I stood on the front steps of Damien’s house, the cold evening air biting through my thin coat. I tucked my fingers into the sleeves and wrapped them around the handle of my suitcase, the soft glow from the downstairs windows just enough to see in the low light of the evening. Each second felt like an eternity as I waited for him to open the door, my heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and nervousness.
I didn’t even realize I’d been holding my breath until the door swung open and I lost the air in my lungs.
He stood there in a thin white t-shirt that clung to him like a second skin, a pair of flannel pajama bottoms hanging low on his hips. I just could barely make out the V of muscle that acted like a stupid fucking arrow. My saving grace came only in the looseness of his pants.
“Did you have to wear that?” I asked.
He snorted. “Are you planning to comment on my attire by way of greeting every time you come to my house?”
He took my suitcase from my grasp and opened the door further, motioning me through. “I mean, I wasn’t planning to,” I grumbled.
I shut the door behind me, taking the moment to study the amount of high-tech locks that were in place on it. I’d probably need to learn how each one worked if I stood any chance of getting out one of the doors here at some point.
But I had tomorrow to learn the ropes of the house before Damien went back to work on Monday, and I’d be here, with Noah, working from… working remotely.
“Noah’s asleep,” he said, tilting his chin up the stairs as he carried my bag to the foot of them. “I’ll bring your bag up to your room. I think I’ve mastered the whole not waking him up thing.”
“After one night?” I laughed.
He grinned at me and nodded. I watched as he carefully trudged up the stairs, my intensely heavy bag almost nothing to him, and slid my coat from my shoulders. Might as well make myself at home.
I kicked off my shoes, grateful that I’d chosen to wear joggers instead of tight slacks this evening, and wandered through the massive living room to where I knew the kitchen was. I knew better than to get myself a glass of wine — even though I wanted one. Even though it would help with the nerves of just being here after what happened last time.
So, instead, I poured myself a glass of orange juice.
“You know you’re welcome to have anything from my kitchen, right?”
He stood in the division of the kitchen and the living room, one brow raised as he watched me sip my orange juice. “I figured,” I said. “But… you know.”
“I get it.” He looked toward the double glass doors, the light from the kitchen’s wall of windows painting the veranda in warmth despite the chill of the city atmosphere. “We should go over a few things while he’s sleeping. Do you want to go outside?”
“It’s cold.”
“I’ve got blankets.” He stepped past me and padded across the floor to the doors, unlatching one lock at a time with a mixture of his hands and his phone. “I can turn on the fire pit, too.”
He swung the doors open and the low hum of the city flooded in, filling the quiet space with life and the sounds of night. The sun was far below the horizon, not a single speck of its warmth in sight — just the faint flicker of stars through the light pollution and the view over the Golden Gate Bridge.
I followed him out, shutting the doors just enough that only a crack remained open. Just in case.
To the right, just on the other side of the living room window and the bottom of the staircase, was a plush, rounded outdoor sofa, and a wide electric fire pit in front of it. One flick of a switch from Damien and it roared to life, warming the air around it that was encased by a pristinely trimmed hedgerow on the backside.
Despite my better judgment, I sat down beside him.
He passed me a blanket — thick and soft, a plaid green and blue pattern weaved into it. I pulled it over myself and brought my knees to my chest. He didn’t bother with one for himself, though, and I couldn’t help but let my eyes wander across his chest and the fabric that clung to it.
“I want you to know that I’m well aware this will be awkward as shit,” he said.
I loosed a breath as I let my head fall back onto the cushions. “Good. I can’t pretend like it isn’t.”
“I don’t expect you to. Even around Noah, you don’t need to hide it if you’re feeling uncomfortable.”
“Thank you,” I chuckled. “How was the rest of yesterday with him?”
He stared at the flickering ethanol flame in front of him, one foot on the edge of the pit and the other planted on the ground. “It was good, I think. I’m learning. I took him shopping, mainly so I could get the shit he needed as quickly as possible, but… I kind of offered him whatever he wanted. I thought it was a good idea at the time, you know? Thought that he’d get excited and warm up a little more to me if I bought him things. And he did, but—”
“Don’t tell me you tried to buy his love,” I deadpanned.
