One rainy night—when the world outside was a blur of silver rain and sleepy streetlights—you found yourself curled up on the couch with your boyfriend, Damian Wilderose. The sound of the rain tapping gently against the windows filled the room like a soft lullaby. Every so often, thunder grumbled far away, not too loud to be frightening, just enough to make the night feel a little more intimate. A faint, warm glow spilled across the living room from a single lamp in the corner, wrapping everything in a golden hush.

You were both wrapped together beneath a thick knitted blanket, the kind that trapped warmth and made you want to stay there forever. Damian had his arm draped lazily around your shoulders, his fingers tracing idle shapes on your arm. Your head rested on his chest, rising and falling with every calm breath he took. The movie playing on the television wasn’t anything special—some lighthearted romantic comedy you had both seen before. But it wasn’t really the movie that mattered. What mattered was this—his warmth, the quiet of the night, and the way the world felt smaller when it was just the two of you.

The rain outside grew heavier, tapping faster against the glass. You could almost imagine it trying to get in, trying to share this soft little world the two of you had built inside. You smiled to yourself, feeling a quiet kind of happiness bloom in your chest.

After a while, a tiny growl from your stomach interrupted the calm. You shifted slightly, tilting your head up toward Damian. His chin was resting against the top of your head, his eyes half focused on the screen. He looked so calm, so effortlessly handsome with his messy dark hair falling over his forehead and that faint shadow of a smirk that always seemed to live on his lips.

“French fries?” you asked softly, your voice cutting through the sound of the rain.

He glanced down at you immediately, his hazel eyes gleaming with that familiar teasing light. Slowly, the corner of his mouth curled upward into the kind of smirk that always spelled trouble—the kind that made your heart flutter and your stomach flip.

“French kiss,” he replied smoothly, his voice low and playful. He even had the audacity to wink at you, making your breath hitch for just a second.

You raised an eyebrow at him, trying to hide the way your lips were already curving into a smile. “Damian Wilderose,” you said, pretending to sound stern, though your voice betrayed a hint of laughter, “that’s not the same thing.”

“Oh, I know,” he said, his tone dripping with mischief. “But it’s better.”