Damian had been staring at the same set of quarterly projections for an hour.
The numbers blurred on the page, his usually sharp focus fractured, splintered by the way Layla had looked at him tonight.
Not her usual look—the one that mixed amusement and quiet curiosity. No. This one had been calm, detached, and careful.
Like she was protecting herself from him.
And he hated it.
He'd tried working to drown it out. Drafted two emails, deleted them both. Opened an investor report, forgot the first paragraph as soon as he read it.
Every time his mind drifted, it went back to the almost.
The inches between them in the car.
The way her breath had hitched.
The ache in his chest when he'd pulled back.
He told himself it was better this way. Safer. But the taste of her absence tonight felt like something he couldn't live with.
And before he could talk himself out of it—before he could rebuild the wall—he was on his feet, grabbing his car keys.
Thirty minutes later
The streets were quiet by the time he pulled up to her building. No one noticed him. He wasn't supposed to be here, but that didn't matter anymore.
He walked up to her door, rang the bell.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
No answer.
He reached for his phone, about to call her—
The door opened.
She stood there barefoot, hair a little messy like she'd been lying down. Her eyes widened the second she saw him.
"Damian?" Her voice was startled, uncertain. "What are you—why are you here?"
She searched his face, her brow furrowing, like she was trying to decode something hidden there.
He didn't answer. Couldn't.
Because everything he'd been holding back—weeks of restraint, months of keeping his hands to himself—slammed into him at once.
And then he was moving.
He stepped forward, closing the distance in a heartbeat, and his mouth crashed against hers.
It wasn't careful. It wasn't slow. It was hungry—desperate—like he'd been drowning and she was the first breath of air he'd had in years.
Her gasp was swallowed by him as his hands cupped her face, then slid into her hair, pulling her closer, deeper, like he couldn't get enough.
She stumbled back a step under the force of it, and he followed without breaking the kiss. The door closed behind them with a dull click, shutting out the world.
Her fingers bunched in his shirt, pulling herself to him, and that small, fierce touch unraveled something in him completely.
He backed her against the wall just inside her apartment, his lips moving against hers with the kind of urgency that came from too much wanting for too long.
He kissed her like he was claiming her. Like he was making up for every second he hadn't.
When they finally broke apart, both of them breathing hard, his forehead rested against hers. His hands still in her hair.
"I tried to stay away," he said, voice low, rough. "I can't."
Layla's lips parted, but no words came out.
And in that charged, breathless moment, Damian knew one thing with absolute certainty—
This wasn't the night to walk away.
Damian's hands were still tangled in her hair when she pushed gently at his chest—not to push him away completely, but to create space.
Her breathing was fast, uneven. His was worse.
"Damian," she whispered, her voice shaking more from emotion than from the kiss. "What are you doing?"
He stared at her, chest rising and falling, every muscle in his body still coiled from the contact. "Exactly what I've been wanting to do since the day you walked into my office."
Her eyes flashed—shock, frustration, something else she couldn't name. "You don't get to say that now. Not after weeks of acting like I don't matter."
"You matter," he said sharply, like the words were yanked from somewhere deep. "More than you should. More than I know how to handle."
Layla's pulse pounded in her ears. She wanted to believe him—God, she did—but the sting of all the times he'd shut her out still burned.
"Then why push me away?" she asked, voice trembling. "Why act like I'm just… replaceable?"
His jaw tightened. He took a step closer, closing the small gap she'd made between them. "Because if I let myself have you, Layla… I won't know how to stop."
Her heart skipped, but her voice was steady. "Maybe I don't want you to stop."
That made him falter. For the first time tonight, he looked unsure. Vulnerable.
He lifted his hand, brushing his thumb over her cheek as if testing whether she'd pull away. She didn't.
"I don't want to break you," he said quietly, almost to himself. "And I don't know if I'm capable of being the man you deserve."
She held his gaze, her own eyes softening. "You don't get to decide that for me either."
Something in his expression shifted—like her words had cut through whatever restraint he had left. His fingers curled into her hair again, his other hand settling against the small of her back, drawing her in until there was no space left between them.
This time when he kissed her, it wasn't just hunger—it was need, raw and aching.
And Layla kissed him back like she'd been holding it in for just as long.
Neither of them knew where it was going, but in that moment, neither cared.
Her back met the arm of the couch, and for a second Damian's lips were only a breath away from hers. His hand was still cupping her jaw, his thumb brushing in slow, distracting circles.
And then, just when it felt inevitable, he exhaled—like the fight between wanting her and stopping himself had reached its breaking point.
He pulled back. Not far, but enough. Enough for her to feel the cold rush of space.
Layla sat there, breathless, staring at him like she could physically see the battle in his eyes.
"We should…" His voice was hoarse. "We should stop."
"Yeah," she said, though she didn't sound convinced. Her lips still tingled.
A silence stretched between them before she forced a small, dry laugh. "You know, for someone who's supposed to be smart, you're kind of bad at this."
His brow arched. "Bad at what?"
"Not hurting me."
Damian's mouth curved, faint but real. "Oh, I'm excellent at hurting people. I just never wanted you on the list."
Layla rolled her eyes, but there was a reluctant smile tugging at her mouth. "Wow. Comforting."
He smirked, leaning back on the couch beside her. "Besides… you're trouble."
"Oh, so that's what this is? Self-preservation?" she teased, tilting her head toward him.
"Yes," he said simply, and then, after a beat, "And maybe the fact that I actually like you a little."
"A little?" she repeated, pretending to be offended.
His gaze flicked to hers, softer now. "Enough that I'm willing to risk my peace for you."
She felt her heart skip, and before she could reply, he added—lightly, almost playfully—"But if I'm going to ruin my own life, we might as well call it dating."
Layla blinked, caught between a laugh and something far warmer. "That's your pitch? 'Let's date so I can ruin my life'?"
"Pretty much," Damian said with a shrug, a faint smile still playing on his lips. "So… what do you say?"
Her answer came with a quiet smile of her own. "I say you'd better not regret it."
His eyes lingered on her for a long moment, like he was memorizing her face. "I won't," he murmured.
And though neither of them touched again, the air between them stayed charged—full of the things they hadn't yet dared to say out loud.