The smell of Damien cooking filled the penthouse the next morning. I stood in the doorway for a moment, watching him in the kitchen. His broad shoulders were tense under a simple black t-shirt, hair still damp from a shower. He looked like he hadn’t slept much either. When he turned and saw me, hope flickered in his eyes like a candle fighting the wind.
“Good morning,” I said softly, tugging his shirt down my thighs.
He turned, flipping pancakes with forced casualness. “Morning. Do you want pancakes? And I even cut them into hearts like a sap. Laugh at me if you want.”
I did laugh, soft and genuine, the first real one since the warehouse nightmare. “They’re… aggressively romantic pancakes. You’re really pulling out all the stops, huh?”
“Only the best for my girl.” His voice was warm, b
