DAMIEN
I know it's been a long time coming
I'm angry and I know that's weak
I'm angry and I know that's weak
Inside, he lets the flap fall closed behind them and moves straight to the stove, tugging off his gloves and coat as he goes. The heavy leather is still dusted in sawdust, snowdust, and flecks of pine sap, the same dark work jacket he’s worn for seasons. Beneath it, a thick wool shirt clings damp to his shoulders, sleeves shoved up past scarred forearms. He unhooks the axe from his belt and sets it neatly against the wall—close enough to grab if needed, but out of the way—before stepping toward the nearest table.
A few mismatched cups are stacked on a shelf by the stove. He grabs two and sets them down, pushing aside a scatter of scrap notes and a half-used block of chalk to clear space near where Flora’s settled.
“Whiskey it is,” he says, pouring a measure into one of the cups before sliding it across to her. He fills the other with black coffee for himself. “And, between the two of us,” he says, a dry edge softening the words, “you’re probably the one to watch out for.”
His gaze lifts just enough to meet hers, brows tipping upward by a hair. Then he nods toward the racks of timber lining the wall.
Beachfront, storms, salt… “You’re right, Halo wood will hold up. But a house that size?” His eyes narrow slightly, not unkind, just calculating. “You’ll need foundation work done right the first time, or the best timber in Caido won’t save it. Who’s handling the building end of things?”
He leans a hip against the edge of the table, pausing to take a long drink of his coffee. The whiskey cuts through the air, blending with the sharper edge of pine and resin. When Flora’s quieter words hit —'a lot of things I’ve built lately have fallen apart'— Damien’s hand stills briefly on his cup. He’s not a man for long silences, but he doesn’t rush to fill this one either. She’s not saying it for sympathy, and he can tell.
His brow furrows slightly as he studies her across the table. No pity shows, only a narrowing of the eyes, as if her words are another piece in a puzzle he hadn’t realized he was working on. He knows what it’s like to have work undone, to put effort into something only to watch it crack apart at the seams. But her tone isn’t about a house or a project. It’s heavier than that.
“Then we’ll make sure this doesn’t,” he says simply. It’s not a promise, exactly, but the steady way he says it gives it weight.
He sets his cup down, the sound soft against the marred table.
“Why don’t you walk me through what you’re picturing,” he continues, practical as ever. “Size, layout, anything you’re set on. That way I know what else to cut before we load this all up for the trip back.”
A few mismatched cups are stacked on a shelf by the stove. He grabs two and sets them down, pushing aside a scatter of scrap notes and a half-used block of chalk to clear space near where Flora’s settled.
“Whiskey it is,” he says, pouring a measure into one of the cups before sliding it across to her. He fills the other with black coffee for himself. “And, between the two of us,” he says, a dry edge softening the words, “you’re probably the one to watch out for.”
His gaze lifts just enough to meet hers, brows tipping upward by a hair. Then he nods toward the racks of timber lining the wall.
Beachfront, storms, salt… “You’re right, Halo wood will hold up. But a house that size?” His eyes narrow slightly, not unkind, just calculating. “You’ll need foundation work done right the first time, or the best timber in Caido won’t save it. Who’s handling the building end of things?”
He leans a hip against the edge of the table, pausing to take a long drink of his coffee. The whiskey cuts through the air, blending with the sharper edge of pine and resin. When Flora’s quieter words hit —'a lot of things I’ve built lately have fallen apart'— Damien’s hand stills briefly on his cup. He’s not a man for long silences, but he doesn’t rush to fill this one either. She’s not saying it for sympathy, and he can tell.
His brow furrows slightly as he studies her across the table. No pity shows, only a narrowing of the eyes, as if her words are another piece in a puzzle he hadn’t realized he was working on. He knows what it’s like to have work undone, to put effort into something only to watch it crack apart at the seams. But her tone isn’t about a house or a project. It’s heavier than that.
“Then we’ll make sure this doesn’t,” he says simply. It’s not a promise, exactly, but the steady way he says it gives it weight.
He sets his cup down, the sound soft against the marred table.
“Why don’t you walk me through what you’re picturing,” he continues, practical as ever. “Size, layout, anything you’re set on. That way I know what else to cut before we load this all up for the trip back.”
And I'm longing out that open window
For whatever it is I seek
For whatever it is I seek
