Chapter 14 Damian
DAMIAN
For a moment, I don’t know where I am. The ceiling is unfamiliar. The air smells faintly of lavender and something warmer beneath it—her. The sheets are softer than mine. The mattress narrower.
Then memory returns in steady, unpanicked waves. Perry. Her laughter. Her mouth in the kitchen. Her hands at my collar. Her breath at my ear.
My thoughts are as scattered as the scant dust motes drifting in the early morning light.
This is not a mistake. That’s the first clear thought.
The second is less comfortable. She is too young for me.
The age difference didn’t feel pronounced in conversation. Or in the dark. It doesn’t even feel pronounced now, watching her sleep. But it exists. In the world outside this room, we will be judged.
Plenty of men date younger women here, though. There’s another detail that will be noted by my social circle, however. She is my son’s ex-girlfriend. That detail has weight. Snow Valley will enjoy that tidbit immensely.
I can live with that. But she’s also a new mother. That factor lingers longer than the others.
The apartment is quiet because Perry’s friend, Olivia, took the twins for the evening. Evidence of them is everywhere—folded blankets in the living room, a bottle drying rack by the sink, the faint hum of a baby monitor plugged into the wall even though there’s nothing to transmit.
This is not casual. This is not detached. Letting me stay over means something to Perry.
Doesn’t it?
It means something to me.
If Amber discovers I’m still seeing Perry, she will not handle it with restraint. Amber’s relationship with Meron complicates it further. My department head is my ex-wife’s fiancé. My former best friend. A man who would enjoy watching me stumble.
Professionally, this is unwise. Socially, it’s reckless. Family-wise, it’s combustible. And yet…here I am.
I turn my head. Perry is sprawled across her side of the bed, clothes discarded somewhere on the floor, hair a dark riot across the pillow. One arm is tucked beneath her head. The other hangs loosely off the mattress.
She’s snoring. Full, unapologetic, unfiltered sound. And instead of diminishing her, it disarms me completely. I did that to her. I knocked her out.
My pride and other parts of me swell at the thought. I consider waking her. The thought is immediate. Physical. I remember how she felt beneath my hands. The way she looked at me like I was something extraordinary.
I shift slightly. She snores again, louder. I bite back a laugh.
No. Let her sleep.
I slide carefully from the bed and gather my clothes from the floor. The air is cool against my skin. I button my shirt and pause at the edge of the mattress, looking down at her.
This situation is detrimental to my life in nearly every measurable way. But I have not felt this awake in years.
I leave the bedroom quietly. Her apartment is smaller than mine, but it feels fuller. Not crowded. Just lived-in.
I move slowly through the living room, conscious that I’m walking through the center of her life without invitation to examine it. Two bassinets sit near the couch, positioned with precision. A green folded blanket rests on the arm of the sofa.
In the kitchen, I make coffee as quietly as I can. A bottle warmer occupies the counter. A handwritten note is taped to the refrigerator—feeding times. Diaper counts. Reminders in tight, disciplined script.
Perry may appear impulsive, but she’s not. At least, not in everything.
I’m not surprised she stays so organized. She’s doing this on her own. The early days of parenthood are brutal. I can’t imagine handling them alone.
I remember the smell of formula lingering in our first house. The sound of Jason’s cry piercing through walls at three in the morning. The way Amber and I rotated exhaustion like a shift schedule. I remember standing in the nursery and thinking: This is where it begins.
Back then, I believed that consistency would be enough. That love, properly applied, could shape trajectory. That if I loved them both enough, everything would turn out the way that it should.
Maybe that’s the lie every parent tells themselves. Or maybe it’s just me. I was wrong. Jason did not turn out the way I imagined. That thought sits heavier than it should this early in the morning. The weight of it stands on my chest.
Coffee. I need coffee.
