The door closes behind Damon, but the air feels too thick with his presence. I stand there for a long moment, unsure of what to do next, as the warmth of his touch lingers on my skin. The city outside my window is quiet, but inside, everything is unsettled and restless. My pulse is racing, my heart still echoing with the weight of our confrontation.
Why does he have this effect on me?
I move toward the window, gripping the edge of the sill, my mind a mess of thoughts and emotions. Everything about Damon—his persistence, his intensity—cuts through me in a way that no one else has. And yet, every part of me screams that this connection between us can't be real. I shouldn't let him in, shouldn't give him the control he seems to crave. But I can't stop myself. I'm drawn to him in a way that feels dangerous, like a fire I can't stop staring into, even though I know it will burn me.
My phone buzzes on the table, and I glance at it, already knowing who it is. His name is on the screen. He's relentless.
I ignore it, my thumb hovering over the screen, but I can't bring myself to press the "block" button. Not yet.
There's a knock at the door. This time, I don't hesitate. I know what I'm walking into, and part of me wonders if I've been expecting it all along. Damon isn't going to let me have peace. He's not the type of man who accepts rejection.
When I open the door, Damon stands there, his eyes searching mine, intense and unreadable. For a moment, it feels like he can see through me like he knows exactly what I'm thinking. And what I'm thinking isn't what I want him to hear.
"You've been avoiding me," he says, his voice low like he's speaking to someone who belongs to him.
"I haven't been avoiding you," I respond quickly, though I know it's a lie. "I've just been busy."
He doesn't buy it. His gaze never wavers, and I feel a wave of unease wash over me. There's something in the way he looks at me—like he's trying to figure me out, piece by piece.
"You can lie to yourself, but I see it in your eyes," Damon says, his voice still calm, but with an edge. "You want this, Ella. You can't deny it."
"I don't want anything from you," I say, though the words come out weaker than I intended. My breath catches in my throat, and I feel the familiar tug of his presence, pulling me closer to him despite my better judgment.
He steps closer, closing the space between us, and I'm caught in the magnetic pull of him. His eyes hold mine, unblinking, as if daring me to look away.
"You can keep saying that," he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. "But we both know it's not true. You want me, Ella. You always have."
I want to deny it. I want to shout at him to leave me alone, to stop messing with my head. But the truth is, the more he speaks, the more his words feel like a confession, not an accusation. Because deep down, I know he's right. The connection between us, no matter how much I try to ignore it, is real.
"I'm not some prize you can win," I say, trying to hold onto the last shred of my resolve. "You can't just walk back into my life and expect me to fall for you."
Damon's lips curl into a faint smile, but it's not triumphant. It's something else—something darker, almost sympathetic. "I don't need you to fall for me, Ella," he says softly, his voice sending a shiver down my spine. "I just need you to stop fighting it."
I open my mouth to respond, but the words don't come. Instead, I feel myself drawn to him, the tension between us thickening, pulling us closer together. I hate how badly I want him to be right. How much I need him to be right.
The silence stretches on, and I feel the weight of his stare on me like he's waiting for me to make a choice.
This isn't about whether I want him or not. It's about control—about whether or not I can maintain it in the face of everything Damon is. Every inch of me is screaming to give in, to surrender, but I can't. I won't. Not like this.
"I'm not yours to control," I say, the words coming out a little more forcefully than I intended. My voice shakes, betraying me.
Damon steps back, as if considering my words. Then, slowly, he nods. "Fine," he says, his tone low and resigned. "But you'll come around. You'll see that I'm not going anywhere."
With that, he turns to leave, but not before his eyes flicker back to mine, a warning in their depths. "I'll be waiting," he says, almost casually, before he walks out the door, leaving me standing there, shaken and breathless.
I close the door behind him, leaning my back against it as I slide down to the floor. My heart is pounding in my chest, my body still reeling from the intensity of what just happened. I can't breathe. I can't think.
I'm way over my head.