla."
"Then what are you doing?"
His jaw shifted. A slow, internal war.
"I'm trying not to want something I'm not allowed to have."
The silence landed like a drop of ink in water — spreading into everything.
She inhaled, steady but sharp.
"You think I don't want you too?" she said, barely more than a breath.
His fingers twitched. Just once.
"I think you're smarter than I am," he said. "And braver."
That knocked the wind out of her more than a confession would've.
Layla stood slowly, walked to the couch, and sat at the far end. This time, there was no table between them.
Just space. And breath. And all the things neither had the courage to say.
Her voice was low, almost breaking. "Do you really not sleep here?"
He shook his head once. "Only when I'm too tired to fight it."
She looked around again. "There's no life in this place."
"It's never bothered me before."
Her voice cracked around the edge. "It bothers me."
He looked at her, really looked at her.
The vulnerability in her face. The truth bleeding through her eyes. She wasn't trying to seduce him.
She wasn't trying to be wanted.
She was trying to be understood.
He didn't know when he moved. Or how close he'd gotten. But his hand reached for hers.
She let him take it.
He didn't speak.
He just wrapped his fingers around hers — not tight, not urgent — just present.
And for the first time all night, something in the room felt warm.
Layla leaned her head back against the cushion, their hands still locked.
She whispered, "I'm scared of how much I want to stay here."
Damian stared at their hands. His thumb brushed over her knuckles slowly, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"I'm scared of what'll happen if you don't."