Aurora had always believed mornings were sacred—quiet, gentle moments before the world demanded too much.
But this morning?
This morning her peace was shattered by the sight in front of her porch.
A moving truck.
A stack of unopened boxes.
And one very familiar, very moody man arguing with the driver.
Aurora froze halfway down her steps, muffin in hand.
"…Damian?" she blurted out.
He turned slowly, as if the universe itself was testing his patience. His eyes met hers—annoyed first, then confused, then resigned.
"…You live here?" he asked flatly.
Aurora blinked. "Um—yes? Do you?"
Damian ran a hand through his hair. "Apparently."
"Apparently," she echoed, unsure if she was dreaming or having a stress-induced hallucination.
He jerked his chin toward the house beside hers—the little cottage that had been vacant for almost a year. "I signed the lease yesterday. Didn't realize I'd have a neighbor."
Aurora raised an eyebrow. "Sorry for existing?"
He paused. Then—barely—it happened.
A twitch.
At the corner of his mouth.
Was that… a smile?
No. Impossible. Probably a muscle spasm.
The driver shouted something impatiently, and Damian sighed like the entire world was his responsibility.
"I'm sorry about the noise. I'll be out of your way soon." He turned toward the chaos of boxes. "This won't take long."
Aurora stared. He was struggling. Hardcore struggling.
Damian Hale, who looked like he slept in storm clouds and brooded for a living, was trying—and failing—to carry a box nearly the size of his fragile-looking writer arms.
Without thinking, Aurora hurried over. "Here, let me help."
"No, don't—" he started.
Too late. She lifted the box with ease.
He looked at her like she had suddenly become a Greek hero.
"…How?" he asked.
"I carry flower shipments every day," she said, smirking. "Muscles aren't grown from poetry."
He exhaled sharply. "I don't grow anything from poetry."
Aurora froze.
The way he said it… quiet, pained, almost bitter.
She wanted to ask, but she didn't.
Instead, she nudged him lightly. "Come on, Mr. Rose Buyer. Let's get your stuff inside."
He blinked. "You remember that?"
"You were my first customer of the day," she said. "Also, you were extremely dramatic about flowers."
"I was not."
"You basically declared war on roses."
For a moment, silence.
Then—this time undeniable—
Damian snorted. A soft, startled sound like he didn't expect it to escape.
Aurora grinned triumphantly.
Twenty minutes later, they had carried the last box into the cottage. Damian stood in the middle of the living room, looking overwhelmed. Uncomfortable. A little lost.
"Thanks," he said quietly, avoiding her eyes. "I… don't usually… have help."
Aurora softened. "Well, now you do."
He finally looked at her.
Really looked.
There it was again—
that tiny shift in his expression,
as if she were something warm
and he'd forgotten what warmth felt like.
"Right," he said after a moment. "Neighbor privileges."
"Exactly." She smiled. "And neighbor privileges also include this."
She held out the extra muffin she'd brought.
He stared at it like it was a foreign creature. "What is that?"
"A blueberry muffin."
Suspicion. Pure suspicion. "Is it… sweet?"
"Yes?"
"…Pass."
Aurora gasped dramatically. "What kind of villain doesn't like sweet things?"
"The kind who doesn't want cavities."
"Do you smile that much?" she teased.
He opened his mouth—
closed it—
and sighed in defeat.
"…Give me the muffin."
He took it, and she swore she saw the faintest pink tint on his ears.
Aurora stepped back toward the door. "Welcome to the neighborhood, Damian."
He hesitated. "…Aurora."
"Yes?"
He swallowed, eyes flicking away. "You're… different."
Aurora blinked. "Is that good or bad?"
Damian shook his head slightly. "I don't know yet."
But he watched her leave.
And for the first time in a long time,
Damian Hale didn't feel completely alone.