Damien had learned the art of patience.
He no longer chased; he simply waited.
Every smile, every kind word, every thoughtful gesture was carefully placed like pieces of a puzzle only he could see.
He brought her coffee in the mornings, not the bitter black she hated, but the one with vanilla and a hint of cinnamon.
He remembered.
He always remembered now.
When she painted by the window, he didn't interrupt. He would just stand there for a moment, watching, saying softly,
"You look at peace when you paint."
And she'd glance at him, half wary, half warmed by the gentleness in his tone.
Little by little, her walls began to crumble.
One evening, when she burned her hand while cooking, he was there within seconds his voice calm, his touch careful as he ran cool water over her skin.
"You should've called me," he said, quietly.
"I can handle it," she replied.
He smiled faintly. "I know. But you don't have to."
The words lingered long after he left the room.
He made her laugh again in small, unexpected ways. A sarcastic comment here, a teasing remark there. The house, once filled with silence and tension, began to hum softly with something almost like warmth.
And she began to believe it.
That maybe he'd changed.
That maybe she could stop being afraid.
But Damien…
He hadn't changed.
He'd simply learned how to hide the darkness better.
He watched her through quiet eyes, noting what made her smile, what made her trust.
Every act of kindness was deliberate a thread tightening around her without her noticing.
One night, as she read in bed, he stood at the door.
"You look tired," he murmured. "Sleep early, alright?"
She nodded, her voice soft. "Goodnight, Damien."
He smiled warm, reassuring but when he turned away, his expression shifted, calm fading into calculation.
"Goodnight, Ayla," he whispered under his breath.
Almost there.