Chapter Fifteen
Elena
I didn’t remember climbing into his arms, but I did, and suddenly, Damian carried me through the hallway like the house had turned to smoke and only his body was solid.
My fingers curled weakly at his shoulders, his chest rose and fell too fast, and neither of us spoke.
Even the world around us didn’t dare move.
He pushed my bedroom door open with his foot and laid me gently on my bed, like I was something fragile he was afraid to break any further.
The sheet that wrapped around me slipped a little, and he adjusted it with a quiet care that made my throat hurt.
Silence stretched across the room, thin as glass, ready to shatter, but Damian stood over me, breathing like he’d run all the way through hell and back.
His hair was a mess, his dirty escape from blonde and closer to brown long hair was almost as wild as mine.
His honey-brown eyes still looked haunted, as if a piece of last night clung to him like smoke.
Then…his voice came out, calmer this time. Like the first time he ever spoke to me, mixed with when he called my name last night.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly, his voice cracking.
“Elena…I’m so damn sorry. For not remembering, for saying those things, for panicking, for hurting you.
” He raked his fingers through his hair, like his brain and lips were fighting for the right words to use.
“I never thought you were crazy, Elena. Not for a second. I believed you, every word that came out from your lips, but I couldn’t remember, I tried and I couldn’t and that made me angrier,” he explained, and I understood him, I did.
I shook my head before he could unravel anymore than he was already. “No. Stop.” My voice was thin but steady. “He…it told me to help you remember, but I forgot when I woke up, and I panicked. I…I only threw you off. I made everything worse.”
His jaw tightened with something fierce and aching, then he leaned down, cupped my face between his hands, and kissed me again.
This was different from the one outside; it wasn’t desperate or wild, it was just quiet, and low, like words whispered through skin.
He pulled back, and rested his forehead against mine.
“Don’t ever apologize to me,” he murmured. “Not for anything, not to me.” A shiver traveled through me. I swallowed and could only offer a nod in response.
He pulled away enough to take my wrist, the one that had snapped last night. His touch was gentle, slow, almost holy.
“How bad is it? Does it hurt?” he whispered.
“It’s not bad, but it hurts a little.” I swallowed. “He…it, fixed it. When you…when you were asleep for a moment.”
He studied my other hand too, noticing the first cut on my wrist, then the other on my palm.
I had expected him to ask what happened, but somehow, he didn’t.
He just looked at them like he was seeing a wonder, an artifact he dare not question its origin.
Then…then he kissed them. First my almost healed wrist, the first kiss was like he was saying “thank you for fighting through death to be here.” Then the second kiss, gentle and slow, was like he was saying “thank you for giving life a second chance.” Then finally, he smiled and kissed my wrist, and I could almost feel him saying “thank you for choosing me, to do life with.”
Then his eyes flicked to mine. “I do not want to imagine a world without you breathing in it,” he whispered. A shadow crossed his expression, sharp and pained, like he couldn’t understand why he said that.
“Then don’t,” I replied, meaning every weight that reply carried.
“Why?” I asked quietly, bringing his gaze back to mine again. “Why’d you come back?”
“I don’t know…” he whispered. “I just…” He exhaled, the sound trembling. “I couldn’t leave you, crying like that, feeling that amount of hurt. I just couldn’t.”
“I told you to leave,” I whispered, almost feeling bad I had thrown him out.
“I know, but I still couldn’t. Even if you were going to shove me out the door again, I just don’t think I could…can leave you.”
My chest tightened as his words fell out, so pure, so sincere, and so true.
“Then I saw someone,” he added, his voice dropping lower. “Someone I haven’t seen in years.”
“Someone who died?” I asked, remembering how he had mentioned he often sees dead people at random times.
His throat bobbed. “Yeah.”
I sat up a little, the sheet clutched over me. “Who? Was it him? The…”
“No,” he paused, his brows pulling together as he thought. “Well, maybe.” Another pause. “But I saw my brother.”
The words were soft, broken open, and that was the part that held my attention.
“I’m sorry, Damian,” I said, uncertain if it was the right thing to say. He had only mentioned he had a brother, never why it was past tense. “What…what happened to him?”
“He died in the earthquake when we were kids, supposedly. We went for ice cream with my mom, and the building, it just…” He shook his head, like the memory of it all still didn’t make sense to him. “He wasn’t found, so we just concluded, you know. But…”
“What?” I held his hand, urging him to continue while letting him know that it was okay to.
“But I never saw his ghost, not once, not ever. I see everyone, strangers, spirits with unfinished business, people from a century ago. But never him, never the one person I wanted.”
A devastated quiet hung between us, as he exhaled and continued. “I only see him when I’m having a rough time, or falling apart…like today. I just imagine his ghost is there, helping me figure it out.”
I reached for his face without thinking, and he melted into my touch.
“Did you look for him?” I whispered.
His eyes glimmered with that old grief that never quite heals, one I understood way too well.
“Half my life,” he confirmed. “Searching every realm I knew, every sign, every whisper, until I stopped. Figured maybe he was the one ghost I’d never see, and I made peace with that.”
I tightened my hold on him. “I’m sorry. Losing someone twice…that must feel like drowning.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the words settle. Then he opened them again and leaned down, kissing me with a gentleness that nearly broke my ribs from the inside.
He pulled back just slightly, leaving our foreheads touching each other.
“Thank you for choosing to live, Elena. In all the ways that brought you to that choice, thank you for making it,” he said, his voice was soft enough to melt bone, and God it did.
It melted everything I had ever known, in ways that made me feel seen, alive, whole again.
And as I gave a gentle nod, I felt the one warm drop of a tear fall down my cheek.
“Get up,” he whispered.
