Damien's POV
She didn't even last fifteen minutes into the second episode.
One moment she was excitedly whispering "Oh my god, look at his eyes!" into my shoulder, and the next… silence.
I glanced down.
Vivienne's head had slumped slightly against me, lips parted just a little, her long lashes casting soft shadows on her cheeks. Her hair — all that ridiculous, endless hair — spilled over both our laps, half tangled in the blanket, half brushing against my arm.
She looked completely at peace. Like she didn't have an ounce of chaos in her. Which was a lie, obviously.
Vivienne was chaos. Loud, affectionate, clingy chaos. The kind that stormed into your room at 7 a.m. with your coffee and no apologies. The kind that clung to you in the middle of a hallway just because someone looked at you for too long.
And somehow…
Somehow she'd become the calmest part of my day.
I sighed, shifting slightly so I could untangle her fingers from my hoodie — because of course she'd fallen asleep holding onto it — then moved to stand.
She stirred.
Her nose scrunched.
And then she whispered something like, "Don't go."
I froze.
Swallowed once.
Then let out a breath and leaned down.
She was curled up like a cat, half tangled in the throw blanket, barely even on the couch anymore. If I left her here, she'd wake up in an hour with a sore neck and a bad mood. And I knew how she got when her morning classes started at six.
So, without thinking too hard, I carefully slid one arm under her knees and the other behind her back — lifting her into my arms like she weighed nothing. Which, honestly, she almost didn't.
Her hair slipped over my elbow like silk. Her head pressed against my chest.
She didn't wake up.
Didn't even flinch.
Just sighed, like she belonged there.
Like this was the most natural thing in the world.
I carried her the few steps to my bed, then set her down gently — adjusting the pillow beneath her head, making sure her hair didn't catch or tug. She rolled onto her side the moment her body touched the sheets, a tiny smile tugging at her lips. One hand reached out automatically, searching — like she expected someone to be there.
I stared for a second longer than I should've.
Then pulled the blanket over her.
Paused.
And brushed a piece of hair off her face.
"Sleep, sunshine," I muttered, almost under my breath.
She didn't hear me.
But I heard myself.
And I knew — I was losing this game.
One clingy, chaotic moment at a time.
---
I should've turned away.
Should've gone back to the couch, put on something brainless, scrolled through my phone. Anything.
But instead… I stayed.
Still leaning over her.
Still watching the way her lashes fluttered faintly against her cheek. The way her nose twitched slightly like she was dreaming. Her lips — soft, parted, whispering shallow breaths.
Too close.
God, I was too close.
But she didn't pull away. Not even in sleep. Not even when I leaned in, resting one knee beside her on the mattress just to shift the blanket around her shoulder again.
I could feel her breath now. Warm and light against my jaw.
And then — like a complete idiot — I found myself hovering.
One hand braced on the mattress. My face just inches from hers.
She was right there.
One more inch and I could kiss her.
Not that I'd thought about it before. Not that I'd spent nights wondering what it would be like. Not that her clinginess had ever gotten under my skin in the kind of way that made me ache.
Nope.
Never.
Except now, with her in my bed and her hand still loosely holding the corner of my hoodie like it was some kind of lifeline — it didn't feel like never.
It felt like I'd been heading here the whole time.
I leaned in. A fraction closer. Her lips barely a breath away.
And then—
"Damien," she whispered in her sleep.
Soft. Drowsy. Like it was a prayer.
I froze.
Every inch of me locked up.
Because if I kissed her now, when she didn't even know what she was saying…
I'd never forgive myself.
So I pulled back.
Slowly. Carefully. Every nerve in my body on fire.
I sat beside the bed for a moment, fingers digging into my knee.
Breathe. Don't look at her.
Too late.
She turned over again, curling into the pillow. A sigh slipped from her lips — content, soft, happy.
I ran a hand through my hair.
I was screwed.
Completely, utterly, hopelessly screwed.