The hum of the engine filled the car, steady and low, a sound that seemed to match the unhurried rhythm of Damien's driving. His hand rested loose on the steering wheel, his other arm draped along the edge of the door, fingers occasionally tapping against it like there was music only he could hear. The windows were cracked just enough for the late-afternoon air to drift in, warm with the scent of asphalt and faint traces of city dust.
Maya sat angled toward the passenger-side window, watching the familiar scenery slip by. The campus district's neat rows of cafés, bookstores, and cheap apartments blurred into each other. Then, just as they passed a corner she recognized, her eyes caught on the building near the school -- the apartment complex she'd been inside before.
They drove right past it.
Her head turned toward him. "We're not going there?" she asked.
"Not today," Damien replied without looking at her, his voice smooth, almost distracted.
She shifted in her seat, curiosity sparking. "Then where are we going?"
"You'll see," he said, a small curve tugging at his mouth. Not quite a smirk. More like he was amused that she was trying to guess.
The streets thinned as they left the campus area behind. The buildings grew taller, sleeker, with reflective glass that caught the late light. The noise of the busier streets faded until all she could hear was the car's steady purr. She couldn't help watching him from the corner of her eye -- the way he seemed to move with the road rather than against it, his jaw relaxed, his focus absolute.
They turned down a wide boulevard lined with tall palms. The shadows stretched long across the pavement, and at the far end stood a building that seemed to rise straight out of the light itself. The glass façade shimmered gold where the sun caught it, while the darker stone accents gave it an almost solemn weight.
Damien pulled into the private driveway without hesitation. A valet in a pressed uniform stepped forward immediately, greeting him by name before taking the keys. The doorman opened the glass doors with a quiet efficiency that made it feel choreographed, like Damien was expected here -- not as a guest, but as someone who belonged.
Maya slowed her steps as they crossed the marble lobby. The high ceiling made her footsteps echo faintly, and her gaze kept catching on little details -- the sculptural light fixture dripping down from above like frozen raindrops, the muted artwork on the walls, the faint scent of something expensive and understated lingering in the air.
She glanced at him as they reached the elevator. "So… what is this place?"
"My place," he said simply, pressing the button for the top floor.
Her brows lifted. "You live here?"
"Sometimes." His tone was calm, matter-of-fact, like he was talking about the weather.
The elevator doors closed, cocooning them in mirrored walls. She watched their reflections instead of his face, trying to read something from the relaxed way he leaned against the wall, one hand in his pocket.
"This building," she said slowly, "it's… yours?"
A faint shrug. "Yeah."
She blinked. "Like, your apartment is here or..."
"The whole building," he clarified, his gaze fixed somewhere above her head in the mirrored ceiling. "And a few others."
She stared at him. "A few others?"
He nodded once, still not looking directly at her. "That one near campus you keep glancing at? Mine too."
It was so casual, the way he said it -- no pride, no need to make it sound impressive. Just a fact. Like he was telling her the time of day.
She let out a quiet breath, her thoughts spinning. She'd known they were wealthy -- Logan had never exactly hidden that -- but she hadn't known it was this deep. Multiple buildings. A penthouse. A lifestyle so far from her own that she wasn't sure how she'd managed to underestimate it for two years.
Two years.
Her eyes slid to the floor, watching the brushed steel gleam under the elevator lights. How did I never realize?
The soft chime of the elevator snapped her out of it. The doors opened directly into a wide, open space.
His apartment -- or rather, his penthouse -- didn't look staged like a showroom. It looked lived-in, but in a way that carried his fingerprint in every detail. The air smelled faintly of paint and turpentine beneath the cleaner scents of polished wood and fabric. The walls were lined with canvases -- some framed and mounted in deliberate symmetry, others leaning against the walls half-finished. The colors ranged from sharp, almost violent strokes to softer, muted tones that seemed to hum with something quieter.
A wide bookshelf stretched across one wall, not just with books but with sketchpads, jars of brushes, and small sculptures in varying stages of completion. A leather couch faced the far wall of glass, where the city sprawled below, lights beginning to spark against the fading sky.
Damien stepped inside without hesitation, setting his keys in a shallow ceramic bowl on a side table. He didn't pause to watch her take it all in; he just moved through the space like it was muscle memory, like he could walk these rooms blindfolded.
"This way," he said, glancing over his shoulder.
She followed him down a short hallway, her fingers brushing against the textured wall as they passed. He opened a door near the end and stepped aside for her to enter.
The guest room was… complete. Not in a minimal, impersonal way, but in a way that made it clear anyone could walk in and have what they needed without asking. Fresh linens on the bed, a folded stack of towels on the chair, bottled water on the nightstand. There was even a small writing desk tucked into the corner, its surface clear except for a lamp and a notepad with a pen resting neatly beside it.
"You can settle in here," Damien said. His tone was even, without warmth or distance -- just… steady. "Everything you need should already be here."
She turned to look at him, but he was already stepping back into the hallway.
"I'll be in the studio if you need anything," he added, his voice trailing just slightly as his footsteps carried him away.
The door stayed open behind him, but the quiet that settled in the room felt like its own kind of closure. Maya stood for a moment in the middle of the room, the faint smell of paint still lingering in her senses from the walk down the hall.
She glanced toward the window. The city stretched endlessly below, its noise muted by the height. For a second, she could almost forget the tangle of thoughts waiting in her head -- thoughts about Damien, about Logan, about the spaces in between what she'd known and what she was only now starting to see.
She sat on the edge of the bed, the fabric cool beneath her fingertips, and let the quiet sink in.