Chapter 47
Chapter forty-seven
Damien
I couldn't stop looking at her.
She was cross-legged on my couch, pizza box open in her lap, cheese stretching between the slice and her mouth as she tried to take a bite without making a mess.
She was failing spectacularly.
But even with marinara on her chin and grease on her fingers, she was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.
She knows.
The weight I'd been carrying since I typed that lie three days ago was gone. Not completely—the guilt would linger. But the secret?
Gone.
"You're staring," she commented, twirling stray cheese around her finger. "What's going on in there?"
I love you. I love you so much it terrifies me.
I love you and still… can't say it.
"Nothing," I said. "Just thinking."
"About?"
About vows.
About the way you said it like it was already decided.
About how I want to give you everything, but those three words still stayed locked behind my tongue.
"The pizza," I said instead. "It's good."
Emma squinted at me, unconvinced, but let it go.
I watched her queue up Flip This House, tucking her feet beneath her and settling into the cushions. The apartment smelled like oregano and cardboard and the vanilla candle she'd insisted on lighting. For ambiance, she'd said, like pizza required atmosphere.
"This is the one where they find the dead raccoon in the walls," Emma announced, reaching for another slice.
"I know. We watched this the same night you ordered an Italian beef from the place on 6th and they brought you pastrami." I chuckled, remembering her tiny angry stomps. "You were furious."
She took a monstrous bite of pizza, talking with it in her mouth. "Because it's complete and total bullshit! Those are two entirely different sandwiches. Two entirely different animals."
"To be fair, you did eat it."
"Because I was starving! That doesn't make it okay." She jabbed a finger at me. "And you just sat there laughing while I suffered."
"You weren't suffering. You were stress-eating pastrami and ranting about culinary integrity."
"Because it matters, Damien." She polished off her crust and reached for another slice. "Words have meanings. Menus have meanings. If I order Italian beef, I expect Italian beef. It's a social contract."
"You're very passionate about deli meats."
"I'm passionate about justice."
I watched her tear into the new slice, cheese stretching in long strings she wound around her finger with practiced ease. The TV droned on—the host, Derek, explaining why a wine fridge was a necessity for a bathroom—but I couldn't care less.
This.
This was what I almost lost.
Not the sex, though that was spectacular.
Not the power exchange, though that grounded me in ways I still didn't fully understand. This—pizza on the couch, stupid arguments, her laugh filling the rooms I hadn't known were empty.
"Oh, here it comes," Emma said, pointing at the screen. "The raccoon reveal."
On cue, one of the contractors tore into the wall. A shouted expletive followed, bleeped out by the network censors. The camera cut to the interior designer, already on her phone.
"I told your mom we were watching this tonight," Emma said.
"Oh, god," I groaned.
"She's already texting." Emma held up her phone, messages stacking in real time. "She's very concerned about the structural damage. And whether the raccoon had babies."
"Did it? I don't remember."
"Season three, episode seven." She gave me a solemn look. "We don't talk about the babies."
"That bad?"
"Derek cried." She leaned forward for emphasis. "Derek!"
My phone buzzed on the coffee table. I glanced at the screen—my mother, of course.
Mom: Is Emma watching?
Emma followed my gaze. "Jesus, that woman is impatient." She waved her pizza. "I'm eating, Rosie. Give me a goddamn minute."
I choked on a pepperoni.
"She's going to call," I warned.
"She wouldn't."
My phone lit up. Mom—Incoming Call.
Emma groaned. "She did not."
"She absolutely did," I confirmed, leaning forward to decline the call.
With grease-slick fingers, I typed: She's eating. She'll text you. Relax.
Three dots appeared instantly.
Mom: I don't need to relax. I need to know her thoughts on the raccoon situation.
Mom: This is TIME SENSITIVE, Damien.
Mom: The structural integrity of that wall is COMPROMISED.
Emma leaned over to read, snorting. "Time sensitive? It's a rerun."
"You try telling her that."
She rolled her eyes, and reached for her phone.
"What are you texting her?" I asked, taking a bite of pizza, flavors exploding in my mouth.
She typed, brow furrowed like she was drafting a legal brief.
"Hello?" I asked in a sing-song voice.
"Sorry," she said. "Your mom is going off."
"About what?"
She settled into the couch, plate balanced on her lap. "About how Derek's response was inadequate and Tanya should have called wildlife control. Also, we've decided the contractor's beard is unsanitary."
"It's just a beard."
"His beard touches his chest. That's a hazard."
My phone buzzed again.
Mom: I LOVE HER.
Mom: She understands.
Mom: You hold onto this one.
I looked at Emma—marinara still on her chin.
I promise I will.
"I can't wait until Monday," I said, taking another bite.
She blinked, then grinned. "Oh, shit. I almost forgot."
I feigned offense, my slice of pizza frozen mid air. "You almost forgot about our official reveal?"
She gave me a sheepish grin.
"Are you nervous?" I asked, winking at her.
"A little." She reached over to steal a pepperoni from my plate.
She popped it into her mouth. "Do you think Jennifer's plan worked?"
"Absolutely, I'm sure Tessa has told everyone by now. Monday just makes it official."
She grinned. "Official, huh?"
"Official," I confirmed.
"No more hiding," I added. "Just us."
She held my gaze. "Just us."
And the future I'd almost lost.