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The apartment was quiet, cloaked in the soft hum of the city at night. The curtains stirred faintly with the breeze through the cracked window, the scent of autumn lingering in the air. On the couch, the old clock ticked steadily, marking time in the silence.
And in the bedroom, Anya dreamed.
At first, it was harmless. She stood in a field, the grass taller than her shoulders, the sun warm on her face. She was small again, a child with stubby legs and wide eyes, chasing after butterflies that dissolved into specks of light when she reached for them.
But the light began to fade. The warmth dimmed.
The grass turned to cold white walls.
Lights so bright they stung her eyes, buzzing until her ears rang. A metal table under her back. The faint stench of antiseptic clinging to the air.
And hands. Always hands.
Gloved, firm, unyielding. They pressed her down by the shoulders, by the arms, pinning her as though she could ever fight back. A child—so small she barely filled the table. She couldn’t string together full sentences yet, but her fear was whole, swallowing her from the inside out.
''Hold her still.''
The voice came from above, faceless behind the blur of the fluorescent lights. Another answered with a cold murmur. A tray clinked. A needle gleamed, longer than her arm was wide.
She thrashed. Screamed. Her little legs kicked uselessly against the straps that weren’t there yet, but might as well have been.
And then she saw her.
Her mother.
She stood at the edge of the table, a pale shadow in the corner of Anya’s vision. Familiar features warped by the light—soft eyes that should have been warm, lips that should have comforted her. But the eyes were empty. Blank.
''Mama!'' The word tore out of her throat, raw and high-pitched, sticky with tears. She reached out a tiny hand, desperate, pleading.
The woman did not move.
One of the doctors barked: ''Just hold her. It’s easier that way.''
And her mother obeyed.
Her hands—gentle hands, hands that once stroked her hair and wiped her cheeks—came down heavy on Anya’s arms. Pinning her. Helping them.
''No! Mama!'' she screamed, thrashing harder. The room warped with her terror, lights bending, the walls folding in closer. She didn’t understand. Couldn’t understand. Why wasn’t her mama stopping them? Why wasn’t she saving her?
The needle sank in.
Pain seared through her arm, sharp and hot, spreading into her veins like fire. Her head pounded. Her chest heaved. Thoughts not her own poured in all at once, shrieking voices, broken sentences, fear layered over fear.
It hurts it hurts make it stop I don’t want this what are they doing Mama Mama Mama—
Her scream cut through them, but it didn’t matter. No one listened. They only wrote things down, their clipboards scratching, their mouths murmuring about ''success rates'' and ''viability.''
She couldn’t breathe. Her body was too small to contain everything they were putting inside it—power, voices, terror. She gasped and gasped, but the air was gone, stolen by the buzzing lights and the cold hands.
''Mama...'' she whimpered, voice breaking, hoping, praying for warmth, for comfort. For anything that would make it stop.
But her mother only stared with those hollow eyes, lips trembling as if to speak, but no words came.
And then—blood.
A gunshot cracked the silence. Her mother’s chest jerked, crimson blooming across her blouse. She staggered, her hand slipping from Anya’s arm as she fell.
Anya’s scream shattered her throat.
She reached, tiny fingers grasping at nothing as her mother hit the floor, her body crumpling like a puppet with its strings cut.
''Mama!''
The gloved hands forced her back down. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t reach. The lights bore down like suns, burning holes into her eyes. The voices above didn’t stop. They only spoke faster, sharper, as though nothing had happened.
Chains coiled around her chest, her arms, her throat. She could hear her own heartbeat pounding in her skull, drowning out her cries.
And in the reflection of the metal tray, she saw herself.
Not the girl she was now. Not the college student curled in Damian’s bed.
A child. Not even two years old. Wide-eyed, trembling, her mouth smeared with tears. That younger self stared back at her with an expression that hollowed her out.
''You don’t belong anywhere,'' the reflection whispered, lips moving with perfect clarity though no sound should’ve carried in the sterile room.
The needle plunged again.
The world went black.