“Not necessarily buy his love. I wanted to buy his comfort around me. But you’ll be happy to know that it backfired,” he said, a little laugh seeping out of him as he mindlessly stole my glass of orange juice and took a sip. “He was excited. Too excited. Started saying that I was the best and that his mom never would have bought him that much stuff.”
His finger scrubbed along the lip of the glass, and the more I watched him do it, the more I realized it was an anxious tick. “Was his mom not as well off as you?”
He shook his head as he took another sip. I should have grabbed another glass. “No. Last I heard she was working as a manager at the airport. She wasn’t broke, but… she probably wouldn’t have been able to buy him anything he wanted. He picked up on that.”
I pulled the blanket higher up around my chest. It was warmer in front of the fire pit than it had been outside his front door, but there was still an edge of discomfort. “How’d you handle that?”
Sharp blue eyes, reflecting the orange and yellow hues of the fire, clashed with mine for a fragment of a second. “I told him that just because I was able to purchase things for him, that didn’t default me as the better parent, especially when she’d been there with him from the day he was born and I hadn’t. I don’t think he quite understood.”
I pursed my lips as I watched him study the fire, wondering if he’d find answers there that I couldn’t provide. “He’s only five,” I countered. “It’s okay if he doesn’t understand.”
“I just don’t want him to convince himself that I’m the better parent when he’s only known me for a day,” he sighed. “Because I’m not. I’m not the better parent, Liv, and his mom doesn’t deserve for him to see me that way. I’m doing this blindly and erratically, but that’s not what he sees.”
I reached out to him, just barely touching his shoulder with the back of my fingers. “I think it’s better that he doesn’t see how hard this is for you,” I said. “Imagine how he’d feel if he knew that it was this stressful for you. Would you want that?”
His jaw hardened as he slowly turned his gaze toward me. “No. I wouldn’t want him to know.”
“Then you’re doing the right thing.”
We fell into silence for a moment, just the crack of the fire and the distant sound of cars over the hedgerows. He leaned back into the sofa, close enough to touch if I wanted to, but far enough that it wasn’t the most uncomfortable thing in the world. I watched him, watched as the light from the fire pit flickered across his face, watched as he anxiously checked through the window every thirty or so seconds to make sure that Noah hadn’t come down the stairs. If he didn’t already have flecks of grays through his hair, he’d absolutely have sprouted some in the last few days.
“I told him you’d be staying with us for a little bit,” he said, the words so quiet I almost didn’t catch them. “He’s excited. He likes you.”
“He barely knows me,” I laughed.
Damien shrugged. “He barely knows me, too. You know what he asked me when I told him?”
I shook my head.
“He asked if you were going to be his new mom,” he chuckled, passing me back the now half-empty glass of orange juice. Somehow, the sentence didn’t phase me — it seemed like a pretty average thing for a five-year-old to question. “And then when I brought up the fact that he has a mom, he played the dead-mom card again.”
That look came back over him again, the worried one, the stressed one. “If it makes you feel any better, I wouldn’t know how to deal with that, either.”
“That does. Thank you.” His hand wrapped around the base of my knee, squeezing for just a moment, and then as quickly as the embrace had appeared, it was gone. “I spoke to a child psychologist earlier. She said that any reaction to a parent’s death is okay. They all process things differently. She said to keep an eye on him and to be prepared for it to potentially all hit at once, so I guess you should be on the lookout for that too.”
I swallowed. I wouldn’t have any idea how to handle a situation like that if it happened when we were alone — it caught me off guard enough when he’d just casually mentioned it to me.
“If that happens,” Damien continued, “I don’t expect you to deal with it. I want to make that abundantly clear, Liv. Call me, and I’ll drop whatever I’m doing. I’ll handle it.”
I let out a breath. Thank fuck. “Okay. Thank you.”
