The first time they shared breakfast properly, without the careful formality of a scheduled meeting or the underlying tension of contract negotiations hanging heavily over the table between them, it turned into something reasonably close to a genuine disaster.
Silveria came downstairs that particular morning expecting the small dining room to be entirely empty, the way it usually was most mornings, and instead found Damien already seated at the table, a cup of coffee going slowly cold beside him, his attention fixed intently on something displayed on his phone screen. She very nearly turned around and retreated back upstairs before he could properly notice her standing frozen uncertainly in the doorway.
"Sit," he said, without even bothering to look up from his phone. "Since you're already here regardless."
She sat, mostly out of pure spite at his presumptuous tone, determined to prove it didn't bother her in the slightest that he'd caught her hesitating so obviously in the doorway.
"You're up rather early," she said, reaching for a piece of toast someone had already thoughtfully set out on the table.
"I don't sleep especially much," he said, still not looking up properly.
"Bad dreams?" The question slipped out before she could properly stop herself, some lingering instinct from their earlier conversation in the library about his family pulling the words free before she could reconsider them.
His eyes flicked up sharply to meet hers then, immediately guarded and considerably more alert than they'd been a moment earlier. "That's not a question you get to properly ask."
"Fine," she said, entirely unbothered by the sharp rebuke, buttering her toast with rather more focus than the simple task actually required. "I was merely attempting to make conversation, nothing more sinister than that."
"Try considerably less personal conversation, if you don't mind."
"You're really not an especially easy man to make conversation with, you know that about yourself?"
"I'm not trying particularly hard to be easy," he said, finally setting his phone aside entirely and giving her his proper attention. "I'm simply trying to eat my breakfast in reasonable peace, if that's not too much to ask."
They sat together in silence after that particular exchange, the kind of silence that prickled uncomfortably at the back of her neck the longer it stretched on between them. She kept glancing at him despite her own better judgment, trying quietly to work out how someone could possibly be that thoroughly closed off and still somehow remain genuinely interesting to look at, the sharp, clean lines of his face, the careful, controlled way he moved even through something as simple as reaching for his coffee cup. He caught her staring at him once, and she looked away fast, her cheeks burning hot with obvious embarrassment.
"Something wrong?" he asked, a faint edge of dry amusement creeping unexpectedly into his otherwise controlled voice.
"No," she said quickly. "Just genuinely wondering how you manage to be this thoroughly unpleasant before nine o'clock in the morning, every single day."
The corner of his mouth twitched slightly at that, not quite a proper smile, but close enough that she noticed it immediately regardless. "Practice," he said simply, and returned his attention briefly to his phone, though something in his posture had loosened somewhat since the exchange began.
"Do you do this every single morning?" she asked, genuinely curious now. "Sit here entirely alone with your phone instead of any actual company?"
"Usually, yes," he admitted. "It's considerably quieter this particular way."
"Quieter meaning nobody bothers you with any actual proper conversation."
"Precisely that, yes."
"Well," she said, tearing off another piece of toast with rather more force than strictly necessary, "you're stuck with actual conversation today regardless, apparently, so you may as well try to make the best of the situation."
Something almost like real amusement flickered visibly across his careful face at that particular remark. "Is that a threat, Mrs. Crew?"
"Take it however you'd like to interpret it, Mr. Crew."
He studied her for a moment considerably longer than the exchange strictly required, something curious entering his expression now, like he was quietly recalculating some assumption he'd apparently made about her without properly realizing it until just now. "Fine," he said finally. "Tell me something, then, since you're apparently so determined to make proper conversation with me this morning."
"Tell you what, exactly?"
"Anything at all. Surprise me properly, if you can manage it."
She considered the unexpected challenge carefully, genuinely wanting to give him something honest rather than simply filling the silence between them with meaningless, empty chatter. "I hate mushrooms," she said finally. "Completely irrationally, if I'm being honest about it. My sister used to hide them carefully in my food when we were both young, just to watch me pick through every single bite like an absolute lunatic afterward."
Something almost like a real, genuine laugh escaped him at that, quick and visibly surprised, like he genuinely hadn't expected to find that particular confession quite so funny. "That's oddly specific, for a random confession."
"You asked me to surprise you properly."
"I did," he admitted, still smiling faintly at the memory she'd shared. "Consider me genuinely surprised, then."
"Your turn now," she said, emboldened considerably by the small victory of actually making him laugh for the first time. "Tell me something in return."