Her chest seized. She was drowning, smothered, suffocating. Voices screamed inside her head, her own voice among them, raw and broken: Mama, please—
The shadows leaned closer, their whispers deafening.
“You’re ours.”
She clawed for air. For light. For anything.
And then—through the static, the noise, the pain—she heard it.
A voice. Not cold, not cruel. Not theirs.
Low, steady, warm.
Her name.
''Anya.''
The darkness fractured.
Her eyes flew open.
She was back in the apartment. Sheets tangled around her body, sweat cooling on her skin, her throat raw from a scream that hadn’t reached the air. The clock ticked faintly in the living room. The city murmured outside.
But her chest still heaved like she was drowning. Her arms still ached like chains held her down. And the echo of her mother’s blank eyes lingered, carved into her skull.
The dream was gone.
But the terror was not.
Damian stirred awake at first from the restless tugging beside him. He blinked against the shadows of the bedroom, the dim orange glow of the streetlamp outside cutting slats of light across the ceiling. His chest was warm, heavy, as if Anya had been pressed against him all night. But something was off.
Her breath wasn’t steady.
He shifted, frowning in the dark, and that’s when he heard it—shallow, jagged gasps, almost like she couldn’t get air.
''Anya?'' His voice was low, rough with sleep, but instantly alert.
She didn’t answer.
His eyes adjusted slowly, and he saw her. She was sitting upright now, knees drawn to her chest, her hands clawing into the sheets as if holding on to keep from being pulled under. Her shoulders shook violently. Her hair clung to her damp temples, her face pale and streaked with cold sweat.
Damian’s chest tightened. He sat up immediately, reaching for her arm. ''Anya. What’s wrong? Talk to me.''
She opened her mouth but no words came out. Just a choked, broken sound, like her throat had closed up. Her whole body trembled.
His instincts screamed at him—protect her. But he forced himself to stay gentle, steady. He slid closer, wrapping his arms around her before she could flinch away. She folded into him like glass about to shatter.
''Shh. It’s okay. I’ve got you,'' he murmured, pressing his cheek against her hair. His hands moved slowly, one rubbing up and down her back, the other cupping the back of her head. ''You’re safe. You’re safe. Nothing’s going to hurt you.''
But her breathing was too fast, shallow, on the edge of hyperventilating. Her body jolted with every shaky inhale, like she was still trapped in some unseen nightmare.
Damian kissed the top of her head, his lips trembling despite himself. ''Anya, it’s me. It’s Damian. Your Sy-on boy. You’re here, not there. Just listen to me, okay? Breathe with me.''
He exaggerated his own breaths—slow, deep, steady—hoping she would follow. He pressed his palm gently against her ribcage, grounding her in the rise and fall of his own lungs.
But she couldn’t. Her chest hitched, her throat caught, and every inhale turned into a sob. She clutched his shirt in both fists, shaking her head against him.
''Shh, shh,'' he whispered, kissing her temple again and again. ''It’s alright, don’t force it. Just let it out. I’m not going anywhere.''
Minutes stretched, thick and heavy. Her sobs came ragged, uncontrollable, soaking his shirt. Damian only held her tighter, rocking them slightly as if she were a child. His own heart pounded painfully in his chest, and tears were welling up in his eyes, but he wouldn’t let it show. She needed his calm.
''You’re okay,'' he whispered over and over. ''I’ve got you. You’re not alone.''
She tried to speak, a hoarse, broken syllable—''Da—'' But it crumbled into a whimper, her voice gone. Her whole body spasmed like she couldn’t bear to hold in all the fear pressing against her ribs.
Damian kissed her damp cheek, wiped away sweat with the edge of the blanket. ''You don’t have to talk. Just stay with me. Just hold on.''
But then her breathing shifted again—not calmer, but sharper. She gagged suddenly, jerking forward, her body convulsing.
Damian’s eyes widened in alarm. He recognized the sound instantly, the way her throat clicked as her stomach lurched.
''Let's go to the bathroom,'' he said quickly, already moving. ''It's okay.''
