Damian stood at the sink, rinsing the plates with a mechanical rhythm.
Hot water.
Smooth circular motions.
Stack. Rinse. Dry.
It was a ritual he didn't need — but it kept his hands busy while the rest of him tried to recover.
He could still feel her presence behind him. Her subtle scent lingered in the air. The warmth from where she'd been sitting. The faint shift of fabric as she moved.
She had no idea what she was doing to him.
Or maybe she did.
Emily Johnson — sharp, stubborn, composed — had walked into his home this morning like a guest unsure of her place.
And now she felt like she belonged in every corner of it.
She hadn't flirted. She hadn't fawned over him or the house. She didn't perform. She just… was. Real. Grounded. Quiet. And that was what made her dangerous.
She didn't try to win him over.
And yet, she had.
He'd told himself this was about finishing the deal. Wrapping up logistics.
But if he was being honest?
He just wanted her near.
The last plate clinked gently as he set it in the rack. He dried his hands, then leaned on the counter, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the marble as if the surface could calm the war inside him.
He'd said something stupid earlier.
"This is just me."
And she hadn't flinched. She'd looked at him like she believed it.
Like she saw him.
Not the title. Not the reputation.
Him.
That kind of gaze had always made him uneasy — too much expectation, too much vulnerability. But hers didn't demand anything. It just accepted.
And somehow, that was worse.
He stood up straighter, adjusting the sleeves of his sweater, then glanced toward the glass wall that separated the kitchen from the living area.
There she was.
She'd wandered over to the bookshelf, brushing her fingertips lightly along the spines. Not snooping. Just curious. Pausing every so often to tilt her head, as if reading titles surprised her.
He almost smiled.
She didn't know he'd bought one of those books after seeing her with it. A paperback novel with a cracked spine and creased cover. He'd read it front to back in one night, not because he was drawn to the story, but because she had been.
He moved across the room, silent on bare feet, pausing just behind her.
She noticed.
Her head turned, eyes meeting his without surprise or fear.
"You read these?" she asked softly.
"Sometimes," he said.
A small smile touched her lips. "You're full of surprises."
He didn't answer.
Because anything he said now would be too honest.
Too open.
He watched as she turned her attention to the view again, eyes scanning the skyline like she was grounding herself. And he realized, with some discomfort, that he didn't want her to leave when this day was done.
He didn't know how to want someone like this.
Not with a contract. Not with a move.
But with time. With presence.
With nothing but the way she made him feel.
"I like having you here," he said before he could stop himself.
She turned, slowly, as if unsure she'd heard him right.
Her eyes searched his.
She didn't speak right away.
And that pause — that breath between what she might say and what she might not — made something in him clench.
Because that had been real.
Unfiltered.
He hadn't said it to win her over. Or to create an opportunity. He'd said it because it was true.
And now it hung in the air like a fragile thing he wasn't used to offering.
If she walked away now, he wasn't sure what he'd be left with.
But it wouldn't be enough.
Not anymore.