My throat tightens, but I manage a smile. “Yeah. I am.”
She squeezes my hand just as Damien appears in the hallway, my suitcase slung casually over his shoulder like it weighsnothing. The sight of him there, in this house, carrying my things… it makes the whole thing feelreal.
Mom’s gaze slides to him, and her brows lift. “You better not be a bad influence on my daughter, Damien Lawson.”
He laughs, low and easy. “Pretty sure the bad influence here is your daughter.”
Mom chuckles, shaking her head, and I can’t help smiling too.
In that moment — with Damien here, my mom looking more at ease than I’ve seen her in months, and my life about to shift in a big way — it feels like I’m not just moving out. I’m movingforward.
The kitchen smells faintly of primer and fresh air from the open window. I’m standing barefoot on the drop cloth, holding up two paint swatches against the wall.
“Warm sand or seafoam?” I ask, turning to Damien.
He’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed, pretending to consider them seriously. “Seafoam. Definitely.”
I start to nod when he picks up one of the paintbrushes from the tray.
And then he swipes it across my bare arm.
I gasp, looking down at the streak of pale green on my skin. “You didnotjust do that.”
The smirk on his face is pure trouble.
Grabbing another brush, I dip it into the paint and lunge at him. He dodges, laughing, but I catch his bicep with a sloppy streak. “Ha!”
That’s all it takes. The next minute is a blur of chasing and swiping, both of us laughing until we’re doubled over.Somewhere in the chaos, his foot catches the edge of the drop cloth, the paint tray tips, and a splatter hits the floor — and us.
I look down at the mess, then up at him. He’s grinning like a man about to do something reckless.
“You’re dead,” I warn.
“Am I?” He grabs me around the waist, pulling me into him until we both lose our balance and go down in the paint-slicked drop cloth.
We’re wrestling now, our clothes smudged with color, his body heavy and warm over mine. His hands slide under my shirt, his paint-streaked fingers curling over my ribs.
The laughter fades into something quieter, hotter. His mouth finds mine, and the kiss is deep, messy, like the rest of us right now.
Before I can process it, he’s scooping me up and throwing me over his shoulder. “Bathroom,” he says, smacking my paint-covered ass lightly as he carries me.
The sound of water running fills the space as he sets me down by the tub. He peels off my paint-splattered clothes, dropping them to the floor, and then strips himself with that slow, deliberate way that makes my skin prickle.
When the bath is full, he climbs in first and pulls me in against his chest, the heat of the water and his arms wrapping around me at once.
“You know,” he murmurs into my hair, “we might actually get the kitchen painted… someday.”
I laugh, leaning back against him. “Not if we keep using each other as the canvas.”
The heat of the water seeps into my muscles, washing away the tension and the smell of paint. Damien’s arms are loose but firm around me, his chest a steady rise and fall against my back. I trail my fingers through the bubbles, letting the silence settle between us for a while.
“You know,” he says finally, his voice low and thoughtful, “we don’t have to go to the wedding.”
I tilt my head back to glance at him. “What wedding?”
He gives me a look like I already know the answer. “Colton’s. It’s not exactly… conventional. Showing up to your ex’s big day.”
I study his face, the way the steam curls around the dark scruff along his jaw. He’s trying to keep it casual, but I can hear the edge of protectiveness in his tone.
