*Isabella's POV*
Monday evening after a long, fucking exhausting day at work. I went downstairs after a long, hot shower and a change into some comfy clothes. I found him in the kitchen, drinking a coffee in just a pair of sweatpants and a shirt. The sight of him so casual, so at home, did something funny to my stomach.
"Can I ask you not to come to my room tonight, Damien?" I asked, my voice a little shaky as I walked up to him. "I'm not in the best... uhm," I stuttered, feeling like an idiot.
"Isabella," he said, his voice a low, calm rumble. "I know you're on your period."
My eyes widened. "You know?" I asked, my voice a squeak.
"Of course I do," he chuckled, a sound that was both annoying and incredibly sexy. "You were bitching at Cole all day today at the office. Your hair is kinda out of place with too many hairpins. And instead of skirts, you were wearing jeans," he said, making me gasp.
"Do I always do that?" I asked, genuinely shocked.
"At least in the two years that you've worked with me," he replied, his expression completely serious.
"Damn, you sure have a great attention to detail," I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm, but honestly, I was impressed.
"Only when it comes to you, Isabella," he whispered, moving closer. He pinned me against the counter, his hand gently forcing me to meet his gaze. "Let me come to your room. Don't you think I can just cuddle you?" he said gently.
"Is this Jacob without tattoos?" I said, chuckling, realising he wasn't laughing.
"I'm sorry, Damien," I sighed, my shoulders slumping. "I guess I'm not used to seeing you as anything but big and bad."
"I'll show you bad," he said with a smirk, reaching out to tickle me.
"NO, Damien, stop with the tickling!" I squealed, laughing hysterically as his fingers dug into my sides faster. "NO, Damien, I'm super sensitive! AHH" I squealed, laughing, but he didn't stop.
"Okay I yield, you win! You can have a cuddle session," I said, and he finally stopped with a triumphant smile.
After dinner, we were a tangled mess in my bed, cocooned in a warm, fuzzy bubble that I never wanted to pop. His leg was thrown over mine, a heavy, grounding weight, and his arms were wrapped around my waist, his fingers splayed out on my stomach, gently rubbing in a slow, mindless rhythm that was making me feel drowsy.
"Do you want an extra doughnut?" he asked, his voice a low rumble against my ear.
"No," I mumbled into my pillow. "I might actually puke if I do."
He chuckled, a deep, warm sound that vibrated through my chest. "I wanted to say it before, but you're allowed to binge your comfort food once a month," he said, his tone laced with a smug authority.
I pouted, turning my head to give him a look. "Oh, am I? Thanks for the permission."
He just chuckled again, pressing a soft kiss to my shoulder. But then, the relaxed mood shifted. "Can I..." he started, his voice a little hesitant. "I have some work to do."
And just like that, a little piece of the warm, fuzzy bubble we were in just fucking popped. My heart sank a little, a stupid, childish disappointment. "Yeah, sure go work" I sighed, trying to sound cool about it, like I wasn't internally gutted that our cuddle session was being cut short for work.
He squeezed my waist gently, planting a soft kiss on my hair. "Thanks. Call me if you need anything," he said, his voice quiet.
And then he pulled away, rolling out of the bed. The sudden loss of his weight, the cold spot he left behind... it was immediate. I listened to his quiet footsteps as he walked out of my room, closing the door softly behind him. And I was left there, yearning for his touch, the bed suddenly feeling too big, too fucking empty without him in it.
Days later, I was seated at my desk, filling more fucking reports and spreadsheets. The numbers blurred together, a meaningless sea of black and white. Things were going smoother and smoother between me and Damien. It was almost... unnerving. He was perfect. We never disagreed on anything.
He came to my room every night. That was part of our new routine. He'd slip under my covers, wrap his arms around me, and for a little while, everything felt right. But he was always gone when I woke up. Either he left in the middle of the night, or he was up at some ungodly hour for his workout. That's the only problem I have. That he was so damn closed off enough not to invite me into his room. That he avoided intimacy at all costs, except for a few cuddles and massages here and there. He mostly came to my room for sex.
Wait, why the fuck do I say that like it's a bad thing? I've been using men for sex my whole damn life. It was my go-to, my armour. Why do I have an issue with it now?
I pushed the fucking thought aside, trying to get on with my work, but another, more persistent one crept in. I wanted to see what his room looked like. Why he is so damn secretive about everything. Why doesn't he talk about his life, his past, anything? I want to talk to him, not about work or school, and definitely not about what we are having for dinner. I want to know what makes him tick, what he's scared of, what he dreams about when he thinks no one is watching.
I pushed the thought aside again, a frustrated sigh escaping my lips. "Since when do you wanna talk so much, Isabella?" I muttered to myself, throwing my focus back into the glowing screen of my monitor.