Chapter 21: Lines That Shouldn’t Blur

Damon had always been a patient man.

It was what made him good at his job—knowing when to push, when to hold back, when to let someone think they were in control before taking the reins.

But with Phoebe, patience was a double-edged sword.

Because waiting meant watching.

And watching meant seeing things he wished he didn't.

Like the way she hesitated before reaching for the flowers he left on her desk every morning.

Like the way her gaze softened—just a little—whenever he showed up at her office unannounced for lunch.

Like the way her hands trembled when she thought no one was looking.

Damon noticed it all.

But he didn't call her out on it.

Not yet.

Instead, he gave her space.

Let her pretend she wasn't affected.

Because she was.

And eventually, she wouldn't be able to ignore it anymore.

That moment came sooner than he expected.

---

It was raining.

Not the soft drizzle that New York sometimes saw in early spring, but a full downpour—the kind that soaked through clothes and made the city feel smaller, quieter.

Phoebe stood by the window of his penthouse, arms crossed, eyes distant.

She hadn't planned to come here.

Hadn't planned to let Damon take her hand after dinner, leading her up to his place under the excuse of just one drink.

But she hadn't pulled away either.

And that meant something.

She had been quiet since they stepped inside.

And Damon—despite the burning need to say something, to push—had let her be.

Now, though, he was done waiting.

He moved toward her slowly, deliberately, until he was close enough to see the way her shoulders stiffened.

Close enough to catch the way her breath hitched when his fingers brushed against hers.

She didn't move away.

Didn't look at him.

But she didn't pull away either.

So he took that as permission.

Gently, carefully, he reached out—fingers grazing her wrist, feeling the rapid pulse beneath her skin.

"Phoebe."

It was just her name.

Just a whisper.

But it was enough.

She turned to him, eyes searching his, something raw and uncertain flashing across her face.

And for a split second—just a fraction of a moment—he thought she might close the distance.

That she might finally stop fighting.

But then—

She took a step back.

And just like that, the air between them changed.

Damon clenched his jaw.

"Phoebe—"

"I should go," she said quickly, voice almost too steady. "It's late."

Damon exhaled slowly. "Phoebe—"

"It was a mistake, wasn't it?"

Her voice was soft, almost fragile.

And something in his chest twisted.

Because he knew she didn't just mean tonight.

She meant them.

The past.

The way she had let herself believe—for just a moment—that he was safe.

Damon took a step forward.

"Phoebe, don't do this."

She shook her head. "I have to."

And before he could stop her—

Before he could tell her that running wouldn't change anything—

She was gone.