I straighten and step back into the kitchen, pouring coffee with a steadier hand than I feel. The apartment reflects something I haven’t seen in a long time—a fresh start. Funny how that sounds like the most appealing thing in the world, first thing in the morning.
Unopened boxes are stacked neatly in one corner. A baby monitor sits charging beside the couch. A stack of parenting books lies half-read on the table, margins marked with small sticky flags.
She’s educating herself on being a good parent. Making an effort to do the best she can. I know plenty of people who just wing it, letting a team of therapists, nannies, tutors, and grandparents do the heavy lifting of child rearing.
But Perry’s here, doing it on her own, and legitimately trying to do her absolute best. That shifts something in me.
It’s one thing to be attracted to someone’s body or personality. It’s another to actually respect who they are as a person. She’s managed to hit every mark so far.
I take my coffee to the window and stand there for a long moment, watching early light gather over Snow Valley’s quiet streets.
This situation is dangerous.
I am not accustomed to wanting something. My life, as challenging as certain aspects are, is rather gilded. I’m aware of my privilege. I’ve had things relatively easy. Most of the time, I flash a smile or a black card, and a woman is happy to be on my arm.
With Perry, everything is different. She’s unlike anyone I have ever dated, and I don’t know how to make this work. But I want to. It’s been a very long time since I’ve wanted for anything. And I don’t know how reckless that might make me.
Down the hallway, I hear the soft shuffle of feet against hardwood. The floorboards creak lightly beneath her weight. The coffee fills the kitchen with a low hum and the faint scent of roasted bitterness. I pour a second cup and set it beside mine before she even reaches the doorway.
The woman who appears is not composed.
Her lilac robe is loosely tied, one shoulder slipping slightly. Her hair is a dark, disobedient cloud around her face. There’s a faint crease from the pillow across her cheek.
And she is, absurdly, devastating.
There is no artifice here. No calculated expression. Just a woman who has been awake too many nights in a row and who forgot, momentarily, that she has an audience.
She squints at the light, then at me. She croaks, “You’re up.”
“I am.”
She moves toward the counter slowly, as though gravity is slightly stronger this morning.
I slide the mug toward her. “I thought you might—”
“Shh,” she says softly. “Coffee first. Always.” The authority in her voice is disproportionate to her current state of disarray.
I happily comply.
She wraps both hands around the mug and inhales the steam like it’s medicine. Her shoulders lower by degrees as the first sip registers.
I watch her carefully.
“You make good coffee,” she says after a moment.
“The hospital only makes bad coffee, so this is years of improvisation in the breakroom.”
She leans back against the counter, robe gaping slightly before she adjusts it absentmindedly. The movement is not seductive. It’s unconscious. “How long have you been up?”
“Long enough.”
“You didn’t wake me.”
“You were sleeping.”
She studies me over the rim of the mug. “Which is why you would have needed to wake me up.” The “dummy” is implied by her tone.
“You seemed deeply unconscious, so I thought better of waking you.”
“That’s unusually considerate.”
“I am occasionally considerate.”
She smiles faintly.
There is something profoundly domestic about this moment. No urgency. No tension. Just shared caffeine. It unsettles me to my core because it’s so damned comfortable.
There’s no bullshit with Perry. I like the way she occupies space without apology. I like the way she doesn’t attempt to charm me in the morning. There’s no show, no carefully chosen words. She’s merely herself.
I realize, with uneasy clarity, that I want to see this version of her again. Frequently.
“Good date?” she asks suddenly.
“Yeah. You?”
She takes another sip, eyes closing briefly. “It was the best one I’ve had in years.”
And something in my chest shifts in response.
She stands there with her coffee like she belongs in my mornings. “You’re staring,” she says without opening her eyes.
“Can you blame me? You’ve seen what you look like.”
She smirks faintly into her mug. Then it fades. “Damian.” There’s a tone to her voice that tugs at something in my chest.
“Yes?”
“Nothing. I just…like this.”
So do I. Too much, I’m afraid.