*Isabella's POV*
"What about yours?" he asked after taking a deep, shuddering breath, as if her own confession had taken something out of him. He was trying to calm his nerves.
"Mine?" I asked, my voice a little hollow. "I never really talk about her, I uhm... I don't know what to say, mainly because there isn't much to say." I took a deep breath, reciting the facts as if reading from a cue card. "She raised me by herself since I was ten years old. She died when I was almost eighteen."
"How did she die?" he asked, his voice full of a soft sorrow that made my stomach clench.
"Cancer," I replied flatly, same word, same tone. I didn't want his pity. I didn't fucking need it.
"And your father?" he asked gently, already piecing together the massive, gaping hole in my story.
"I had a father," I said, my voice tight, the first crack in my armour. "More like a sperm donor. He left us. Never heard for him. The motherfucker decided his life will be better of in a different place, I guess." I shrugged, trying to act casual, but the frustration was boiling inside me had been simmering for years.
"Oh, Isabella," he sighed, his voice thick with an empathy I didn't want. He started to pull me closer, to offer that comforting hug I knew was coming.
"Nope," I said, pushing him of, putting a hand on his firm chest to create some space. "I'm good. I don't need pity or a fucking hug to make it all better." My voice was sharp, a defence mechanism I'd perfected over a decade.
He didn't push. He just looked at me, his dark eyes full of an understanding that was so much worse than pity. "Isabella," he said, his voice soft but firm. "It's okay to feel angry with him. You're allowed to be angry. Nobody should do that to their child."
And just like that, the fight went out of me. The walls I'd built so high, so fucking thick, crumbled. He wasn't seeing me as a sad little girl who needed coddling. He was seeing me as a woman who had a right to her fucking rage. He got it.
My shoulders slumped, and I let him pull me this time. I melted into his arms, my face burying into his chest, and for the first time in I don't know how long it felt like, I let someone else carry the weight of it.
"Are there any children in your 'before 30' list? Or perhaps your 'after 30' list?" he asked, his voice a low, curious rumble that vibrated through my chest where my head was resting. His fingers were tracing lazy patterns on my back, a soothing, hypnotic motion.
I shifted, propping myself up on an elbow to look at him. The question was so... domestic. So normal. It felt weirdly out of place in our high-stakes, emotionally complicated bubble. "I guess I've thought about it sometimes," I said, my voice a little hesitant. "Not so soon. I mean, I want to achieve my professional goals first, but... maybe after. Yeah."
He watched me, his dark eyes intense, like he was trying to solve a complex puzzle. "I know I'm not a loving person," I blurted out, my usual defence mechanism kicking in. "But I don't know why... I feel like I could love a tiny human. It would be my flesh and blood, after all." I looked away, feeling suddenly exposed. "I don't know, maybe it's just natural instinct. We are animals and we're bound to procreate," I added, trying to make it sound scientific and detached, like it was a fucking biology lesson.
"I love how you make everything sound so mundane," he whispered in my ear, his warm breath sending a shiver down my spine.
"It is," I said, my voice flat. "The motherly instinct is natural, let's not romanticise it, there's no use."
"What about you?" I asked, turning the tables on him. "Do you want kids?"
"I do," he said, his voice soft but certain. "I've always wanted kids of my own."
I couldn't help it. I chuckled. "You don't look like the type."
"I don't?" he asked, a genuine flicker of confusion in his eyes.
"You know what I mean," I said, poking him playfully in the chest. "You work all the time, then you come home and lock yourself in the study."
"I do don't I," he started, his brow furrowed. "You can call me if you need me. I mean... I don't always know what others want, so I assume you've been okay by yourself. You had school assignments and..." He was saying, his voice laced with a familiar, frustrating guilt, when I cut him off.
"Damien, stop trying to apologise," I said, my voice firm. "I'm a grown woman."
"Isabella, I care about you," he said, his voice earnest. "If you ever feel neglected, please tell me. I sometimes have trouble adjusting to... having a relationship. And you've been nothing but understanding, but if I'm... if I'm being a dick, please..."
"Damien," I said, cutting him off again, my heart aching at the vulnerability in his voice. "There's no one else who can understand the need to work like I do. And you're right, I did have school assignments. Sometimes..." I took a deep breath, "Sometimes... some nights I needed you, but I didn't say anything. You're absolutely perfect. You have nothing to apologise for."
He let out a long, heavy sigh. "See that?" he said, his voice quiet. "I sometimes think that you still have me on a pedestal. I'm far from perfect, and you keep telling me that, and it's... it's making me feel..." He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.
"Am I making you feel like you're perfect?" I asked, my voice soft. I leaned in, planting a soft kiss on his neck, right over his frantic pulse.
"You do," he admitted, his voice a raw whisper. "You make me feel like I'm doing a good job."
"And that you are," I said, my lips brushing against his skin.
He turned his head, capturing my lips in a deep, passionate kiss. "You make me feel incredible," he added between kisses, as my hands wrapped around his neck, as the kiss deepened.