She shook her head, disoriented, but he was already sliding off the bed and pulling her gently with him. He didn’t let go of her hand, guiding her on shaky legs. She stumbled once, knees almost giving out, but he caught her, half-carrying her down the short hall.
They made it just in time. Damian flipped the bathroom light on with his elbow, got her to the toilet, and held her steady as she collapsed to her knees.
Then the retching started.
Her body convulsed violently, her stomach emptying with harsh, wet sounds that made Damian wince in helpless sympathy. He crouched behind her immediately, gathering her pink hair in one hand and sweeping it out of her face. With the other, he rubbed slow circles into her back, steady and soothing.
''That’s it. Just let it out,'' he murmured close to her ear. ''You’re okay. I’ve got you. I’m right here.''
She gagged again, clutching the porcelain rim with trembling fingers. Tears streamed down her face, mingling with sweat. She gasped for air, then retched again, body shaking with the effort.
Damian kissed the side of her head, whispering between each shudder: ''You’re safe now. Nobody’s going to hurt you. I promise. I’m here. I’m not letting go.''
Minutes blurred as the wave passed, then another. He kept holding her hair, rubbing her back, murmuring encouragement. His knees ached against the tiles, but he didn’t care. All he saw was Anya, curled and broken, and all that mattered was keeping her anchored to him.
Finally, the retching slowed. She sagged against the toilet, coughing weakly, her chest heaving for air. Damian quickly grabbed a towel from the rack, wet it with cool water, and pressed it to her face.
She flinched at the touch but didn’t push it away. Her eyes, red and unfocused, flickered up to him, as if trying to confirm he was real.
''I’m here,'' he said softly, cupping her cheek with the damp cloth. His thumb brushed her tear-streaked skin. ''You’re not alone, Anya. It was a nightmare. Just a nightmare. You’re with me.''
She tried to speak, lips trembling, but only a broken sob came out. She collapsed forward into his chest, her arms wrapping around his waist in a desperate clutch.
Damian sank to the floor with her, pulling her fully into his lap. He stroked her hair, rocked her gently, whispered against her crown:
''You’re safe. I swear it. Nobody’s going to take you away. I'll never let anyone hurt you again.''
Her tears soaked through his shirt again, but he didn’t move, didn’t flinch. He just held her tighter.
The minutes stretched on, fragile and raw. Anya’s sobs eventually slowed, though her body still trembled in his arms. Damian kissed her hairline, whispering steady reassurances, anchoring her with the rhythm of his words.
''Breathe with me, okay? Just breathe. In and out. That’s it.''
Slowly—painfully slowly—her breath began to even out, the worst of the storm passing. But she clung to him still, face buried in his chest, as though afraid he’d vanish if she let go.
And Damian—his arms never wavered. He would’ve stayed there forever if she needed.
Damian wasn’t sure how long they sat there, both of them on the cold bathroom floor, her curled into his chest like a child who’d lost everything. Time didn’t matter. He only counted her breaths—ragged, trembling, but breaths all the same.
When her shivering eased slightly, he shifted just enough to reach for the glass on the counter. He filled it with tap water, guiding it gently to her lips.
''Here. Just a sip,'' he coaxed. ''It’ll help.''
Her hands were too unsteady, so he held it for her. She drank obediently, though only a mouthful before her stomach rolled again. Damian immediately set the glass aside and pulled her back into his chest, murmuring reassurances.
''Alright. No more for now. You’re fine. You did great.''
She whimpered faintly, pressing her face deeper into him.
He stroked her hair, trying to tame the damp strands clinging to her cheeks. His heart ached at the sight of her like this—so fragile, so broken open. Anya was always the one who filled a room with chaos and teasing; seeing her silenced by pain, too shaken to speak, twisted something sharp in his chest.
And underneath that ache burned fury. Fury at the nameless men in her past, at the cruelty that had carved scars so deep she still woke screaming years later. But he shoved that anger down. That was his to carry—not hers. She needed peace, not rage.
''Can you stand?'' he asked softly.
