36 - AN INVITATION

36 - AN INVITATION


Cheryl

"Wait—what?!"

My voice came out sharp, my eyes snapping up to meet Damon’s, searching his face like maybe—just maybe—I had misheard him.

He looked utterly unbothered. Like he had just told me he picked up my dry cleaning instead of dropping thousands of dollars on a house.

"You heard me," he said smoothly, hands slipping into his pockets, his stance too damn relaxed. "I already paid for it."

I let out a short, breathy laugh, running a hand through my hair. "You’re joking, right? This is a joke?"

Damon tilted his head, watching me with that unreadable expression of his.

"Do I look like I’m joking?"

I took a step back, shaking my head. "Damon, no. No. I told you—I can’t let you pay for this. We talked about this."

"And I heard you," he said, his voice calm in contrast to the mini panic attack rising in my chest. "I just decided I didn’t care."

"You didn’t—" I stopped myself, pressing my fingers to my temples. "Damon, this is insane. This isn’t just a new phone or a fancy dinner. This is a freaking house!"

"Exactly," he said, taking a step toward me. "Which is why I did it. You need a place, Cheryl. A real place. Not the whole roomie complex thing you have going on now"

My mouth opened. Closed.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

But that wasn’t the point.

"Damon," I said, trying to steady my voice, "I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I can’t—"

"Why not?" he cut in, his tone firmer now. "Why can’t you just let me do this for you?"

I hesitated.

Not because I didn’t have an answer.

But because I didn’t know which one was the truth.

Because yes, part of me still clung to the idea that I needed to do this on my own, that I needed to prove I could stand on my own two feet.

But another part of me?

Another part of me was so damn tired.

Tired of scraping by.

Tired of living in a space that barely felt like mine.

Tired of being so damn close to Aiden every single day and pretending like he didn’t affect me.

Damon took another step closer, lowering his voice.

"I know you, Cheryl," he said, and there was something raw in the way he looked at me. "I know you hate asking for help. I know you think you have to prove something to yourself, to everyone else. But let me do this. Let me take care of you—for once."

I swallowed hard.

His words settled deep, twisting around something fragile inside me.

"Damon…"

"You don’t owe me anything," he added quickly, his fingers brushing against mine. "This isn’t a debt. This isn’t a favor I’ll throw in your face later. This is me proving to you how much I care."

And that right there—that—was the moment I cracked.

Because wasn’t that what I wanted?

To be wanted? To be cared for? To not have to fight every single battle on my own?

My fingers curled slightly around his, my shoulders dropping just the tiniest bit.

I didn’t say anything.

But Damon must have seen my answer, because his lips quirked into a small, knowing smile.

"You love the house, don’t you?"

I exhaled a soft laugh, shaking my head. "Of course I do. It’s ridiculous."

"Then stop fighting me on this," he murmured. "Let me give you something good, Cheryl."

I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the weight of it settle before opening them again.

"Okay," I whispered. "Okay."

Damon grinned. Triumphant.

I let out a sigh, shaking my head. "You’re impossible."

"And yet, you’re still here."

I rolled my eyes, but before I could shoot back with a sarcastic comment, he suddenly snapped his fingers.

"You know what this calls for?"

I arched a brow. "What?"

"A housewarming party."

I blinked. "A… what?"

"A party," he repeated, looking genuinely excited. "We gotta break this place in the right way. Music, drinks, good company. Maybe a little trouble."

I groaned. "Damon—"

"Don’t fight me on this too," he warned playfully. "It’s happening."

"You just bought me a house—can I at least pretend to settle in first?"

"Nope," he said, smirking. "Big, crazy party. Friday night. No excuses."

I sighed, shaking my head. "You’re the worst."

Damon just grinned. "And yet, you’re still here."

AIDEN

The whiskey burned down my throat, but it did nothing to settle the storm in my head.

I sat at the dining table, fingers wrapped loosely around the glass, watching the amber liquid swirl as if it held answers. Answers about who I really was. About why the woman in that hospital bed—the woman I had spent my whole life calling my mother—wasn’t my mother at all.

That should have been the only thing on my mind. It should have consumed me.

But it didn’t.

Because no matter how hard I tried to focus, my thoughts kept straying—to her.

To Cheryl.

I could still see the look on her face when Anika had snuck up behind me, when her arms had curled around my neck like she had any right to touch me.

Cheryl’s lips had parted slightly, eyes flickering—something raw flashing in them before she smoothed her face over like she felt nothing at all.

Was she jealous?

Did she care?

Did she care the way I did?

I let out a quiet curse, dragging a hand down my face.

What the hell was I thinking?

She was moving out. Leaving.

And I—I didn’t want her to go.

But how could I say that? How could I ask her to stay without giving too much away? Without letting her see how much she had gotten under my skin, how much space she had carved out inside me without even trying?

The front door opened, and I went still, barely breathing as her scent drifted in before she did.

Vanilla and something soft.

She stepped into the dining section and stopped when she saw me, body going rigid, tension thickening in the air between us.

Her lips parted slightly, but she didn’t speak right away. She glanced at the whiskey in my hand instead.

"You’re still up," she finally said, her voice careful.

I let out a slow breath, rolling the glass between my fingers. "Couldn’t sleep."

She nodded like she understood. Maybe she did.

"Because of Molly?"

"Yeah," I admitted, leaning back in my chair. "Especially with her in the hospital. And with everything else…"

"How’s she doing?"

I exhaled. "She’ll live." I paused, swirling my whiskey before taking another sip. "And I’ll be a step closer to finding answers."

A heavy silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating.

She stood there like she had something to say but didn’t know how to say it.

Then—

"I’m throwing a party," she said, almost hesitant, like she wasn’t sure how I’d react. "Well, Damon is throwing a party. My housewarming party. It’s on Friday."

The words hit me like a brick.

Friday.

The day she leaves.

I gripped my glass a little tighter, my jaw locking.

She was really going.

Walking out of this house, this space we had shared, this unbearable, magnetic pull between us that neither of us had dared to name.

I tilted my head back and downed the rest of my whiskey to mask the effect, but it burned anyway.

She watched me, waiting.

"I want you there," she said.

I swallowed, my fingers tightening around the glass. I should say no. I should come up with some excuse, pretend I didn’t care.

But I couldn’t.

Because the truth was—I wanted to be there.

For her.

For whatever this was between us, even if it was slowly killing me.

She lingered for a moment longer, waiting for me to say something.

I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

She turned to leave, taking a few slow steps toward her room, and something inside me screamed to stop her.

To hold her back.

To tell her to stay—just for this moment.

To tell her that I needed her.

But the words never came out.

And then—

Her door slammed shut.

I sat there, gripping my empty glass, my pulse pounding in my ears.

I had just let her slip through my fingers.

And I hated myself for it.