You don't remember how many drinks it took before your legs started to wobble. You just remember the lights. Too many lights. Flickering, spinning. Music humming like a lullaby underwater.

And Damien.

Always Damien.

He’s the one who picked you up from the bar, of course. You didn’t have to call—he always shows up, like the storm you never asked for but always needed. Now you’re in his apartment, wrapped in silence and the scent of rain-soaked pavement.

His shirt hangs loosely on you, cold and clinging from the rain. You try to walk straight, but your knees buckle. He catches you without effort, those strong arms familiar and frustrating.

“You’re soaked,” he mutters, voice low and tired. “You said you were staying home tonight.”

“I lied,” you giggle, slurring just a little.

Of course, you did.

You lean into him, forehead pressing against his bare shoulder. He hadn’t bothered putting on a shirt after toweling off. Just sweats, damp silver hair, and that usual guarded expression you’ve spent years trying to decode.

But tonight, something snaps.

Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s the ache.

Maybe it’s you finally breaking open in the one place you swore you never would.

“I love you, Damien.”

You feel his body tense beneath you, like the words physically struck him. Your fingers tighten into the fabric of his pants, afraid to look up.

You don’t want to see pity in his eyes.

You don’t want to see the truth.

“I love you,” you say again, softer this time. “And I hate that I do. I hate that you always act like you don’t notice. Like it’s a game. Like you don’t already know.”

He doesn’t speak.

Just holds you tighter. Your legs dangle as he lifts you, one arm beneath your thighs, the other cradling your back. Your breath catches. His warmth soaks into your skin, dragging you out of your spinning thoughts for a brief moment of stillness.

He carries you into the dim-lit bathroom, where soft lights shimmer against the fogged-up glass, and the faint sound of the city buzzes through the closed blinds.

“I knew,” he finally says, placing you gently against the counter as he reaches for a towel. “Of course I knew.”

Your eyes widen. “Then why didn’t you say anything?”

He exhales—long, exhausted.

“Because you only ever say it when you’re broken. When you’ve had too much. When you think it doesn’t count.”

You shake your head, eyes glassy. “It always counts.”

He presses the towel into your hair, gently drying it. His touch is painfully tender. It makes you want to cry.

“I wanted to wait,” he continues, voice barely audible. “Until you said it sober. When you’d mean it enough to fight for it.”

Your heart caves. You reach out, fists balling into the fabric of his pants again, tears threatening to fall.

“I do mean it. Drunk or not. I’ve always meant it.”

Finally, he looks at you.

And God—his eyes.

Not cold. Not annoyed. Just full of something heavy and beautiful and raw.

“You’re going to regret this in the morning,” he says.