She shook her head against him.
''That's alright,'' he murmured, adjusting his grip. ''I've got you.''
In one smooth motion, he slid an arm under her knees and lifted her. She was light, trembling in his arms, her head lolling against his shoulder. He carried her back toward the bedroom, her fingers still clutching his shirt like lifelines.
He lowered her onto the bed gently, tucking the sheets around her before sitting beside her. For a moment, he just brushed damp hair from her forehead, studying her pale face. Her lashes were still wet with tears, her lips parted in shallow breaths.
''Anya,'' he said quietly, touching her cheek. ''You don’t have to tell me what you saw. Not now. Not ever, unless you want to. But you need to know—it’s not real anymore. You’re not there. You’re here. With me.''
Her throat worked, a weak sound escaping, but she couldn’t form words. Instead, she reached for him blindly. Damian didn’t hesitate—he lay down beside her, pulling her into his chest again.
Her whole body shuddered once before melting into him, as if his warmth was the only thing anchoring her to reality. Her face pressed into his shirt, dampening it with fresh tears.
''Breathe,'' he whispered against her hair. ''Just breathe with me. That’s all you have to do.''
He set a slow rhythm again—inhale, exhale, his chest rising steady beneath her cheek. He rubbed her back in circles, kissed the top of her head every so often.
''I’m here. Always. Nothing’s going to take you away. Not nightmares, not your past, nothing.''
Her fingers fisted in the fabric at his side, but gradually, her breathing began to fall into step with his. Still shaky, but steadier.
After a while, her voice scraped out, broken and hoarse. ''S-sorry...''
Damian’s chest squeezed. He cupped her jaw, tilting her face up so she had to meet his gaze. ''You have nothing to be sorry for,'' he said firmly. ''Nothing. Okay?''
Her lips trembled, and she blinked quickly, tears spilling again.
''You’re allowed to break down. You’re allowed to cry, to be scared. You don’t have to always be strong with me, Anya. Ever.'' His thumb brushed a tear from her cheek, his own voice tight. ''If you’re hurting, then let me carry it with you.''
Her breath hitched again, but softer this time. She buried her face back in his chest, muffling her sobs. Damian only held her closer.
Minutes passed like that. Then, slowly, the trembling in her limbs returned—this time not from sobbing, but from exhaustion. She was utterly spent.
Damian shifted, pulling the blanket higher around them. He whispered into her hair, letting the words flow without filter.
''You’re the strongest person I know, Anya. Not because you never fall apart. But because you survived all of that and you’re still here, still smiling, still teasing me every day. That’s strength. And I’ll keep reminding you until you believe it.''
She made a faint sound, almost like a laugh tangled with a sob, but didn’t lift her head.
He kissed her temple gently. ''My weirdo,'' he murmured, the nickname slipping out before he thought.
Her fingers twitched against him at that, clinging a little tighter.
''Yeah,'' he said softly, a smile breaking despite everything. ''Mine. Always.''
When her body finally relaxed enough that the sobs had faded to hiccuping breaths, Damian coaxed her to sit up just enough so he could press the cool towel against her flushed face again. She let him, eyes glassy but calmer.
''Better?'' he asked.
She gave the smallest nod.
''Good girl,'' he whispered, brushing his lips against her hairline.
Her stomach gave a weak lurch, and instantly he reached for the glass again. ''Think you can try one more sip?''
This time she managed two before sagging against him again. He praised her quietly, set it aside, and pulled her back into the cocoon of his arms and the blanket.
The night stretched on. Anya drifted in and out of light dozes, each time waking with a jolt before Damian’s steady presence grounded her again. Each time, he whispered the same things: safe, loved, not alone.
By the time dawn painted faint light across the curtains, her body was finally still, her breathing deep and even against his chest. Damian lay awake, one hand tangled in her hair, the other resting protectively across her waist.
He pressed one last kiss to the crown of her head. His eyes burned, but he refused to let tears fall, at least for now. He had to be strong—for her.
