Damian does not rush me. That is the first thing I notice as he takes my hand and leads me down the hall. There is no urgency in his steps, no heat pulling him forward faster than thought. His grip is steady, warm, a quiet promise rather than a demand. Each step feels deliberate, like he is making space for me to breathe inside the moment instead of carrying me through it. The bedroom waits at the end of the hall, lights low, curtains drawn against the city. The room feels familiar now, not like a place I borrowed but one I chose. The air smells faintly of clean linen and something warm I cannot quite name. I stop just inside the doorway. Damian turns to me immediately, attention narrowing, reading my face the way he has learned to. He does not speak. He waits. That matters more than

