Emily couldn't stop staring at him.
Not obviously. She wasn't bold enough for that.
But she kept catching herself glancing up from her plate — and finding Damian already looking at her.
Not with his usual cool detachment, either. There was something softer in his expression. Still unreadable, still composed, but quieter. Like he was… content.
It was strange.
Not bad strange. Just unexpected.
He finished the last bite of his pasta, set his fork down, and leaned against the island, watching her over the rim of his glass of water.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked.
Emily blinked. "What?"
"You have that look."
"What look?"
"That one," he said, nodding at her face. "Like your thoughts are miles away but you're trying to look present."
She flushed. "Is that how I look?"
"Sometimes."
She didn't know whether to be flattered or uncomfortable that he noticed.
"I was just thinking," she said carefully, "that I didn't expect this day to feel so… normal."
"Normal?" he echoed.
"I mean… you. Me. Lunch. Your house. I thought it would be intimidating. But it's not. It's just… calm."
He studied her for a long moment.
"I wanted you to feel comfortable here."
"You didn't have to go out of your way—"
"I didn't," he interrupted gently. "This is just… me."
That made her pause.
Because for the first time, she realized she was no longer speaking to the man who ran the company with iron precision.
This was the man who stood barefoot in his kitchen and sautéed garlic like it calmed his nerves.
And the difference mattered more than she could explain.
"You're very hard to read," she said after a moment.
"That's intentional."
"Why?"
"Because most people read only what they want to see."
"And what do you think I see?" she asked before she could stop herself.
His eyes darkened just slightly — not in anger, but focus.
"I think," he said slowly, "you see more than most. And that's why I haven't asked you to leave."
She sat very still.
The silence that followed was thick. Not uncomfortable — but charged, like something delicate had just been handed over.
Her fingers curled slightly around her water glass. "You don't let people in often, do you?"
He looked down. Then back at her.
"No."
And just like that, she understood.
Not everything.
But enough.
There was something behind the walls he'd built. Not secrets, necessarily — but depth. Silence. Loneliness. A kind of caution she knew too well because she wore it herself.
Maybe that was why he made her nervous.
Because she saw herself in him, reflected in a mirror neither of them had meant to look into.
He stood then, clearing the plates. The moment passed without being broken, like they'd silently agreed not to press further.
But as he moved to the sink and she stood to help, Emily realized something had shifted.
She wasn't afraid of him anymore.
She was curious.
And worse?
She wanted to stay.