''Sleep, gremlin,'' he whispered, voice rough but full of devotion. ''I’ll keep watch.''
And he did.
The first light of morning was soft, spilling pale gold through the curtains, but Damian didn’t stir at the sound of his alarm. His alarm clock buzzed insistently on the bedside table, but he silenced it without even opening his eyes.
Anya, curled into his chest, was still breathing unevenly from the remnants of her nightmare and the tumult of the night before. Her hair was tousled across her forehead, damp with the faint sweat of lingering anxiety. She twitched slightly in her sleep, a whimper slipping from her lips.
Damian shifted slightly to press a kiss to the top of her head.
''You’re okay,'' he murmured, voice rough with sleep. ''I’ve got you. You don’t have to move if you don’t want to.''
She murmured something incoherent in response, curling closer, pressing herself fully against him.
His arm tightened around her, pulling her flush to his side.
The alarm buzzed again. Damian’s hand closed over it, silence returning to the room. Outside, the city was waking, but inside the apartment, only the soft rhythm of their breathing filled the space.
For a long time, Damian just lay there, one arm draped protectively across her waist, the other brushing a strand of hair from her damp forehead. Every so often, he pressed a kiss there, on her temple, on the top of her head. He held her close, savoring the warmth and the small, shivering weight of her in his arms.
Eventually, she stirred, blinking blearily against the soft morning light. Her pink hair fell into her eyes, and she rubbed at her face before looking around. Panic flickered across her expression as she sat up slightly, voice shaky.
''Damian... we’re gonna be late for class,'' she whispered, eyes wide.
Damian smiled faintly, tilting his head down to brush a soft kiss across her temple. ''Not today,'' he said firmly. ''You’re not going anywhere today.''
Her brow furrowed, guilt blooming like fire in her chest. ''But... you have class. You can’t—''
''I don’t care,'' he cut in gently, smoothing her hair back with one hand. ''You’re staying. I’m staying. Nothing else matters right now.''
Anya’s eyes widened. ''B-but... I can’t let you skip class because of me!''
Damian shook his head, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips. ''You don’t have to worry about that. You’re the person I care about most. Today, that’s all that matters. Nothing else.''
Her hands fisted in the sheets at his chest. ''I... I feel bad,'' she admitted in a whisper. Her voice cracked slightly. ''I was... so annoying yesterday, in the library... you couldn’t even study because I kept whispering, and I... I just... I made it worse, didn’t I?''
Damian’s heart constricted. He blinked, surprised by the depth of her guilt. Because Anya would have never felt guilty about her distracting him when he was trying to study. So the fact that she was feeling so sensitive about it... It gave Damian an idea on how deeply the nightmare had affected her.
''Anya...'' His voice softened, catching slightly. He brushed a finger across her cheek, lifting her gaze to meet his. ''You weren’t annoying. Not once. And you don’t need to feel guilty about it.''
''But I was! I know I was!'' she said, voice trembling. ''You had to... you had to put up with me the whole time! And because of me, you didn't sleep properly last night. And now... now you’re skipping class for me. It’s all my fault. I make everything worse.''
I make everything worse. Damian’s chest tightened further. Her insecurity, her need to apologize for existing, for being herself, for taking up space in his life—it shattered him. The thought of her blaming herself for any of this was unbearable.
''No,'' he said firmly, his voice low and unwavering. ''Listen to me. Nothing you did yesterday, nothing at all, is your fault. Do you understand?''
Anya blinked, tears welling in her eyes. ''But—''
''No buts.'' He pressed another kiss to her forehead, then her temple, then her cheek. ''Yesterday was us. You and me. That’s all it ever was. And if you hadn’t whispered, I’d have missed it. I loved it. Every second.''
Anya’s hands trembled, gripping his shirt. ''But I shouldn’t have been... like that. I shouldn’t have... made it harder...''
Damian shook his head, brushing strands of hair from her face. ''You didn't make it harder. You are not a burden, Anya. You are... everything. You’re the person I love most in the entire world. You don’t have to apologize for being yourself. Nothing—nothing—is more important to me than being with you.''
