Damien no longer knew how to exist around Alex. Every step he took felt like treading on broken glass—each shard a reminder of the damage he had caused. It didn't matter how much he apologised and how much he regretted everything. He knew nothing could erase the past.
In every small act—ensuring Alex ate three meals a day, inviting him out to dinner, walking beside him in silence—he poured his remorse like water into a cracked vessel, hoping it might hold enough to matter.
The night air after dinner was cool as summer had slowly turned to autumn. Damien had intended to ask after Alex's health—whether the bite on his nape was healing, whether the weariness had lifted from his limbs—but the words dissolved on his tongue. The night turned unexpectedly heavy, thick with unresolved tension and unspoken truths.
Alex's voice, when it broke the silence, wasn't just sharp—it was devastating. His pain was not passive or buried beneath cold civility; it was raw and burning, and it carved through Damien like a knife. He could do nothing but stand and absorb it, hollow and stunned. And then Alex turned, walking away into the darkness, shouting at him not to follow.
But Damien did.
It wasn't just guilt. It wasn't just fear. It was something else, an instinct that whispered of danger, of night and solitude and vulnerability. Something deep within him—something he couldn't name—demanded he not let Alex walk alone, not like this.
For nearly two hours, Damien followed at a distance as Alex walked without direction, crying with a soundless ache. His shoulders trembled, and his pace faltered like someone lost in a world that no longer recognized them. When he finally stopped, he looked spent—drained, disoriented, almost childlike in his confusion about where he'd ended up.
Damien waited. Then, without a word, he stepped forward and made his presence known, giving him his coat again. He told Alex a taxi was on the way. This time, Alex didn't resist. He curled into the coat like it was armor against the cold and the world.
By the time the taxi arrived, Alex had fallen asleep, his face soft with exhaustion. Damien tried to rouse him gently, but it was no use. He ended up lifting Alex into his arms—heartbreakingly trusting in unconsciousness. He settled into the backseat with Alex cradled against him, his breath warm against Damien's neck, his body limp but safe.
It was a cruel kind of nostalgia.
Alex used to rest in his lap like this, humming softly, fingers brushing Damien's jaw while asking what he wanted for dinner. He would laugh at Damien's answer, teasing that it would be "extra tasty," pressing kisses to his face with the kind of affection that made Damien feel human.
Alex had always been a quiet light in Damien's otherwise stormy world—tender, open-hearted, impossibly kind. His warmth was never performative; it radiated from him effortlessly, wrapping itself around even the coldest corners of Damien's guarded soul. He had shown Damien what it felt like to be cared for without an agenda. And in return, Damien had worn a mask of affection, pretending to mirror that warmth… all while leading Alex toward the sharp edge of betrayal. He had played a role so convincingly, only to ensure the fall would hurt more.
The late realization made Damien sick to his stomach.
If only he had carefully looked into Alex's situation within the Masterson family and had been honest with him from the beginning. If only he had said, "I want revenge against the Mastersons, but not on you. Never you." If only he had admitted that Alex was different—soft in a way that made Damien ache.
That he was special.
The truth had been lurking beneath Damien's neatly constructed defenses for longer than he'd admitted—even to himself. From the moment he first laid eyes on Alex, something had shifted. A quiet pull. An undeniable connection. He had fought it, denied it, buried it beneath layers of bitterness and pride. But the more time he spent in Alex's presence, the more he felt it take root, growing in defiance of everything he thought he wanted.
There had been sincerity in the way he had touched Alex,... It hadn't all been a lie. Not everything. Somewhere beneath the anger and the masks, there had been truth. He had only fully understood that when he saw the pain on Alex's face—heard the trembling confession that after that night in the office, Alex had wished he could simply fall asleep and never wake up.
Those words had torn something open inside Damien. His chest had tightened with a panic so raw it was suffocating. In that instant, the possibility of a world without Alex became unbearable.
Damien had broken many things in his life, but none of them had ever mattered.
Until Alex.
But it was too late. Too much had been damaged. The truth, if spoken now, would sound like manipulation. No confession could be clean when stained with so much pain.
The ride home was far too brief.
Alex remained asleep, his body unmoved by the motion of the car or the shifting lights of the city. Damien carried him inside, careful not to jostle him, laying him gently on the bed. He removed his shoes, the coat, his jacket, his belt—all quiet acts of care. Then he tucked the blankets around him, like sealing away something precious.
He sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, just watching.
Alex looked different in sleep—no longer brittle and worn by anger. His face had color again, his breathing even and deep. Damien wanted to check the bite, but didn't dare disturb the calm.
Silvy had said Alex was doing better, though she offered no real detail—only that his condition remained fragile. Damien didn't press. He feared what he might hear.
Unable to resist, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Alex's cheek. It was meant to be brief, a fleeting touch—but then he caught it.
The scent.
That same scent from that night in his office. Fresh, crisp, like the air atop a lonely mountain peak. He inhaled instinctively, the scent flooding his senses, leaving him frozen in place.
It was intoxicating. Familiar. Dangerous.
Startled by his own reaction, Damien tore himself away, rising quickly. He fled the room as though staying any longer would crack the restraint he barely held. He was ashamed—not just of what he'd done, but of what he still wanted. Of how deeply he still felt drawn to Alex, even now.
Even after everything.
The next day arrived and Damien, true to his silent promise of care, ensured that breakfast and lunch were sent to Alex without delay. But by early afternoon, a message from the maid he had covertly placed in the Masterson household arrived like a cold slap.
Alex hadn't touched the food. Worse—he'd given it away.
The news settled into Damien's chest like ice. Alex had eaten the previous meals he had bought so why the sudden again? Something deeper than frustration simmered beneath his skin—worry, sharp and persistent. So before dusk crept over the horizon and the hour for dinner arrived, Damien went to look for Alex.
When Alex finally returned from his walk, he looked distant, lost in thought, his expression drawn with quiet fatigue. Damien stepped forward, intending to ask—gently, carefully—why he hadn't eaten the meals he bought, why he refused even this small olive branch.
But Alex's expression as their eyes met stopped him cold.
There was fury there, barely reined in, like a storm held behind flimsy glass. He could see the effort it took Alex to hold himself together. His posture was stiff, his jaw clenched. Whatever thoughts had been gnawing at him during that walk, they were now blazing behind his eyes.
Damien didn't speak. For once, he chose stillness.
Then Alex broke the silence, his voice laced with venom and weariness. "What do you want?"
"I'm going away… on a business trip. For three days." Damien replied, softly.
Alex's brow arched, unimpressed. "So?"
"So I wanted you to know I won't be around."
"Good," Alex shot back without hesitation, brushing past him, already headed for his bedroom door.
Damien reached out, fingers brushing Alex's shoulder. The contact was featherlight, hesitant. "Alex," he murmured, "take care of yourself while I'm gone."
Alex turned, his glare as cold as it was exhausted. He scoffed, the sound bitter and dismissive. "Sure," he retorted, and then he disappeared into his room, closing the door behind him without a second glance.
Damien stood there in the hallway for a long moment, staring at the closed door like it might open again, like Alex might step back out and say something else—anything else.
But silence was all that followed.
He hated the idea of leaving. The Masterson house was a maze of false smiles and buried cruelty, and though Alex had spent his entire life there, Damien couldn't shake the unease that clawed at him. It wasn't just concern. It was something deeper. A bone-deep fear that while he was away, something might happen to Alex.
But he had no choice.
Still, as he turned to leave, Damien's heart felt heavier than it should have.