[City—Damien's Apartment—9:14 PM]
Damien Wolfe was staring at the ceiling. Not sleeping. Not thinking. Just… staring.
He'd been like this for twenty-two minutes, replaying the same sentence over and over in his head like a cursed audio loop:
Tomorrow. Seven sharp. Heels clicking. Or the goat girl.
He shut his eyes. The chandelier in Grandma Wolfe's dining hall still rattled in his memory. The smell of tea, velvet, and generational trauma clung to his clothes.
From the kitchen came the sound of cabinets opening.
And then—her voice.
"Why do you look like someone told you your Netflix password expired?" Elle Carter emerged holding a mug of tea, barefoot, with her hair tied up in a messy bun, wearing his shirt. The one that was supposed to make him immune to stress.
It didn't.
Tonight? It was only making things worse.
Damien got up, crossed the room, and pulled her into a hug. "Can you not seduce me for, like, a second?"
Elle blinked. "...I'm sorry, what?"