He considered the request for a long moment, something visibly guarded crossing his expression before he finally decided to answer properly. "I used to want to become an architect," he said quietly. "Before everything terrible happened to my parents, I mean. I used to draw buildings constantly, the way you apparently draw dresses, I would imagine. Cathedrals, mostly, for some reason. I liked the particular idea of building something that would still be properly standing long after I wasn't around anymore to see it."
The admission caught her completely off guard, unexpectedly personal given how carefully he typically guarded absolutely everything else about himself from casual conversation. "What happened to that particular dream, then?"
"Crew Enterprises happened, essentially," he said simply. "There wasn't really room left for architecture once I inherited an entire company at eighteen years old that desperately needed saving from complete collapse. Some dreams simply get set aside eventually, when survival takes proper priority over everything else."
"That's genuinely sad," she said softly, meaning it.
"It's practical," he corrected, though something in his own voice suggested he didn't entirely believe his own careful correction anymore, not completely.
"Do you still draw at all? Buildings, I mean, even just for yourself?"
He was quiet for a moment, considering the question. "Not in years," he admitted. "I kept my father's old drafting tools, though. Somewhere in the west wing, still packed away. I've never quite managed to bring myself to get rid of them properly."
"Why keep them, if you never use them?"
"I've asked myself that same question more than once," he said. "I don't have a particularly satisfying answer for you."
They sat with that admission for a moment, the easy banter from earlier giving way gradually to something quieter and considerably more honest between them. Silveria found herself wanting to ask a great deal more, to press gently at the careful edges of whatever else he kept so thoroughly locked away behind that practiced control of his, but something in his expression told her clearly she'd already gotten further than he'd properly intended to let her go, at least for one single morning.
"Thank you," she said instead, quietly. "For telling me that much, at least."
He nodded once, something entirely unreadable passing behind his careful eyes, and returned his attention properly to his coffee, though the silence that followed felt notably different now, considerably less prickly than before, something closer to genuinely companionable. Silveria decided right then, watching him carefully over the rim of her own cup, that breakfast with Damien Crew was apparently going to become a daily challenge she had absolutely no genuine intention of ever losing.
"Same time tomorrow?" she asked as she finally rose from the table, unable to resist the small provocation.
Something that might almost have been genuine anticipation flickered behind his careful eyes. "I suppose that depends entirely on whether you intend to keep interrogating me about my sleeping habits," he said, though there was no real heat behind the words at all.
"I make no promises," she said, and left the dining room with a small, satisfied smile she didn't bother trying to properly hide from him.
• • •
She returned the following morning, half expecting to find the dining room empty again, half hoping she wouldn't. Damien was already there, exactly as before, though this time he set his phone aside the moment she entered, without her needing to say a single word.
"You waited for me," she said, genuinely surprised, taking her usual seat.
"I did nothing of the sort," he said, though something in his tone suggested otherwise. "I simply happened to still be here."
"Of course," she said, hiding a smile behind her coffee cup. "My mistake entirely."
"How did you sleep?" he asked, the question clearly costing him some effort, like small talk didn't come naturally to him even now.
"Better than I expected," she admitted. "The house is quieter than I'm used to. It took some adjusting."
"Quieter how? I would have thought a house this large would feel considerably noisier than wherever you grew up."
"It's a different kind of noise," she said, considering how to properly explain it. "At my parents' house, the noise was mostly people. Arguments, mostly. Doors slamming. Here, it's just... empty space. Echoes instead of actual voices."
Something crossed his face at that, complicated and difficult to properly read. "I've lived with that particular kind of quiet for a very long time now," he said finally. "I stopped noticing it years ago, I think. Or perhaps I simply got used to it in a way I hadn't fully realized until you pointed it out just now."
"Is that a bad thing? Getting used to it, I mean?"
"I genuinely don't know," he admitted. "I've never properly had reason to question it before."
She studied him carefully across the table, something warm and curious stirring in her chest at the small, unexpected honesty he kept offering her, piece by careful piece, morning after morning. "Well," she said finally, "I suppose you have reason to question it now."
Something almost like a smile touched his mouth at that, quick and genuine. "I suppose I do," he agreed quietly, and for the remainder of that particular breakfast, they talked easily about smaller, considerably less complicated things, the weather, a business trip he had coming up, a book she'd found in the library that morning, both of them apparently equally surprised at how easily the conversation continued to flow between them once they'd properly gotten started.
By the time she finally rose to leave for the day, something had settled comfortably into place between them that hadn't quite been there before, a small, fragile routine neither of them had planned for but neither of them seemed inclined to abandon either.