The Angel And The Bastard

Chapter 15 - Damien

Damien

When I walk back into the living room, ready for round two of our back-and-forth, I'm met with silence.

The kind that settles in like dust, soft and complete. I blink, and there she is, curled up on my couch, fast asleep.

She's quiet like this, a contrast to the fierce, quick-witted Iris I'm used to.

Her face is softened, the edges of her expression gentler than I've ever seen.

Even with her hair slightly tangled, and traces of the night's exhaustion showing, she looks... beautiful. I mean, of course, she's beautiful—I'm not blind.

But somehow, it feels different, seeing her this way, without all the defenses she usually wears.

Vulnerable, almost.

It's enough to make my chest feel heavier, like I can't catch my breath for a second.

"Dammit," I mutter to myself, rubbing the back of my neck as I stand there, debating if I should wake her up or let her sleep.

Instead, I grab the blanket draped over the arm of the couch and gently pull it over her. She stirs a little, shifting to pull the blanket closer around her shoulders, but she doesn't wake.

"Like you'd ever actually fall for someone like me in real life," I mutter under my breath, giving a bitter half-smile.

Because let's be honest: whatever game we're playing here, whatever bargain we've struck, it has an expiration date.

And someone like her? She's not meant for someone like me.

With that thought lingering, I give her one last glance before retreating to my room and shutting the door quietly behind me.

The next morning, I wake up to the smell of coffee.

For a second, I forget where I am, blinking up at the ceiling as the events of yesterday start to filter back in.

Then I remember. Iris. My couch.

I throw on a shirt and head out, bracing myself for whatever trouble she's gotten herself into already. But when I see her standing by the kitchen, coffee mug in hand, I stop dead in my tracks.

She's wearing one of my shirts—plain white, oversized, falling almost to her knees.

Her hair's a mess, but in that perfectly tousled, effortless way that looks like it took hours to style.

No makeup, no fancy clothes, just her. And somehow, she looks... better. Like she's finally let herself just be.

I don't say anything at first, just lean against the doorway, crossing my arms.

Eventually, she notices me, her eyes narrowing.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer," she says, her voice laced with sarcasm.

"Trust me, I would if I could," I reply, giving her a lazy smirk. "Nice shirt, by the way."

"Didn't exactly have much of a choice," she retorts, glancing down at herself and shrugging. "That dress was like wearing a corset made of nails."

"Thought you liked looking like royalty," I say, raising an eyebrow.

"Not when it cuts off my circulation," she replies, rolling her eyes. "And, believe it or not, your shirt is actually kind of comfortable."

I chuckle, grabbing a mug and pouring myself some coffee. "Glad my wardrobe meets your standards."

She watches me for a second, as if she's trying to figure something out. "Do you always wake up this early?"