EUPHORIA

part 5

Chapter 5: Fault Lines

The rain hadn’t stopped for three days.

Damian liked the sound — consistent, steady, predictable. It drowned out the noise of the world, the kind that distracted, the kind that made his mind drift to things he didn’t want to think about. Raven, however, didn’t seem to share the same calm.

He could hear her moving restlessly in the next room, her bare feet light against the floor. The soft hum of her energy flared and faded, restless like the storm outside. Every few minutes, something small would rattle — a cup, a pen, the frame by the window — followed by a quiet murmur of apology that she probably didn’t even realize she was saying aloud.

She was trying to control it. He could tell. But her control was fragile.

Damian finally set down the book he wasn’t reading and rose from the couch. The shadows in the room shifted slightly with his movement, brushing across the walls like ink. He moved with his usual precision — quiet, deliberate, his footsteps barely audible.

When he reached the doorway to her room, she was sitting on the floor near the window, knees pulled up, a faint glow tracing along her fingers.

“I thought I said not to overuse your energy,” he said. His voice was quiet but sharp — a tone that carried authority without needing to rise.

Raven flinched, the glow dissipating immediately. “I’m sorry. I was just— it helps me think.”

“Think less,” he said, walking past her toward the shelf where she’d placed a few of the books he’d lent her. He adjusted one that leaned slightly crooked. “You’re not here to think. You’re here to stabilize.”

Her eyes lifted to him briefly, pale violet against the faint city light. “That’s not easy when your head feels like it’s splitting in half.”

He paused, turning slightly to face her. Her voice was calm, almost too calm, but he caught the faint tremor beneath it — the exhaustion, the tension she tried to hide. He had seen it before, in soldiers, in agents — people who’d seen too much and carried too much inside.

He crouched beside her, slow, deliberate, making sure she saw every movement before it happened. “Headaches?” he asked, though it wasn’t really a question.

She nodded, pressing her palms lightly against her temples. “It’s been getting worse. It’s not physical. It’s—” she hesitated, her voice lowering. “He’s trying to reach me.”

Damian’s jaw tightened. He didn’t need to ask who “he” was.

“Lie down,” he ordered.

She blinked, uncertain. “What?”

“Your energy spikes when you fight the intrusion standing up. Gravity doesn’t help you when your balance is compromised.”

Her brows furrowed slightly, but she obeyed, lying back carefully on the floor, her hair spreading like a dark halo against the wooden surface. Damian moved a step closer and crouched again, resting one hand briefly against the floor near her shoulder — not touching her, just grounding himself against the vibrations that pulsed faintly beneath her.

Her pulse was steady but high. The glow beneath her skin flickered in time with it, soft and unsteady.

“Focus,” he said quietly. “Breathe.”

“I’m trying.”

“Then stop trying.” His tone sharpened slightly, cutting through her panic before it could rise. “Stop fighting it like it’s an enemy. Control doesn’t always mean resistance.”

Raven’s breathing steadied. The energy around her softened, no longer thrashing but folding inward, dark light dimming until it was barely visible. Damian watched, patient, waiting for the rhythm to even out.

When it finally did, she opened her eyes again — slower this time, calmer. “Better,” she whispered.

He gave a short nod and stood, moving to adjust the light in the room, dimming it further. “You need rest,” he said, crossing his arms. “If your father’s influence is bleeding through, you’ll need to keep your guard down long enough for your energy to recover.”

Her gaze lingered on him for a moment. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It’s not,” he said simply. “That’s why you’re still here.”

She almost smiled at that, a small, faint thing that didn’t quite reach her eyes. But it was the closest she’d come since arriving.

Damian watched her for another long moment before finally stepping toward the door. But when he heard her exhale — that faint, trembling sound that came after the calm — he stopped.

Without a word, he crossed to the cabinet, pulled out one of the small folded blankets he kept there, and returned. She started to sit up, but he gave her a short look — the kind that said don’t move. She obeyed. He knelt again, laid the blanket over her carefully, tucking the edge just enough to keep her warm. His fingers brushed her arm for only a second before he pulled away.

“Don’t make me regret this,” he muttered, straightening.

“You won’t,” she said quietly, her eyes half-closed.

He didn’t respond.

Damian lingered at the doorway again as she drifted toward sleep, her breathing slow, the glow gone completely now. The rain outside softened to a whisper, faint against the glass.

For the first time since she’d arrived, the apartment didn’t feel like a holding cell. It felt… still. Controlled. Almost peaceful.

And for reasons he didn’t care to examine, Damian stayed there — silent, arms crossed, watching until she finally slept.