Chapter 12 #2
Damien mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like we’ll see about that. The second we step into the main lobby, several nurses at the front desk spot us. Specifically, they spot Damien.
“Oh my God,” one of them says loudly.
Another nurse grabs the first one’s arm. “That’s them.”
I physically watch Damien regret every life choice that led him here.
“Connors!” one of the nurses calls. “Get over here.”
“We’re late,” I say quickly.
The nurses ignore me entirely.
One of them points dramatically at Damien. “He’s even hotter in person.”
Damien actually smiles.
Not his fake press smile.
A real one.
Small and crooked and devastating enough that every nurse at the desk loses their mind.
My stomach flips in the most annoying way possible.
Because suddenly I understand why people write songs about jealousy.
“Oh, you’re enjoying this,” I mutter.
Damien glances at me innocently. “They seem nice.”
Traitor.
The nurses start rapid-firing questions.
“How tall are you actually?”
“Is the relationship real?”
“Can we get a picture?”
“Does Atlas snore?”
“Violently,” Damien answers immediately.
I grab his wrist before this gets worse.
“We’re genuinely late,” I tell them while dragging him toward the hallway.
They groan dramatically behind us as the doors close.
The second we’re alone again, Damien looks amused. “You’re jealous.”
“I’m absolutely not.”
“You dragged me away from your little fan club.”
“They were objectifying my boyfriend.” The word slips out automatically.
Damien goes quiet beside me for half a second.
Then he looks down at the flowers to hide the faint pink creeping across his cheeks. My heart almost explodes on the spot.
As we walk into the room I can instantly tell Grace is having a rough day. She’s sitting propped up against the pillows with a blanket wrapped around her waist, her skin pale in a way that makes my chest ache.
But the second she sees me, she grins anyway. “There’s my favorite sibling.”
“You only have one.”
“Exactly.”
Then she spots Damien behind me and straightens up slightly. “Oh my God, the boyfriend.”
Damien freezes beside me like a startled deer. “Hi,” he says awkwardly.
Grace looks at me.
Then at Damien.
Then back at me again.
“You pulled him?” she asks me flatly.
I choke on air laughing.
“Grace,” my mom says from the chair beside the bed.
“What? I’m being supportive.”
Damien looks horrified, which makes Grace visibly more delighted.
My mom stands and smiles warmly at Damien. “You must be Damien,” she says gently. “I’m Diana.”
Damien immediately hands her the second bouquet like he practiced this in the mirror beforehand. “These are for you.”
Diana blinks in surprise. “That’s incredibly sweet.”
Grace gasps dramatically. “He brought us flowers?”
Damien looks deeply uncomfortable now. “I didn’t know what people normally bring to meet the family.”
My mom looks genuinely touched.
Grace leans toward me and whispers loudly enough that Damien can absolutely still hear it: “He’s very polite.”
“I can hear you,” Damien mutters.
I bite the inside of my cheek hard to keep from smiling too openly. Damien is trying so hard right now. He’s visibly unsure of himself around my family, but despite that, he still showed up carrying flowers and trying to make a good impression, because these people matter to me.
That realization settles painfully deep in my chest.
I’m so fucked.
Grace and my mom immediately begin interrogating Damien with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for witness protection interviews.
“How long have you been playing hockey?”
“What was your major in college?”
“Do you actually like Atlas, or is that physically impossible?”
Damien answers every question simply but politely.
His responses are short. Careful.
But he tries.
Then my mom asks about his family, and the shift in Damien is immediate.
His shoulders tighten slightly. His expression shutters.
I react before I can think too hard about it.
“You should show Grace your sketches,” I say quickly.
Damien blinks once, then looks at me sharply, like he can’t believe I brought that up.
Relief flashes across his face anyway.
“You draw?” Grace asks immediately.
“A little.”
“A little?” I repeat. “That’s a lie.”
Damien sighs quietly before reaching into the messenger bag slung over his shoulder. “I was an art major in college before hockey took over everything.”
He pulls out a worn black sketchbook, and the second Damien opens it, Grace gasps so loudly a nurse passing by glances into the room.
The drawings are incredible.
Pages filled with anatomical studies and figure sketches detailed enough to look alive. Hands. Shoulders. Muscle structures. Soft pencil shading layered so carefully it almost looks photographic.
Grace stares down at the pages in awe. “No fucking way.”
“Language,” my mom says automatically.
“Sorry,” Grace whispers, still staring at the sketchbook. “But holy shit.”
Damien laughs under his breath.
The sound is quiet and completely unguarded, and it takes my breath away.
“These are amazing,” Grace says. “Like genuinely insane.”
Damien shrugs slightly, embarrassed now. “They’re old.”
“You’re old.” Grace shrugs.
“I’m twenty-six.”
“That’s basically prehistoric.”
My mom snorts quietly into her coffee.
Grace scrambles for her own sketchbook, nearly tangling herself in hospital blankets in the process.
“Okay,” she says while flipping pages excitedly. “You have to tell me if these suck.”
Damien takes the sketchbook carefully, his shoulders relaxing now that there’s something to talk about.
He leans closer to Grace while studying her drawings seriously, pointing gently at certain sections while explaining shading techniques and pencil pressure like he’s done this a thousand times before.
“These are good,” he says honestly.
Grace lights up. “Really?”
“Yeah.” Damien points toward one portrait sketch. “Your proportions are already strong. You mostly just need deeper contrast here.” He reaches for a pencil automatically, then hesitates. “Can I?”
“Show me!” Grace practically throws the sketchbook at him.
Damien laughs quietly again before demonstrating soft shading strokes across the page.
And God…the smile that appears on his face while Grace watches him work nearly stops my heart.
Because it’s genuine.
Not sarcastic.
Not defensive.
Just warm.
Happy.
He looks beautiful like this.
Dangerously beautiful.
As I watch him explain crosshatching techniques to my little sister while she hangs onto every word, I realize something terrifyingly simple:
I love him. Completely. Hopelessly.
Even if he never says it back.
Even if he stays scared.
Even if he keeps trying to convince himself this thing between us isn’t real.
Because watching Damien Harrow carefully help my little sister shade a drawing while pretending not to care about her opinion of him feels more intimate than a kiss ever has.
Grace laughs at something he says, and Damien smiles briefly before he realizes people are looking at him.
I catch it anyway.
That small, private smile he only lets happen when he forgets to protect himself.
And I quietly accept the fact that this man owns my heart.