Damien
and every demon wants his pound of flesh
but i like to keep some things to myself
but i like to keep some things to myself
His brows knit at her words, the sore-thumb admission. He pictured her in rooms too loud with laughter and clinking glasses, surrounded by people who hadn’t noticed they’d made her an outsider. That knot pulled deeper in his chest, a burn he smothered with a shallow breath. She deserved to belong. She deserved to be seen. But what the hell could he say? Nothing, not when he’d given up on belonging a long time ago. He’d learned to stop showing up to the places that didn’t want him. Easier to disappear than to twist yourself trying to fit in. He couldn’t tell her that, not when she still wanted more from the world. Not when she still had hope.
And now here she was, tucking herself against him like she belonged there all along. Not like training—sparring was fire, sharp edges, adrenaline sparking off skin. This was something else, softer, quieter. It made his stomach churn with nerves, but when her head settled beneath his chin, he blew out a slow, steadying breath. His arm slid around her shoulders, careful of her stitches, his hand settling against the curve of her arm. He gave the faintest pull, pressing her into his warmth, telling her without words she could rest. She could take what he was offering.
Aria wriggled her way in closer, a spotted wedge between them, nosing at Theea’s cheek with all the subtlety of a hammer. Damien huffed a laugh through his nose, barely a sound, the ghost of amusement brushing the tension in the air.
And then Theea said it. That she was glad she’d found him again. Glad he was her friend. Glad—despite everything—that he was here. The words slid under his ribs and cut deeper than any claw. His body tensed, then loosened all at once, as though he couldn’t decide whether to fight or fold. A scoff rose in his throat, bitter, but he strangled it before it could escape. Why? Why would she be glad? She was pressed so close he knew she could feel the twitch in his jaw, the rough rhythm of his pulse. He hated that she could feel how much it rattled him.
His voice came out low, taut, almost breaking on the edges. “Why — why are you glad for this, Theea? I’m the reason you’re hurt.”
The words were stripped bare, more confession than argument. He kept his eyes on the ceiling, not daring to look down at her.
And now here she was, tucking herself against him like she belonged there all along. Not like training—sparring was fire, sharp edges, adrenaline sparking off skin. This was something else, softer, quieter. It made his stomach churn with nerves, but when her head settled beneath his chin, he blew out a slow, steadying breath. His arm slid around her shoulders, careful of her stitches, his hand settling against the curve of her arm. He gave the faintest pull, pressing her into his warmth, telling her without words she could rest. She could take what he was offering.
Aria wriggled her way in closer, a spotted wedge between them, nosing at Theea’s cheek with all the subtlety of a hammer. Damien huffed a laugh through his nose, barely a sound, the ghost of amusement brushing the tension in the air.
And then Theea said it. That she was glad she’d found him again. Glad he was her friend. Glad—despite everything—that he was here. The words slid under his ribs and cut deeper than any claw. His body tensed, then loosened all at once, as though he couldn’t decide whether to fight or fold. A scoff rose in his throat, bitter, but he strangled it before it could escape. Why? Why would she be glad? She was pressed so close he knew she could feel the twitch in his jaw, the rough rhythm of his pulse. He hated that she could feel how much it rattled him.
His voice came out low, taut, almost breaking on the edges. “Why — why are you glad for this, Theea? I’m the reason you’re hurt.”
The words were stripped bare, more confession than argument. He kept his eyes on the ceiling, not daring to look down at her.
