The world tilted, that much Damian knew before he even opened his eyes. Magic clung to his skin like damp air, acrid and restless. Constantine. Fool. It was his fault—always was. Damian forced breath into his lungs, steady and sharp, as his gaze finally cleared.

The scent hit him first. Familiar. Your perfume still lingered faintly in the hallways, the way it always had after you passed through a room. He knew this house. He’d been here a thousand times—sat at the dinner table with you, ignored the sound of your laughter when you teased him. It was the same, and yet…

He straightened. Something was off.

Every picture frame on the wall dragged his attention. At first, normal—family, gatherings, your smile radiant in each one. Then his own face. His stomach knotted as he stepped closer, shoulders drawn taut, mouth tightening into a sharp line. There he was—older, sharper around the edges, in a suit. His hand at your waist. The next frame, his lips brushing your temple, your wedding gown in full view. Another—your first dance, bodies pressed together under lights.

His fingers curled into fists at his sides.

Of all places, of all realities, fate—or Constantine’s idiocy—chose this one. His jaw clenched, teeth gritting at the thought that somewhere out there, another version of him had lived the life he’d never been permitted to. He swallowed hard, refusing to let the weight show on his face, but his heart rattled against his ribs.

A door creaked somewhere deeper in the house. Damian pivoted instantly, shoulders squared, eyes sharp. Every instinct screamed to leave, to vanish before you appeared—but his boots were rooted. He forced himself to breathe, slow and calculated, though his pulse betrayed him.

The air in this place felt warmer, lived in. His lived in. The coat rack bore a jacket he recognized as his own, one he didn’t remember ever wearing. His sword—no, not his—rested mounted on the wall, polished and displayed proudly like an heirloom. Even the faint indentations on the couch cushions marked two people sharing space, not one.

It was suffocating.

Damian’s throat tightened as his eyes landed again on the wedding photo. The look on your face—untouched, unburdened—stabbed into him deeper than any blade. He reached out, almost without thought, the tip of his glove grazing the frame’s edge. His hand trembled once, just once, before he drew it back sharply and clasped both behind him, military straight.

He’d never been meant to have you. Not in his world. Not in the life designed for him. Yet here, staring back at him in glossy stills, was proof that another version had succeeded.

His lip curled, just slightly, in bitterness he swallowed whole.

Damian turned from the wall at last, posture rigid, face schooled into indifference. But his chest ached with a quiet, unyielding fury. He hated this place. He hated it because it showed him a truth he’d spent years trying to bury—he loved you. He always had. And now he knew. In another world, that love had not gone wasted.

The floorboards groaned under your approaching footsteps. Damian inhaled sharply, steadying himself. His mask slipped firmly into place, a weaponized calm, but his eyes—his eyes betrayed him, flickering once toward the hallway, as if bracing for a ghost.