Damien
Damien waited on the porch with the same patience he’d give a stuck snare—motionless but keyed up, eyes narrowing at the stretch of shoreline as if he expected the house itself to shift a few feet to the left. Aria’s paws scrabbled against the glass, her muffled mrrow filling the air like a knock of her own. He almost smirked at her impatience, almost whistled again just to needle her, but then the lock rattled and the door cracked wide.
He’d been ready with a dry remark about couches and bonfires, maybe even a lopsided smile. But the words stuck fast and his brows knitted together instead.
Theea filled the doorway like she’d run through a gauntlet—red-nosed, eyes dulled, sweater swallowing her frame. She snapped into a sneeze so violent he leaned back half a step, not out of disgust but instinct, as though bracing against a blow. She apologized in a rush, all bright voice and ragged edges, and something in him gave a small twist.
“Allergies,” she said.
He grunted low in his throat, skepticism thick as tar. His gaze did a slow sweep, cataloguing everything: the black smudges on her fingers, the trash bucket mountain of crumpled tissues, the log still fighting in the fire. Then his eyes came back to her, lingering on the flush across her cheeks, the faint glassiness to her stare.
“You don’t get allergies in Deepfrost,” he said flatly, factual as ever. “Not like that.”
Aria slipped past his leg, trotting inside as though the place already belonged to her. Damien followed more slowly, ducking his head as he crossed the threshold, the gift still balanced in his hand. The heat hit him first—thicker than the coastal air outside, over-stoked for Torchline—and then the sight of her little nest: pillows and blankets, the lived-in sprawl of someone who hadn’t left the hearth in a day or two.
He set the package down on a side table without ceremony, stripping his sweater as he did. The air here was warmer, thick with fire-heat, and it left him standing in just a tan-colored short-sleeved shirt. For once, there was no barrier of wool or leather between him and the world. The shirt clung in places, pulling over the breadth of his shoulders, the heavy muscle corded down his arms. His skin was scattered with old nicks and scars, the map of a man who’d worked blades and axes longer than most had lived in comfort. Bare by his standards, but more than enough for this climate.
“You’ve been running yourself down.” His voice was level, but there was no mistaking the line of worry beneath it. He crouched by the fireplace, picked up the lone log waiting for its turn, and set it into the coals like he’d been doing it for her all along. Sparks spat up, hungry and bright, before settling into steady flame.
"Would've come sooner if I knew you were sick." His eyes caught hers as he looked over his shoulder, gaze steady and unyielding. "Why didn't you tell me?"
He’d been ready with a dry remark about couches and bonfires, maybe even a lopsided smile. But the words stuck fast and his brows knitted together instead.
Theea filled the doorway like she’d run through a gauntlet—red-nosed, eyes dulled, sweater swallowing her frame. She snapped into a sneeze so violent he leaned back half a step, not out of disgust but instinct, as though bracing against a blow. She apologized in a rush, all bright voice and ragged edges, and something in him gave a small twist.
“Allergies,” she said.
He grunted low in his throat, skepticism thick as tar. His gaze did a slow sweep, cataloguing everything: the black smudges on her fingers, the trash bucket mountain of crumpled tissues, the log still fighting in the fire. Then his eyes came back to her, lingering on the flush across her cheeks, the faint glassiness to her stare.
“You don’t get allergies in Deepfrost,” he said flatly, factual as ever. “Not like that.”
Aria slipped past his leg, trotting inside as though the place already belonged to her. Damien followed more slowly, ducking his head as he crossed the threshold, the gift still balanced in his hand. The heat hit him first—thicker than the coastal air outside, over-stoked for Torchline—and then the sight of her little nest: pillows and blankets, the lived-in sprawl of someone who hadn’t left the hearth in a day or two.
He set the package down on a side table without ceremony, stripping his sweater as he did. The air here was warmer, thick with fire-heat, and it left him standing in just a tan-colored short-sleeved shirt. For once, there was no barrier of wool or leather between him and the world. The shirt clung in places, pulling over the breadth of his shoulders, the heavy muscle corded down his arms. His skin was scattered with old nicks and scars, the map of a man who’d worked blades and axes longer than most had lived in comfort. Bare by his standards, but more than enough for this climate.
“You’ve been running yourself down.” His voice was level, but there was no mistaking the line of worry beneath it. He crouched by the fireplace, picked up the lone log waiting for its turn, and set it into the coals like he’d been doing it for her all along. Sparks spat up, hungry and bright, before settling into steady flame.
"Would've come sooner if I knew you were sick." His eyes caught hers as he looked over his shoulder, gaze steady and unyielding. "Why didn't you tell me?"
i want you by my side
so i can never feel alone again
so i can never feel alone again
