Damian got home late that night.
The house was quiet, wrapped in that soft, expensive silence that only came after midnight. He loosened his tie as he walked upstairs, fatigue heavy in his shoulders—but the moment he pushed the bedroom door open, it eased.
Elena was sitting by the vanity, her back to him.
She wore one of his shirts, the fabric loose on her small frame, her hair falling over her shoulders as she gently packed it with oil, section by section. The lamplight painted her skin warm and soft, almost unreal.
For a moment, Damian just stood there watching her, his heart doing that familiar, dangerous thing it always did around her.
He closed the door quietly and walked toward her.
Without warning, he leaned down and pressed a slow kiss to the side of her neck.
Elena startled. "Damian—!"
Then she relaxed instantly when she recognized him.
"Mmh," she murmured, smiling. "You're back."
