The kitchen was empty except for the hum of the refrigerator and the faint aroma of toast. Basia stirred her tea, glancing at Damian, who leaned against the counter with his usual precision, posture perfect, expression unreadable.

Then, as if the words had been waiting years to escape, he spoke softly — almost unthinkably gentle:

"You’re… remarkable, habibi."

The word landed like a whisper, entirely uncharacteristic of him. He didn’t look away, didn’t add a sarcastic jab to cover it. For a moment, he just stood there, shoulders squared but voice unguarded.

Basia blinked, caught between surprise and warmth. Damian rarely spoke like that — affection wasn’t his habit.

From the hallway, a familiar voice called out teasingly — it sounded like Tim, but Damian didn’t acknowledge it. His focus was entirely on Basia.

"Don’t misunderstand," he added, his tone low, clipped, but with a rare tremor of sincerity, "habibi… it’s yours. Only yours."

He turned away abruptly after a moment, mask of irritation slipping back into place, but Basia could see it — the faint flush on his cheeks, the stiff exhale. The words had cost him, but he’d said them anyway.

It was fleeting, rare, and entirely Damian. And somehow, that made it more precious than anything else he could have said.