Damien
i'm trying to run from our pride
She looked up at him through her lashes and it knocked something loose in his chest. That little half-daring glance—like she was weighing whether it was safe to really look at him—felt sharper than any blade she could draw. Lanternlight bled across her face, catching the flush on her cheeks, and he wasn’t sure what belonged to the cider and what belonged to him. Maybe he didn’t want to know.
Her hand in his had already been something, small and warm against his calloused palm, but when she stepped in and wrapped her arms around him—hell, it near stole the air from his lungs. He froze a beat too long, then gave in, arms circling her with a steadiness that felt like it belonged to another life, some gentler one. She fit easy against him, like maybe she’d been meant to tuck herself there all along. His cheek brushed the top of her head, and for a second, just a second, he let himself lean into it.
A smile found its way to his mouth, slow and unbidden. Not the sharp tug of a smirk, not something he thought to control; just the kind of small, soft thing she seemed able to conjure from him without even trying. Dangerous, he thought quietly.
When she pulled back, showing him the glow curled in her palm, he tilted his head, eyes catching on the little ember-light that pulsed against her skin. “If it wasn't lucky before, it is now,” he murmured, voice low and certain, as if he could bend truth into place by saying it. He watched her smile, and the thought hit him—damn, she was brighter than any lantern.
Aria bounded through the grass nearby, snapping at stray sparks of light, her tail lashing like a banner. Damien glanced down at her, then at the empty glass he’d carried this far. The drink was gone, but maybe it could hold something better. He stepped further into the field as he tipped the glass, careful, catching a few blinking fireflies against its curve. Their light bounced, refracted, tiny stars spinning in a little bottle.
He straightened and turned back to face Theea so the captured light spilled across her face. For a moment that felt longer than it was, he only watched her, the fireflies' glow refracting in her bright eyes until it felt like he’d trapped something more dangerous than a bug. His throat worked, but no words came—just the sudden, sharp awareness of how close she stood, how her warmth pressed against the rough edge of his guard.
He didn’t kiss her. Gods knew he wanted to—wanted to lean down and see if the smile on her mouth tasted as unsteady as it made him feel—but the thought alone had his ribs locking tight. It wasn’t exactly fear. No, nothing so simple. It was an old instinct to keep what mattered at arm’s length, to hold back before something could be taken from him. The silence between them stretched, full in a way that left his pulse thrumming like a drum.
When it became too much, he tipped the glass toward the cub instead, letting Aria’s paws bat at it, fierce as though she’d caught prey of her own. The distraction worked; the tension eased. “Be gentle now, Aria. See?” he murmured, voice low as he cracked the rim just enough to free the flickers of light. They rose skyward, joining the others scattered through the autumn air.
He rose then, brushing the grass from his palms, and offered his arm out to Theea without hesitation. “We should get back,” he suggested, quieter than before, almost tentative, “before people start wondering where that bottle went off to.” He winked. It wasn’t an escape, not really—just the only way he knew to carry the moment forward without breaking it.
Her hand in his had already been something, small and warm against his calloused palm, but when she stepped in and wrapped her arms around him—hell, it near stole the air from his lungs. He froze a beat too long, then gave in, arms circling her with a steadiness that felt like it belonged to another life, some gentler one. She fit easy against him, like maybe she’d been meant to tuck herself there all along. His cheek brushed the top of her head, and for a second, just a second, he let himself lean into it.
A smile found its way to his mouth, slow and unbidden. Not the sharp tug of a smirk, not something he thought to control; just the kind of small, soft thing she seemed able to conjure from him without even trying. Dangerous, he thought quietly.
When she pulled back, showing him the glow curled in her palm, he tilted his head, eyes catching on the little ember-light that pulsed against her skin. “If it wasn't lucky before, it is now,” he murmured, voice low and certain, as if he could bend truth into place by saying it. He watched her smile, and the thought hit him—damn, she was brighter than any lantern.
Aria bounded through the grass nearby, snapping at stray sparks of light, her tail lashing like a banner. Damien glanced down at her, then at the empty glass he’d carried this far. The drink was gone, but maybe it could hold something better. He stepped further into the field as he tipped the glass, careful, catching a few blinking fireflies against its curve. Their light bounced, refracted, tiny stars spinning in a little bottle.
He straightened and turned back to face Theea so the captured light spilled across her face. For a moment that felt longer than it was, he only watched her, the fireflies' glow refracting in her bright eyes until it felt like he’d trapped something more dangerous than a bug. His throat worked, but no words came—just the sudden, sharp awareness of how close she stood, how her warmth pressed against the rough edge of his guard.
He didn’t kiss her. Gods knew he wanted to—wanted to lean down and see if the smile on her mouth tasted as unsteady as it made him feel—but the thought alone had his ribs locking tight. It wasn’t exactly fear. No, nothing so simple. It was an old instinct to keep what mattered at arm’s length, to hold back before something could be taken from him. The silence between them stretched, full in a way that left his pulse thrumming like a drum.
When it became too much, he tipped the glass toward the cub instead, letting Aria’s paws bat at it, fierce as though she’d caught prey of her own. The distraction worked; the tension eased. “Be gentle now, Aria. See?” he murmured, voice low as he cracked the rim just enough to free the flickers of light. They rose skyward, joining the others scattered through the autumn air.
He rose then, brushing the grass from his palms, and offered his arm out to Theea without hesitation. “We should get back,” he suggested, quieter than before, almost tentative, “before people start wondering where that bottle went off to.” He winked. It wasn’t an escape, not really—just the only way he knew to carry the moment forward without breaking it.
'til you set fire to my atmosphere
