(Evelyn's POV)
The bathroom smelled faintly of cedar and mint. The steam from the shower still clung to the glass, curling upward before disappearing into the warm air. I caught my own reflection in the mirror—eyes still wide from the night, lips a shade darker than usual from biting down on them.
I'd gone in to wash away the touch of the drunk man's hand, the stench of alcohol and street smoke clinging to me. I didn't want to walk out of here still wearing the night like a bruise.
A neatly folded T-shirt lay on the marble counter where I hadn't noticed it before. Black, soft cotton, worn just enough to be comfortable. His shirt. He'd left it without a word, the gesture so casual it made me hesitate before picking it up.
My dress lay crumpled in the corner. I slipped the shirt over my head. It hung loose on me, skimming my thighs, the sleeves brushing my elbows. I tied my damp hair into a messy bun, strands falling around my face.
When I stepped out, the penthouse felt different—quieter, heavier. Damien stood by the window, one hand in his pocket, the city spread in cold, glittering silence behind him. His gaze found me instantly, and for a moment, he didn't move. He just looked.
Not polite, not curious. Assessing.
The kind of stare that stripped away more than clothes.
I folded my arms over my stomach, though it did nothing to stop the weight of his attention. "It was this or my dress," I said, breaking the silence.
His lips twitched—not a smile, exactly, but close. "My shirt suits you better."
"I doubt that."
"I don't." He stepped away from the window, each movement unhurried, deliberate. "Interesting… you make it look like it belongs to you."
I turned slightly, feigning interest in the skyline beyond the glass. "Maybe I just make things mine."
His footsteps were soft against the floor, but I felt every one. "Dangerous statement."
"You would know."
He stopped a few feet away. The air between us felt stretched thin, fragile. His eyes dipped, not in a crude sweep, but lingering at the way the cotton fell over me, the shape it hinted at. I should've been uncomfortable. Instead, I was… aware. Too aware.
"You cleaned up well," he said.
"That sounds like a compliment wrapped in something else."
"Observation," he corrected. "And perhaps… a warning."
I met his eyes then, refusing to look away. "Of what?"
His gaze didn't flinch. "That I notice more than I should."
The room was warm, but a shiver ran down my spine. He took one more step forward. Now, there was no avoiding him—he was close enough that I could catch the faint scent of his cologne: dark, sharp, and impossible to forget.
"You're staring," I said.
"You make it difficult not to." His voice was low, almost thoughtful. "And I'm not the kind of man who denies himself curiosity."
"Curiosity can be dangerous," I echoed his earlier words.
"Some things are worth the risk."
The space between us vanished. His hand came up, not quite touching my face, but close enough that my breath caught. His thumb brushed the air just above my cheek, a ghost of a touch.
I should have moved. I didn't.
Then, slowly, as if testing a boundary neither of us had named, Damien leaned in. His mouth found mine with deliberate precision—no rush, no hesitation. His lips were firm, warm, coaxing mine open. The kiss was a question, a demand, and an answer all at once.
I didn't mean to respond. But the second his other hand rested lightly at my hip, I did. Heat curled low in my stomach, my fingers gripping the front of his shirt. For a heartbeat—two—I let it happen.
Then reality crashed in. I broke away, pushing against his chest. "No."
He didn't stumble. Didn't even look surprised. Only his eyes darkened, as though filing away the fact that I'd let him kiss me before I'd stopped him.
"Fair enough," he said softly.
I stepped back, putting distance between us, trying to steady my breathing. "I should go."
His head tilted, but he didn't argue. "Your driver's waiting."
I didn't ask how he knew I had one. I just moved toward the elevator, feeling his gaze trail me all the way.
When the doors opened in the lobby, my driver was parked outside. I stepped into the cool night air, pulling his shirt tighter around me. As I reached for the car door, I glanced back.
Damien stood at the building's entrance, one hand in his pocket, the city lights catching in his eyes. And on his lips—a smirk. Not arrogant. Not kind. Just… certain.
Like he knew I'd be back.