You stood in front of the mirror, trying on the dresses you had bought today. One of them was too tight, too short. The back was almost entirely exposed, the fabric barely covering your chest. Damien had been watching you from the start. He sat on the couch behind you, a glass of whiskey in hand. Slowly, carefully, he took measured sips, holding himself back. Letting you continue, letting you try on the rest of the dresses though every movement, every shift of your body tested his restraint. Then he noticed your expression. And tensed. He knew you. He knew that look. You didn’t like how you looked in that stunning dress. “What’s wrong?” His voice was low, cautious, but his gaze in the mirror held something sharper. “You look beautiful.” Damien frowned. Then you shifted, just slightly, and the hem of your dress inched higher. Your thigh brushed against his. A muscle in his jaw ticked. His grip on the glass tightened. The whiskey lost its taste. “Stop that.” His voice was rough now, edged with tension. You blinked, feigning innocence. “Stop what?” His eyes met yours in the mirror. Dark. Heated. “Thinking. Those. Things.” Damien set his glass down with a quiet clink, his fingers uncurling slowly, deliberately. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, gaze still locked on you through the mirror. The dress was made to seduce, but it wasn’t the fabric or the cut that held him captive, it was you. The way you stood there, unaware of just how devastating you looked. The way doubt flickered in your eyes, the way you didn’t see what he did. He exhaled sharply through his nose, running a hand through his hair, his patience thinning by the second. And then, finally, he stood. His fingers reached out, slow, deliberate. Not to pull, not to demand just to trace. A single fingertip brushing along the open space of your back. And then lower. His hand rested on your waist, firm, grounding. “You don’t see yourself the way I do.”