She hiccupped softly, overwhelmed, leaning into him. Damian wrapped his arms around her again, holding her close as if shielding her from every worry, every pang of guilt.
''And you don't make anything worse,'' he whispered, voice rough with emotion. ''All these years, I've been the happiest person alive, because you're here. I want to be with you. I want to wake up with you, stay with you, protect you. You are not in the way. You are my way. You’re my home. You make everything better. You've made me better.''
Her eyes filled with tears now, her chin trembling. ''I... I don’t deserve you,'' she whispered, voice cracking.
Damian pressed a long, gentle kiss to her forehead. ''You deserve more than anyone else on this planet. You deserve love, and laughter, and peace. And I will give you all of it. Every day.''
She whimpered softly, letting herself dissolve into his chest, shaking just a little less than before.
He leaned down and kissed her lips again, soft and lingering, making sure she felt his presence in every touch. Then, as she nuzzled closer, he pressed his forehead to hers.
''You don’t have to carry guilt for anything,'' he murmured. ''Not for nightmares, not for the library, not for anything at all. Every second with you is the only thing that matters. The world can wait. Classes, schedules, everything—gone. Right now, it’s you and me. That’s enough.''
Anya let out a shaky breath, clinging to him. Her lips quivered, and she finally whispered, ''I... I love you.''
''I love you too, weirdo. So much,'' he said, voice thick, kissing her again and again—on the lips, on the temples, the bridge of her nose. Each kiss carried reassurance, devotion, and the promise that nothing in her life, not her past or her fears, could change how he felt about her.
Anya leaned fully against him, burying her face in his chest, finally allowing herself to relax, if only slightly. Damian wrapped her in a hug, stroking her hair and back.
''I’m not going anywhere,'' he whispered. ''I’m not moving. I’m not leaving. You’re all that matters. You hear me, Anya?''
She nodded weakly, tears slipping onto his shirt.
''Good.'' He pressed another kiss to her head. ''Now, stay here. Sleep if you want, or just lie with me. I’ll be right here. Always.''
For the first time since the nightmare, Anya felt her shoulders loosen a little. The weight of guilt, fear, and shame eased as she pressed closer, letting Damian’s warmth anchor her completely.
And Damian, holding her as she shivered softly in his arms, kissed her hair, cheeks, and lips repeatedly, silently vowing to never let her feel alone again—not for nightmares, not for guilt, not for anything.
Because she was his. She was his heart. His life.
And nothing else—no class, no obligations, no library mishaps—would ever matter more than her.
The soft golden light of late morning filled Damian’s small kitchen as he moved quietly around the apartment. Anya was still curled up in the bedroom, blanket wrapped around her like a cocoon, but he could hear her small, sleepy murmurs as she stirred.
He leaned against the doorway for a moment, watching her tousled pink hair, the slow rise and fall of her chest. Even after the nightmare and the guilt and all the emotions of the early morning, she looked—fragile, yes, but also alive. And that alone was enough to make his chest tighten with a mix of protectiveness and affection.
A smile tugged at his lips. ''You’re not going to escape breakfast,'' he murmured to himself, shaking his head.
He padded quietly back to the kitchen and started making something simple: scrambled eggs, toast, and a steaming mug of hot chocolate—Anya’s favorite. He moved deliberately slowly, careful not to disturb her, but the aroma wafting toward the bedroom was meant to tempt her out of bed.
From the bedroom came a groggy voice: ''Damian… what are you doing?''
He chuckled softly, setting a plate on the counter. ''Making sure you eat. You need fuel... and I want to see you smile again.''
There was a faint shuffle, then soft footsteps as she emerged, hair sticking up in every direction, eyes bleary but curious. She blinked at him and the food, then sniffed the air. ''You... made breakfast?'' she asked, voice still quiet and hoarse from lingering tiredness.
''Of course,'' he said, trying to look nonchalant, though the corners of his mouth twitched with amusement. ''I didn’t realize my gremlin needed coaxing to eat in the morning.''
