They say every storm passes.
But sometimes, it only changes shape.
Amelia awoke wrapped in warm sheets, the faint scent of coffee and rain still clinging to her hair. She blinked slowly, registering the soft hum of the city waking outside her window—and the soft sound of movement in her kitchen.
Damian.
He was wearing one of her oversized sweaters—navy blue, sleeves too long—his tall frame somehow making it look tailored. He stood barefoot, attempting to make pancakes with far more seriousness than the task required. There was flour on his cheek and confusion in his furrowed brow.
"You're going to burn them," she murmured from the hallway, arms folded as she leaned on the doorframe.
"I'm a CEO. I manage a multinational company. I can manage batter." He flipped a pancake. It folded like paper. "...Or not."
She laughed, a real one—something bright and unguarded. "What are you doing in my sweater?"
Damian turned and raised an eyebrow. "It's comfortable. And smells like you. Problem?"
"Only that I might never get it back."
"Then I'll consider it stolen in the name of love."
He said it casually, teasing, but the word love hung between them, weightier than the air. Amelia didn't flinch. She stepped forward, reached up, and brushed flour from his cheek with her thumb.
"Better," she whispered.
Then came the vibration on the counter. Damian's phone. He reached for it, glanced, and froze. His jaw tightened.
She noticed immediately. "What is it?"
He hesitated, then turned the screen toward her.
Her heart dropped.
A headline burned across the top of a gossip site: "CEO Damian Vance Spotted Leaving Writer's Apartment in the Morning — Mystery Romance Confirmed?" Underneath, a zoomed-in photo of his back, hood up, but still recognizable, showed him slipping into a private car just outside her building. Another image—less grainy—showed her from the night before, standing by her window. The two photos weren't even in the same frame, but the story sold the illusion.
There were already hundreds of comments.
Some were innocent. Others were vicious.
"She's a writer? Or just another social climber?""This is the first girl he's been linked to since Claudia!""She doesn't look like a CEO's type. Interesting.""She better get ready. The press eats girls like her alive."
Amelia's stomach twisted. She closed the phone gently.
"Did you know this would happen?" she asked.
"I hoped it wouldn't." His voice was low. "But I knew it might."
"I thought we were careful."
"We were. They weren't."
She swallowed. "This isn't just gossip. This is my apartment. My life."
"I know."
His face was unreadable now—CEO mask locked into place. But she didn't want the man who knew how to spin scandals. She wanted Damian—the man who wore her sweater and burned pancakes for her.
"I need you to promise me something," she said, voice suddenly small.
"Anything."
"Don't protect me by pushing me away. I can handle the noise. What I can't handle is you shutting down and shutting me out because you think it's what's best for me."
He looked at her then—really looked—and the facade cracked just a little.
"I've lived my whole life behind bulletproof glass," he murmured. "And you… you walked in like sunlight. Do you know how terrifying that is?"
Amelia stepped closer. "Then be terrified. But don't run."
They stood there for a long moment.
Then, quietly, Damian picked up his phone and typed a message. He showed it to her before hitting send.
"This is Amelia Wren. She's brilliant. She's kind. She's not a secret—and she's nobody's headline. She's mine."—Posted on Damian's personal social media
He looked at her, a rare vulnerability in his expression. "I don't care if the board calls. If the press spins this. If the whole city watches us fall apart. I'd rather crash holding your hand than succeed pretending I don't love you."
Amelia's breath caught.
He'd said it.
Love.
Out loud. No edits. No hesitation.
She smiled, teary-eyed, and reached for his hand. "Then hold on tight."
Because the storm wasn't over.
But they were facing it together now.
And that made all the difference.