CHAPTER SEVEN

His smirk lingers even after I break free, but I don’t run this time. Instead, I stand there, pulse hammering, fists clenched. Damon watches me with that infuriating amusement, like he’s enjoying every second of my frustration.

“Are you done being dramatic?” he asks.

I scoff. “Are you?”

“You’re the one storming off in a silk dress like a rejected princess.”

“You’re the one chasing after me like a lost puppy.”

His smirk deepens. “Please. If I were a lost puppy, you’d be crying about how cute I am.”

I roll my eyes and turn away, but he’s already moving, stepping in front of me to block my path. “Where exactly do you think you are going?”

“Away from you.”

“Right. Because that’s worked out so well before.”

I narrow my eyes, irritation bubbling hotter. He always did this—poked and prodded until I snapped. “You’re insufferable.”

“I’ve been told,” he says smoothly, leaning against the wall like he has all the time in the world.

I glare at him, and then, without thinking, I jab my fingers into his sides.

The reaction is immediate. Damon jerks away like he’s been electrocuted, swatting my hands like an offended cat. “You did not just—”

I lunge again, fingers digging into his ribs, and he stumbles back with a strangled noise that is far too satisfying.

“You’re still ticklish?” I taunt, grinning now.

Damon glares at me, breathless. “I am not ticklish.”

I raise a brow and take a step closer.

“Don’t,” he warns.

I attack again.

He curses, twisting to escape, but I’m faster, relentless, pressing into his sides until his laughter finally breaks free—a deep, reluctant sound that makes something in my chest tighten.

“Alright, alright!” he gasps between laughter, grabbing my wrists and yanking me back. We’re both breathless, my heart hammering against my ribs as I try to wriggle free.

His grip is firm but not painful, and for a moment, we just stand there, the space between us tight, our breaths mingling together while we try to catch our breath. Then, Damon shakes his head, grinning at me.

“You’re evil,” he says.

“You’re weak,” I counter.

His grin widens. “Oh, don’t flatter yourself. If I really wanted to, I could pin you down in seconds.”

I raise a skeptical brow. “Big words for someone who just lost a battle to tickling. Wuss.”

Damon sighs dramatically, dragging a hand down his face. “God, I forgot how annoying you were.”

“Selective memory, huh?” I nudge him playfully. “Just like how you conveniently forgot you used to be terrified of Mrs. Bertman?”

He stiffens. “That is slander.”

I laugh, stepping out of his grip. “Oh, please. You used to hide behind my dad every time she walked by, swearing she was a witch.”

“She was a witch,” he insists, dead serious. “She had that weird cat, and she used to whisper to it—”

“She was literally just an old woman with a pet.”

“A cursed pet,” he corrects. “And I stand by it.”

I can’t help it—I burst out laughing.

The sound surprises me. It’s been so long since I’ve laughed like this, genuinely, without force. Damon blinks at me, almost like he wasn’t expecting it either, and then he exhales, his lips twitching into something softer.

He slides down the wall, sitting on the floor. After a moment, I follow and perch right next to him.

It’s quiet for a bit.

Then he says, “I miss this.”

I glance at him. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something almost…wistful in his gaze.

“I miss you,” he clarifies.

I swallow, looking away. “You sure have a funny way of showing it.”

He exhales. “Yeah.”

Silence stretches between us again, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s…heavy. Almost fragile.

“We used to spend hours like this,” he muses, tilting his head against the wall. “Remember? Lying on the floor at your parents’ place, making fun of shitty movies, arguing about who would survive in a zombie apocalypse.”

I huff a laugh. “You still wouldn’t.”

“Rude.” He nudges my knee with his. “Your mom used to bring us snacks, though. She’d always sneak me extra, like I needed fattening up.”

My chest tightens. “Yeah. She was like that.”

Damon glances at me. “How is she?”

The question hits harder than I expect. My throat tightens. I stare at my hands, suddenly unsure what to say.

“She’s… not the same,” I admit.

Damon straightens slightly, concern flickering in his gaze. “What do you mean?”

I swallow, fingers curling against my lap. “She has dementia.” The words taste bitter. “Started a few years ago. At first, it was little things. Forgetting where she left her keys, mixing up dates. Then it got worse. She started losing time. Forgetting entire conversations. Forgetting me.”

Damon doesn’t speak, but I can feel the shift in his energy—no teasing, no witty remark. Just quiet attentiveness.

“She had to stop working,” I continue, voice tight. “And after a while, I had to stop everything to take care of her. But eventually, it wasn’t enough. She needed round-the-clock care, and I…” I exhale shakily. “I couldn’t do it alone. So now she’s in a home.”

Damon is silent for a long moment. Then, quietly, he says, “I’m sorry.”

I nod, because what else is there to say?

After a while, he says, “I should have been there.”

“Yeah,” I whisper.

Damon exhales sharply. “I know I don’t deserve your trust, Sonia. And I know an apology doesn’t fix anything. But I need you to believe that I had no choice.”

I look at him then, really look at him. His face is so familiar, but there’s something different in his expression now—something raw, almost desperate.

“I don’t want to make excuses,” he says, voice quiet but firm. “I just want a chance to make up for it.”

I stare at him for a long moment. I should say no. I should push him away again. But the truth is, I’m tired. Tired of carrying the anger, the hurt, the resentment.

So, I say, “Then prove it.”

A flicker of something passes through his eyes—relief, maybe? Determination? Whatever it is, he nods.

“Okay.”

The moment stretches, something unspoken settling between us. Then—

His phone buzzes.

Damon exhales, pulling it from his pocket, jaw clenching as he answers, pressing the phone to his ear.

“What?”

There’s a pause. A voice—high-pitched and rushed—speaks on the other end.

Then, Damon exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face.

“I’ll be there in ten.”

I frown. “Who was that?”

Damon lowers the phone, brows furrowed. It’s then that I take him in again. He looks so tired. There’s a weight on his shoulders, one he hasn’t spoken about, one he’s been carrying alone. I try to resist the urge to reach out, to smooth the creases on his brow. I may have decided to give him a chance, but that doesn’t mean we’re there yet.

“Work. I have to go, Sonia.”

I try to hide my disappointment under his gaze. He’s staring at me with those big brown eyes, like he sees something I don’t. I don’t need him feeling sorry for my lack of a social life. Or a life in general, honestly.

The silence between us stretches. Then, abruptly, he says, “When I get back, we should do something together. Just like the old days.”

I let out a small chuckle while getting up. “I’ll think about it, Mr. Baas.”

Damon stands too, stepping a little closer, invading my space once again. The mischief in his eyes is clear as day.

“Mr. Baas? When did we get so formal?”

I lift a brow, tilting my head. “I thought you liked it.”

He hums, as if considering it, then leans in just a fraction. “Depends. How would you say it if you were trying to seduce me?”

I roll my eyes, biting back a smile. “Goodbye, Damon.”

He smirks. “That’s not a no.”

I shake my head, shoving his chest lightly before stepping past him. “Go before you’re late.”

As he heads toward the door, he pauses, looking back at me one last time. His gaze lingers, as if he’s memorizing the moment.

Then he’s gone.

And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel as alone.