The room pulsed with something neither of them named.
Damian stood inside her doorway. Just inside.
Close enough to inhale her. Far enough to say it was still safe.
Linda's throat tightened. "Why are you here?"
His gaze was fire and frost. "Because you locked a door I already opened."
"I needed space."
His eyes flicked to the bed, to the rumpled sheets, to the tremble in her fingers.
"No. You needed to test if I'd break it down."
She stepped back, spine brushing the dresser.
"Would you?"
A pause. Then a breath that felt like thunder.
"No," he said softly. "Not yet."
---
He didn't touch her. Not at first.
Just moved to the chair in the corner and sat, legs wide, arms loose.
"You're afraid of what I'll do," he said.
"I'm afraid of what I'll want."
That earned a smile. Sharp. Sad.
"I've wanted you from the second you stepped on my land."
Silence.
Heavy. Thick.
Her voice cracked. "You don't even know me."
"I know your fear. Your stubbornness. Your spine."
He leaned forward, elbows on knees.
"I know that even when you're scared, you don't flinch. I know your pain isn't weakness—it's armor."
Linda closed her eyes. "You speak like you've already had me."
He stood again. One step, two, three—until he was in front of her.
"I haven't," he said. "Not the way I want. Not the way you deserve."
His fingers brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
Gentle.
Not demanding.
And that undid her more than anything.
---
His hand moved to her waist. She didn't stop him.
But when he leaned in, breath ghosting her lips—
She turned her face away.
Damian froze.
Not in anger. But restraint.
"I'm not a prize to be won," she whispered.
His voice was gravel. "You were never a prize. You were the war."
He stepped back.
And walked out.
Linda sank onto the bed, heart hammering, hands shaking.
She wasn't afraid of him.
She was afraid of how badly she wanted him to come back.