I blinked, confused. “Why?”
His thumb brushed my cheek, tender in a way that hurt. “Let me wash you, you must be sore.” He smiled, all knowing. It sounded like a confession, quiet devotion after a night that had nearly destroyed us.
When he helped me sit up, the house finally exhaled in a way it never had since I returned.
The house that once smelled of coffee, wood, and depression was now filled with the scents of tomatoes, basil and something buttery that Damian insisted wasn’t burning, even though the pan hissed like it was begging for mercy.
“Stir it slower,” I said, leaning over his shoulder, watching as he flicked the spoon twice as fast. “Damian.”
“Elena,” he called in response.
I narrowed my eyes. “You’re doing it wrong, you see that, don’t you?” I laughed.
“You hired me to catch a ghost, not become a Michelin chef,” he whined.
“You offered to cook,” I corrected. “You said ‘You’re too sore from last night, let me cook you my favorite’.”
He grinned, so boyish and smug. “Okay, I did say that. But there’s still hope!”
“You’re having a full blown conversation and burning the sauce, I think hope flew out the window.”
He bumped his hip into mine. “You doubt my abilities.”
“Wholeheartedly,” I replied, as I stole a piece of grated cheese and popped it into my mouth.
He gasped dramatically. “That was a garnishing piece.”
“It’s my kitchen.”
“Again…” He stopped, sighed, then cleared his throat. “You’re right, definitely yours.”
I smirked into the wooden spoon I’d stolen from him. “Uh-huh. Cook away, Chef.”
And he did. We moved around the kitchen like we’d done it a hundred times, laughing, touching elbows, dodging each other in small dances, and talking about our lives outside this life, a life that for the life of me, I missed.
I missed my friends, missed our Friday chicken and beer ritual, missed David and his annoyingly good boy charms. God, was life always this beautiful?
He told me about his best friends, their plans for the New Year, and how they once tried to ghost-proof his room by hanging garlic everywhere that nearly killed him in his sleep, hence why he hates garlic.
I told him about the girls, and David too, about my childhood.
He talked with his hands, his big, expressive, dramatic hands, and spilled a bit of sauce on the counter mid-story.
“You mentioned your brother was adopted?” he smiled.
“Max? Yeah he was,” I said over a laugh. “I can’t remember at what age he was, though. But I came that same year he was adopted,” I laughed again, the memory of the story from my mother’s POV always made me laugh.
“I can’t imagine the joy your parents must’ve felt,” he commented, and I couldn’t decide if he was being sarcastic or serious.
“Mother said Max was a ball of sunlight when he came, and when she got pregnant with me, the light kinda almost blinded her.” I shook my head.
“You two must really miss them,” he smiled warmly.
“I know we do, but since the accident, this is the first time I’m going to be seeing Max. He just kinda vanished on me, and I on him.”
“Well, I’m glad he’ll be here tomorrow, on your birthday.”
“Right, me too.” I smiled, and let the conversion move to him and his mom’s relationship, then we somehow found ourselves back to square one, talking about the food he was making, and I teased him about it for five whole minutes.
He retaliated by flicking flour at me, I retaliated by dumping flour on his hair. He stood there, white-haired and open-mouthed.
“You’ve…assassinated my dignity.”
“No,” I said, snorting. “Just seasoned it.”
After a little while of more normality, we sat on the counter while the pasta cooled, the same counter that started a morning of madness.
He nudged my knee with his. “You’re different today.”
“Different good or different bad?” I smiled at him.
He tilted his head. “Different good…like you’re breathing again.”
I looked down at my flour-stained fingers. “Feels like I’m learning how.”
His smile softened. “Then let’s make today simple.”
“Simple,” I smiled.
“Simple.” He leaned and kissed my cheek.
Simple, he gave me simple, in all the things we did for the next few hours, in how we ate right there on the counter, our legs swinging, sharing one bowl, stealing bites from each other like kids.
He gave me simple, and I basked in it, and somehow, the house did too.
In the way it felt warm, quiet, kind, home… almost.
“Elena,” he said gently as he did the dishes, after the laughter had settled. “He’s still here,” he continued, turning to me with wet hands and eyes that flickered upward like he was listening for something only he could hear.
My stomach dipped, and I looked around, hoping I would find him, see him. “Now?”
“Always.” He took a slow breath. “We need to set him free, or let him finish whatever he started. Either way, it’ll be freedom for him.”
I stared at the pasta bowl like it could protect me. “Free,” I repeated softly as something squeezed in my chest, like I was getting ready to say goodbye to a lover.
He nodded. “It’s the only way to end this safely.”
I swallowed. “I need to know too…who he is. Why me? Why Us? How he knew you?” my voice trembled only a little. “I just want to know these things first.”
Damian’s hand brushed my thigh, steadying me. “We’ll find out today, I know it, and I feel connected to him, in a way I don’t understand yet. It’s like still having feelings from a dream you can’t remember.” The words warmed me and chilled me all at once.
“Tonight, we’ll end this?” I asked, sounding sadder than I intended.
“I’m with you, Elena, only leaving when you ask me to.” He kissed my cheek again.
“I did, you sort of came back,” I chuckled.
“I did that, didn’t I?” He turned back to the sink. “Guess I’m stuck with you now.”
We laughed lightly and continued talking about the simple things, then proceeded to the living room, like people trying to pretend the world hadn’t shifted.
We spent the afternoon wrapped in a blanket that smelled faintly like him, laughing at scenes in rom-coms, and stealing glances that lasted too long.
For a few hours, life was soft, normal, beautiful in its borrowed way, and beneath all of it pulsed a truth neither of us wanted to say out loud: midnight was coming, and so was he.