And I wanted to have that future to include Damon.
The fear gripping me for so long began to slowly disappear, replaced by tiny bubbles of hope, sneaking out from the seams of my armor. Maybe . . . I could have Damon without him having power over me? Maybe, we could build something where I didn’t need to constantly be picking up my shield and donning my armor? Maybe—
The doorbell rang again.
Maybe, I needed to stop musing about the past, open up the front door, and take a chance.
Could I?
I glanced down at the black and white picture and thought, How can I not?
I stowed the items back in the box, putting it on the shelf, though not shoving it onto the top one this time.
No more shame. No more of my past holding me back.
I walked out of the bathroom, pausing to glance at myself in the mirror again, half-expecting my face to have undergone a complete change after what I’d worked through in the past five minutes.
But I was still just me.
Green eyes, red hair, pale skin—
My cell buzzed and I glanced down, saw that Damon had sent me a selfie of him wearing a sad face and holding up a bag of food from my porch.
I grinned then sucked in and released a long, slow breath. I could do this.
Sorry. Was in the shower. The code to the garage is 6262 if you want to let yourself in.
A beat.
And now you’ll never get rid of me. *insert evil laughter here*
I sucked in another of those breaths. Just go for it.
Keep bribing me with sugary carbs and I’ll consider it.
I hit send before I really considered what I wrote, and when I saw those words on my cell’s screen, I couldn’t believe that my fingers had typed them. I’ll consider it? Holy fucking shit. My hands shook as I set my phone down, chest heaving, panic rising again—
Dammit.
“Just enough.”
Cold water splashed on my face, hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, clothes straightened and free of wrinkles.
And it was enough.
To snap out of this cycle, to accept Damon wasn’t my ex. That I was different with him than I’d been with Tim. That I was different now. I’d pushed through the nightmare, had let it lead me to a new life and a new future. That was great and showed I was strong, that I could persevere, but—
I sighed. But if I pulled back now, had I really moved beyond the past?
No, because if I didn’t do that with all parts of my life, then it didn’t mean anything. If I was too scared to even consider that I might be able to build a future with a loving partner, with someone like Damon, then I had no hope of doing it with anyone.
But . . . I had. I was already breaking through that wall, wanting more.
And I was starting to think that I’d put so much effort into pushing Damon away in the first place, specifically because I knew deep down that he was different, knew he had the ability to get inside my armor.
“He is different,” I whispered to myself, ignoring my wide green eyes. “He’s everything.”
My heart skipped a beat, but I nodded and stepped back from the counter.
No more dithering. I was doing this.
“Eden?” Damon called, his voice slightly muffled. “Everything okay?”
Was it?
I glanced in the mirror, nodded once more, though more firmly this time.
Everything was going to be just fine.
I strode out of the bathroom, pushed through the open doorway, and spotted Damon at the end of the hall.
Not thinking. Not this time.
Not stopping. Not this time.
I ran toward him and launched myself into his arms. The containers in his hands hit the floor, food exploding everywhere, but I didn’t pay any more attention to that than I would have a gentle breeze. It was Damon I was focused on, Damon I needed more than anything, Damon—
Whose lips were soft, whose body was hard, who . . . kissed me like I was the most precious object in the universe before gently separating his mouth from mine.
“Eden, baby,” he said softly, his lips curved, chocolate eyes warm. “You’ve made a mess of breakfast again.”
Clink. A big piece of the armor I wore fell to the floor.
I was surprised the sound didn’t reverberate through the house, it felt so monumental inside my soul, but . . . Damon didn’t appear to notice. He just hefted me into his arms, stepped carefully over the mess I’d made by knocking the food from his hands, and carried me into the kitchen.
“What do you have against breakfast, baby?”
I laughed, nuzzled closer into his arms. “Apparently a lot.” I giggled. “And here I always thought I loved French toast.” He started to carry me to the table. “Hey, wait. Put me down. I should go clean up the mess and then cook you something.”
He kept walking. “I’ve got it.”
“Dam—”
“I’ve got it.” He set me down.
I started to stand, but he crouched down in front of me and rested his hands on my knees. “I’ve got it.”
My heart swelled. “Okay,” I whispered.
He nodded, stood, and crossed to the little closet where I kept my cleaning supplies. I waited as he gathered paper towels, a bottle of cleaner, and the trash can, but the moment he’d disappeared back into the hall, I pushed to my feet and began raiding the fridge. I might be tired and have just decided to take a terrifying step forward, but I could still make a mean batch of blueberry pancakes.
And bacon.
Mmm.
I reached for the package in the meat drawer. Yes, we definitely also needed bacon.
I brought it out, set it on the counter, and began measuring ingredients. Flour and baking soda, a dash of salt, milk, oil, eggs. I’d perfected this recipe over the years and so in just a matter of minutes, I had a bowl filled with batter and was setting a pan on the burner to preheat.
“Stubborn.”
Damon was behind me, leaning against the counter, cleaning supplies at his side, trash can by his crossed ankles.
I turned back to the stove. “I ruined breakfast, so the least of what I can do is make you some of my famous pancakes.”
“Famous how?”
I flashed him a grin over my shoulder. “Famous because they’re the one thing that I can cook.”
“What about your guacamole?” he said. “I can speak from experience that it’s delicious.”
“First, guacamole isn’t an acceptable breakfast food—”
“Says who?”
I snorted. “Second, chopping things up and throwing them into a bowl isn’t cooking.”
A beat then the packet of bacon was snatched from my hands.
“Hey!”
“If you can’t cook, then I’d better save this bacon from your hands.” He smirked. “Also, I think chopping things up and throwing them into a bowl is the definition of cooking.”
“I—” My words faltered when he came very close. “Okay, fine. That’s reasonable.”
He nodded.
Then we worked side-by-side in silence for a few minutes, him putting the slices of bacon onto the pan, me giving one more mix to the batter before ladling it onto the griddle.
“We going to talk about that kiss?” he murmured.
I bit my lip, sucked in a breath, then just let it rip.