You studied him.
He looked different in daylight among roses.
Still dangerous.
Still complicated.
But quieter somehow.
As if he had been learning, too, that power did not always have to enter a room with a fist.
“I missed you,” you said.
His eyes changed.
“I missed you too.”
“I was afraid of you.”
“I know.”
“I still am, a little.”
“That’s fair.”
You almost laughed.
“You’re not going to argue?”
“No. I’ve worked hard for my reputation. It would be dishonest to act offended by it.”
This time you did laugh.
Then you grew serious.
“I can’t be owned, Damian. Not protected like property. Not loved like a possession. Not rescued into another cage.”
His expression softened.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes,” he said. “Because the first time I carried you out of that ballroom, I wanted to burn the world down for you. But that would have made the story about my rage. You needed it to become about your voice.”
Your throat tightened.
“And now?”
“Now,” he said quietly, “I want to stand where you ask me to stand.”
You looked at him for a long time.
Then you took one step closer.
“Here,” you said.
He did not touch you immediately.
He waited.
So you reached for his hand.
His fingers closed around yours gently, like he understood exactly how much trust lived in that small gesture.
