CHAPTER 6:STIRRING EMBERS
The kitchen was warm, dimly lit by a few golden pendant lamps that hung over the long island counter.
Celine moved softly around the room, barefoot now, her pale sweater slipping slightly down her shoulder again as she reheated the food she had prepared earlier.
Damian sat at the kitchen table, leaning back in his chair, his cane resting against the wall behind him.
He watched her quietly —
the gentle way she hummed under her breath,
the small, determined frown she made as she struggled with the ancient oven settings,
the way she kept glancing over her shoulder to make sure he was still there, still watching.
It wasn't perfect.
It wasn't polished.
It was real.
And God help him, it was beautiful.
---
She set the warmed plates in front of him with a shy, proud smile, brushing a stray hair behind her ear.
"It's not as good as fresh," she admitted, her cheeks pink, "but it should still taste okay."
Damian picked up his fork slowly, his eyes flickering up to hers.
The old, wounded part of him screamed to stay silent, to stay cold.
But something new — something reckless and aching — pushed him to test the waters.
Just a little.
"If it tastes bad," he said casually, twirling his fork once between his fingers, "will you feed me dessert by hand to make up for it?"
---
Celine froze for a fraction of a second.
Her eyes widened — the faintest, sweetest deer-caught-in-light look.
And then, to Damian's shock, she laughed.
Not nervously.
Not bitterly.
A soft, musical laugh that lit her entire face from within.
Her cheeks flushed a deeper pink, but she didn't snap at him, didn't throw up walls or roll her eyes like the old Celine would have.
Instead, she tilted her head slightly, pretending to think.
"Depends," she said, voice teasing and light. "What kind of dessert are we talking about?"
Her eyes sparkled mischievously — a sparkle not of cruelty, but of innocent playfulness — and Damian's heart thudded painfully against his ribs.
It was real.
It was real.
Not an act.
Not a manipulation.
Her.
---
They ate in companionable, laughing silence, the tension between them sweeter now, crackling like a warm fire instead of a lightning storm.
At one point, Celine accidentally brushed her foot against his under the table — and when she realized it, she blushed fiercely, quickly pulling away with a stammered apology.
Damian said nothing.
But he couldn't stop the small, rare smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth.
---
Afterward, they sat nursing cups of tea, the plates forgotten.
The clock on the wall ticked softly.
The outside world felt very far away.
The weight of the moment pressed down between them — heavy, aching, trembling on the edge of something new.
Damian shifted slightly in his chair, his hand curling loosely around his mug.
He didn't look at her when he finally spoke.
"Why now?" he asked.
The question hung in the air — raw, unpolished, trembling.
Why now?
After years of bitterness.
After oceans of cruelty.
Why had she come back to him like this?
Why was she smiling at him like he mattered?
Why?
---
Celine set her cup down carefully.
For a long moment, she said nothing.
The kitchen hummed with silence.
Then she reached across the small space between them, letting her fingers brush lightly over the back of his hand —
a feather-light touch.
Her voice was soft, sure, and devastatingly simple.
"Because this time, I woke up loving you."
---
Damian's heart cracked clean open.
No grand speeches.
No complicated explanations.
Just the truth.
And for the first time in longer than he dared remember —
he let it in.
He let her in.