Morning found its way into the apartment quietly.
The first light filtered through the curtains, painting soft lines across the couch where Joan lay, half-awake, wrapped in the remnants of last night's confusion and warmth.
She blinked against the sunlight, the events of the night before surfacing in flickers — Damien's voice, his hand on her cheek, that kiss that still hummed under her skin.
Across the room, she heard the sound of movement — a faint clatter of mugs, the low hum of the kettle. Damien stood in the kitchen, hair still tousled, sleeves rolled up, pretending to be entirely at ease.
Joan sat up slowly, the blanket slipping from her shoulders. "You're domestic now? That's new."
He turned, smirking. "Don't sound so shocked. I do own a coffee machine."
"Yeah, probably for decoration," she teased, rubbing her temple. "You always looked more like a chaos-and-caffeine type."
"I'll take that as a compliment," he said, pouring two cups.
She took the one he offered, their fingers brushing — a light, accidental touch that still made her heart trip.
For a moment, neither spoke. The city murmured outside, traffic and life pressing on as if nothing had shifted at all.
Then Damien said quietly, "You've been staring at the window for ten minutes. Regretting last night?"
Joan looked at him, caught off guard. "No," she said, too quickly. Then softer, "Just… thinking."
"About?"
She exhaled, glancing down at her coffee. "About how easy it is to fall back into something that's always felt inevitable."
Damien studied her for a long moment. "You make it sound like a bad thing."
"It's not bad," she said. "It's just… dangerous."
He chuckled, leaning against the counter. "Everything worth it usually is."
Joan rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched despite herself. "That's exactly the kind of thing you'd say."
"And you love it."
She gave a half laugh, shaking her head. "You're impossible."
He pushed away from the counter and crossed the room, stopping a few steps from her. "Maybe," he said, quietly now. "But I meant what I said last night, Joan."
Her gaze met his, wary but soft. "About me choosing you?"
"Yeah." His voice was steady. "I don't want to be something you turn to when you're angry or lonely or trying to prove a point. If we do this… it has to be real."
She looked away, tracing the rim of her cup with her thumb. "You're asking a lot for someone who still flirts his way through every social event."
He smiled faintly. "Maybe. But you're the only one who ever called me out for it."
Joan laughed under her breath, then sighed. "You always did know how to make things complicated."
"I prefer honest," he said.
For a long moment, the air between them stilled — not tense this time, but fragile, like something being rebuilt.
Finally, she stood, setting her cup down. "Fine," she said. "We'll see where this goes. But don't expect me to make it easy."
"Wouldn't want it any other way."
She paused by the door, glancing back at him with that familiar half-smile — sharp, guarded, but undeniably warm. "Good," she said. "Because I'm still not the girl who bows."
Damien's grin was soft now, full of quiet pride. "And I'm still the guy who never wanted you to."
Outside, the morning stretched open — bright, uncertain, full of promise.