Damien's bed is cold when I crawl in.
Mostly because he's not in it yet.
The night is soft — window open, London air drifting in, streetlights painting golden shadows on the walls. I'm in one of his old sweatshirts again, one I stole ages ago and he pretends not to miss. My hair's down, brushing my hips as I curl under his blanket like it's a shield from everything confusing.
It still smells like him.
Ugh.
I pull the hoodie's sleeves over my hands and press my nose into the fabric.
I don't even remember how I ended up here. I think I was supposed to just drop off his charger or something dumb. But he opened the door, and I saw him — slightly damp hair from a late shower, white t-shirt clinging to his shoulders, sleepy eyes that flickered like they were actually glad to see me — and I forgot how to say goodbye.
He's in the kitchen now. Making tea, probably. Or pretending not to care that I've invaded his space like a hopelessly clingy mosquito.
The door creaks. I don't look.
But I feel him.
"Viv?" he says, low.
"Hmm?"
"You're in my bed."
"Where else would I be?"
He doesn't argue. Just walks over and climbs in like it's the most natural thing. And it is, isn't it? Me here, him here, the quiet weight of feelings we're not naming. Not yet.
His shoulder brushes mine. His warmth seeps into my spine.
I lean into him before I can stop myself.
He exhales — soft, steady — and I think I catch a whisper of a smile.
"You okay?" he murmurs.
"I don't know," I whisper. "I think I might forgive you."
"Oh?"
"Mm-hmm."
"But I haven't apologized."
"You're lucky you're hot."
That earns a real laugh. I grin against his sleeve, cheek squished into his arm. His fingers toy with the ends of my hair — gently, almost absentmindedly — like he doesn't even know he's doing it.
"Viv?"
"Hmm?"
"I missed you being like this."
My throat tightens.
I don't answer. I just curl closer. Hide in the fabric and the heartbeat beside me and the silence that says too much.
Please don't pull away, Damien. Not when I'm finally letting myself breathe again.
He doesn't move. Doesn't shift.
Just stays.
And I fall asleep with his hand in my hair and the shape of his breath tangled in mine.