I didn't expect to feel like this.
Not the butterflies.
Not the heat under my skin.
And definitely not the ache that settled low in my stomach when I saw him again after all these years.
The Blackwood estate loomed just as I remembered—grand, cold in its elegance, all glass walls and sharp architecture perched on the cliffside like a crown. The sea below thundered against the rocks, but it was his voice I heard in my ears.
Damon.
Mr. Blackwood.
My best friend's father.
I used to come here in high school, after late-night study sessions with Ivy. He was always the silent presence behind the glass of his office. A ghost of success—polished, sharp, always in control. I never spoke more than a polite "hello" back then. And yet now… now everything felt different.
I was different.
I was twenty now. A woman. At least, trying to be.
And the moment I stepped back into this house, the way his eyes swept over me told me he noticed it too.
---
He stood at the top of the staircase, backlit by the chandelier's glow, his shirt sleeves rolled up, jawline carved like a Greek statue. One hand in his trouser pocket, the other holding a glass of something dark and expensive. I swallowed hard.
He hadn't even spoken yet, but I felt… seen. Like he could read every thought I didn't want him to know.
And I had so many of them.
---
"Serena?" His voice cut through me—low, warm, confident. "It's been a while."
I tried to smile. My lips curved, but my legs had gone shaky. "Yeah. It's good to see you again, Mr. Blackwood."
His gaze held mine a second too long. "It's Damon. You're not a child anymore."
God. That shouldn't have felt like a compliment. But it did. It burned like one.
---
I followed him into the sunken living room, every step echoing like it didn't belong in a place so pristine. Ivy wasn't home yet—delayed flight. That left me and Damon in this vast house of glass and tension.
He offered me a drink, not like I was a guest, but like I was something else.
Something older.
"Bourbon?" he asked, already pouring himself another.
I hesitated. "I don't usually…"
He smirked, handing me a glass. "One won't hurt."
His fingers brushed mine.
My breath caught.
I knew he felt it too.
---
We sat across from each other—him lounging like a king, me perching like a schoolgirl pretending not to stare at the veins on his forearms, the way his wrist flexed when he lifted his glass.
"You're in college now?" he asked.
I nodded. "Junior year. Literature and media."
He smiled faintly. "And what do you plan to do with that?"
That question always annoyed me. When other people asked, it sounded like judgment. But not with him. With him, it sounded like curiosity. Like he cared.
"I want to write," I said. "Books. Or maybe stories that matter."
He leaned forward slightly, his eyes catching the flicker of the fire behind me. "You always had that spark. Ivy used to talk about how you never shut up about novels."
My face flushed. "I guess I was a little obsessive."
"No," he said slowly. "Just… passionate."
The way he said that word made something twist inside me. His gaze dropped—just a second—to my lips. Or maybe I imagined it.
But I didn't imagine the heat.
---
Serena's Inner Monologue
> He's twice my age. He's forbidden. He's the father of my best friend.
So why does it feel like my body leans into him even when I'm trying to sit still?
Why do I want him to ask more questions—deeper ones?
Why does this house, this silence, feel like it's waiting for something neither of us will admit?
---
An hour passed. Maybe two. Time slipped through my fingers like sand. I told myself I was here for Ivy. Told myself not to think about how his voice made me cross and uncross my legs.
But then it happened.
I stood to take my bag upstairs and my phone slipped, landing by his feet.
I bent down to grab it.
So did he.
Our hands collided.
I froze.
He did too.
The air between us sizzled.
And for one reckless moment, I looked up—and saw it.
Not just attraction.
Not just curiosity.
But hunger.
---
He didn't move away. Not immediately. He didn't apologize. His fingers lingered on mine just long enough to make my stomach flutter and my heart pound in my throat.
And then—he let go.
"You should get some rest," he said, voice low.
"Yeah," I replied, throat dry. "Thanks for the drink."
But neither of us looked away.
---
Later that night, I stood in front of the guest bathroom mirror in an oversized shirt and nothing else. My hair still damp from a shower, my skin flushed from memories I shouldn't have let in.
I closed my eyes and whispered to my reflection:
> "I shouldn't be looking at him like that."
But I already had.
And something inside me knew…
He was looking back.