He turned to me then, his eyes finally meeting mine fully, even if they did flick over my shoulder to check the window occasionally. “There’s something else, too,” he sighed. “I know this blurs a lot of lines. And I know that’s confusing. I don’t want you to think that I’m trying to play mind games, or trying to get you to do things you wouldn’t otherwise feel comfortable with. If you want to keep your distance from me here, that’s fine. I understand. I’ve set up an entire office for you on the top floor, and your room is at the opposite end from mine on the second. We can avoid each other if that’s what you want.”
That’s not what I want.
Fuck, it should be what I want.
The sound of a car honking its horn made him jump, and he checked behind me again, watching the base of the stairs. But they stayed clear.
“That’s not what I want,” I said, letting my thoughts ring clear. Half of them, at least. “But we can’t… do what we did. No sex. That would muddy things too much, and like you said, you’ve got a lot going on. That’s my rule. That, and we both sign the papers the moment Ethan has them. I can’t stay married to you for longer than necessary. My family will freak out, Damien.”
“No sex, sign the papers. I can do that. Promise,” he said, nodding to himself. He relaxed again on the sofa, his body turning to face me, his eyes holding focus on mine. Despite the air of uncertainty and the biting awkwardness of our situation, there was still a part of me that felt comfortable under his gaze, even with him so close. So close I could reach out and touch him with minimal effort. So close I could bring myself into him if I wanted. “If it’s any consolation, princess, it’s all confusing for me, too.”
Princess. He’d apologized the first time he’d used it after that phone call — but somehow it had weaseled its way back into his vernacular. I didn’t hate it, though. And that was probably a problem. “I’m glad I’m not the only one,” I said, letting out a breathy chuckle.
My breath caught the moment his fingers brushed against the skin of my cheek, pushing a single strand of wavy hair behind my ear. “I have to hold myself back,” he breathed, the words so quiet they nearly disappeared in the air between us. “But I find myself not wanting to.”
I swallowed around the knot in my throat. I didn’t know what to say to that — didn’t know if I should agree, if I should let him know he wasn’t alone in that, or if I should run for the fucking hills.
His fingers cupped my cheek, the touch so soft, so fucking gentle, that I wouldn’t know it was there without the warmth and little crackles of cold from his rings. Blue eyes flicked down to my parted lips before meeting my gaze again, then over my shoulder, then back.
I didn’t pull away when he leaned closer.
I didn’t pull away when his lips brushed against mine.
An open invitation, begging, tempting, waiting on me.
I placed a single hand against his chest, my fingers twisting in the fabric, and let myself push forward into him.
“Dad?”
Reality slammed back in.
I scrambled from Damien as he did the same, his head twisting toward the door as he put space between us. Noah stood in the open doorway, his blanket fisted in one small hand, clad in his matching pajama set. He scrubbed at his eyes with his free hand.
Damien was up before I could even process what had happened.
“What’s up, bud?” he asked, crossing the veranda with his bare feet before squatting in front of Noah, placing both hands on his shoulders. “Why are you awake?”
“I had a bad dream,” Noah said, the little squeak in his voice breaking my heart. I pushed the blanket from my body in case Damien wanted me to do anything.
“Oh, no. Do you… do you want to talk about it?” he asked. I couldn’t tell if the small shake in Damien’s body was from the cold or the unexpectedness of the situation, but as he took Noah’s blanket from his palm and wrapped it around his son’s shoulders, I assumed it was the cold.
Noah shook his head.
“Okay. Why don’t you get yourself a snack and calm down a bit, and then I can come up with you and read you a story?”
“Yeah,” Noah squeaked, wrapping his arms around Damien’s neck briefly before he released him and padded back into the kitchen.
Damien stood back to his full height as he grabbed the handle of the door, shutting it behind Noah and giving us a moment without the intrusion. But he didn’t turn to look at me — he stared at his hand, his body still shaking, his mind frozen.
“Are you okay?” I asked, pushing myself up from the sofa.
Slowly, he turned to me, his lips parted, his breath catching. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s just… that’s the first time he’s called me dad.”
