We got a brand name

We got a brand name
Éloïse — POV

Back inside the cabin, still warm from breakfast and sunshine, I spotted my phone on the table. Damien must’ve put it there. Honestly, the man is terrifyingly efficient. If I dropped my soul somewhere, he’d probably return it polished and alphabetized.
I curled onto the couch, unlocked my phone, and—Wow.
My social media had exploded.
Comments, messages, tags—everyone was fawning like I’d just risen from the sea as a golden mermaid with clean credit and generational wealth.
Maybe… maybe I should give them more.
I slipped back toward the open doors, the ocean humming just beyond. I lifted my phone and snapped a picture of the view—no filters, no edits. Just raw peace. A calm horizon tinted with blues so soft they tasted like forgiveness.
I hit “Post.”
The moment the circle started spinning, Damien appeared beside me, sunlight catching the tips of his hair.
If there was ever a perfect time to take a picture, it was then.
I lowered the camera and shot a photo of our feet—his big, warm, wolfy feet planted beside mine in the sand-speckled doorway. The contrast was funny and sweet, like the universe was photobombing us with affection. I snorted at it, and Damien raised an eyebrow as if sensing trouble.
We walked back inside and he absentmindedly started playing with my hair, twisting pieces around his fingers. My brain melted into a puddle of comfort. Meanwhile, I scrolled through my socials.
My feed had shifted overnight—no more pitying messages or cryptic “Are you okay?” comments. Now it was:
“Launch the brand already!”
“We’ll buy anything you make!”
“When’s the drop?”
“Girl, you’re soft-launching too hard.”
Me. A business owner. A designer. Someone the world suddenly wanted things from.
My chest warmed, a little fluttering of pride that wasn’t borrowed or faked.
Then—ugh. The brand name. The one problem I kept dodging like a badly thrown frisbee.
Maybe Damien could help. He knew words. He used them to kill people on sight. Surely he could name a bag line.
“Damien?” I said, brushing my fingers through his hair.
“Yes, mon Éloïse,” he answered instantly, voice smooth as caramelized sin.
And the world… stopped for a breath.
That phrase. The way he said it.
Soft, reverent, like a vow and a kiss trying to share the same breath.
My brain sparked. Lit. Exploded into a starburst of idea.
I shot upright so fast he blinked like he’d been slapped with a croissant.
“Yes… mon Éloise!” I repeated dramatically.
“What?” Damien asked, brows knitting. He looked genuinely concerned—as if I’d suddenly lost my ability to speak human languages.
I inhaled deep, like I needed extra oxygen for brilliance.
“That’ll be the name of my brand.”
He stared. “What will?”
I flung my hands dramatically. “Damien. Stop being slow. The brand name is Mon Éloise!”
He made an “ohhh” face that was both slow-motion and adorable. “Oh.”
“YES, oh!” I squealed, lunging onto him. I grabbed his face in both hands and kissed him all over—cheeks, forehead, nose, the tiny scar on his jaw—while chanting, “Thank you thank you thank you—you gave me the idea!”
“Technically,” he said in the cockiest voice alive, “I found it.”
“Shhhh.”
I slapped a palm over his mouth.
“You will not steal my founder moment.”
He bit my hand gently, smiling against it.
“Fine,” he murmured. “But I want royalties.”
“Your royalty is me,” I declared.
He laughed—warm, amused, fond—and tugged me onto his lap like it was where I was always meant to sit.
I snuggled in, opened my phone again, and typed out the words:
Brand coming soon:
MON ÉLOISE
—Her name. Her story. Her freedom stitched in leather.
I hit “Save Draft,” looked up at him, and whispered:
“I’m building something.”
He rested his forehead against mine.
“You are,” he said. “And you deserve all of it.”
And for once, I believed him.
I was still smiling down at my phone, rereading the draft like a little gremlin who’d just discovered fire, when Damien’s voice slid into the space between my thoughts.
“Now,” he said, tugging lightly at a strand of my hair, “keep your phone… and give me some attention.”
I blinked. Slowly. Caught.
I lowered the phone inch by inch like I was placing a weapon on the ground during a hostage negotiation.
“…you want attention?” I asked, trying very hard not to sound delighted.
His mouth twitched. “I’ve been standing here for ten minutes watching you grin at pixels.”
“They’re my pixels,” I said defensively, crossing my arms.
He raised a brow. “And I’m your mate.”
Well. That shut me up real fast.
He plucked the phone from my hand with the smooth audacity of someone who steals hearts for a living, placed it facedown on the couch, then tilted my chin up with one finger.
“You can post,” he murmured, “you can build your empire… but right now?” He lifted my braid and brushed it over my shoulder. “I want your eyes on me.”
Heat climbed up my throat so fast I nearly choked on it.
“I was looking at you,” I argued weakly.
He snorted. “You were looking at your analytics.”
I gasped as if personally insulted.
Which—okay—fair.
He stepped closer, and I suddenly remembered that he was big. And warm. And the kind of handsome that made my brain lag like bad Wi-Fi.
“Éloïse,” he said quietly, “sit with me.”
My heart did a little backflip.
I plopped onto the couch dramatically, limbs flailing like a marionette who’d lost coordination. He stared. Slowly sat beside me. Then dragged me across his lap like I weighed nothing but dramatics and questionable choices.
“I wasn’t done walking,” I muttered.
“Hm,” he said, settling me comfortably against him, “and I wasn’t done missing you.”
Ah. There it was. The line that melted my spine.
I curled into him like a cat made of gratitude and leftover trauma. His hand found the back of my neck, fingers tracing lazy circles that made my entire nervous system reboot.
“Better,” he murmured.
I pretended not to enjoy it. “I give amazing attention, actually.”
“Oh?” He brushed his thumb along my jaw. “Show me.”
I poked his chest. “First you show me you deserve it.”
He laughed—quiet, warm, the kind of sound that felt like being wrapped in a blanket after a storm. Then he kissed the top of my head and held me a little tighter, like the ocean, the sun, and the entire world could wait.
So I gave him attention. Real attention. The kind you give the person who dragged you out of hell and handed you your freedom without asking for anything back.
I tilted my head up and whispered, “There. You have me.”
And he smiled like that was everything.