Anya’s eyes widened, then narrowed playfully. ''You sure like that nickname, huh?''
''Don’t get used to it,'' he replied dryly, though he pressed a quick kiss to her forehead as she approached. ''Only applies when you’re grumpy, sleepy, or adorable. Which is... basically all the time.''
Her lips quivered into a small smile, though her cheeks were still pink from the tears and stress of the night before. She moved closer, letting him guide her to the table. Damian pulled out a chair for her, though she could have sat on his lap if she’d wanted.
''You didn’t have to,'' she murmured softly.
''Don’t be silly,'' he said, setting the plate in front of her. ''It’s just breakfast. And I want to. Besides, it’s an opportunity to tease you a little.''
Anya rolled her eyes, though a smile tugged at her lips. ''Oh, I’m sure you’re enjoying that a lot.''
Damian smirked. ''You’re never going to stop me.'' He leaned over and flicked her nose lightly with a finger. ''Not while I’m alive.''
She squeaked and lightly swatted his hand away, laughing, the tension in her shoulders easing. ''You’re impossible.''
''And you love it,'' he said simply, pressing a brief kiss to the side of her mouth.
She hesitated, then blushed faintly, a little caught off guard. ''Maybe a little,'' she admitted.
They sat down to eat, Damian occasionally brushing crumbs off her plate with a teasing smirk, whispering, ''You’re too adorable to let messy eggs go unnoticed.'' Anya giggled, bumping him with her shoulder. ''I can’t believe you’re being such a ham right now,'' she whispered.
''I’m only matching your level of chaos,'' he replied, smirking, leaning over to steal a small bite from her toast. She gasped and tried to swat his hand, but he was already chuckling.
''Damian!'' she squealed. ''Apologize. Right now. How dare you—''
''You love it,'' he said, shrugging innocently.
She groaned but couldn’t hide her grin.
After breakfast, Anya helped him clear the dishes, while he peppered her with soft kisses—on the top of her head, the side of her face, the tip of her nose. Every kiss was a reminder: she was safe, loved, and none of the guilt or fear from yesterday mattered.
''Anya,'' he murmured quietly, brushing her hair from her face one last time. ''Do you understand something?''
She blinked at him. ''What?''
''That nothing you did—last night, yesterday, or ever—changes how much I love you. Nothing. And you never have to apologize for being yourself. Not your nightmares, not your mistakes, not even your library whispers.''
Her lips trembled as tears threatened again, though this time they were softer, more from relief than fear. She pressed herself against him. ''I... I love you too,'' she whispered, voice small but steady. ''So much. And I'm so grateful that you're here.''
He pressed a long, soft kiss to her forehead. ''Good. Because I’m never letting you forget it. And there's nowhere else I'd rather be.''
And for the rest of the morning, they stayed together.
Damian teased her lightly, whispering little jabs about the library visit and her ''expert whispering skills,'' making her laugh through soft hiccups and shy glances. She teased him back, lightly swatting his arm when he stole a piece of toast.
At one point, she rested her head on his shoulder, murmuring, ''I still feel bad about yesterday.''
He wrapped his arms around her tighter, kissing the top of her head. ''I know you do. But you don't need to be. I meant every single word I said before, okay? We're a team.''
She nodded. ''You and me.''
''Exactly,'' he said firmly, pressing another kiss to her hair. ''I love you. I love you. I love you. And nothing in the world is more important than being here, with you. That’s all that matters.''
Her lips pressed against his chest in silent agreement, and she felt like she could breathe completely.
The morning stretched on slowly, lazily. They sat together on the couch after breakfast, wrapped in blankets, Damian holding her close, kissing her forehead, cheeks, and hair. They whispered soft teasing jokes and reminisced about past moments—the library, the horror movie outing—lightening the mood.
Through it all, Damian never let her feel like she was in the wrong, never let her doubt that she was loved. And Anya, finally, allowed herself to relax. She could be herself—teasing, giggling, a bit insecure sometimes—and still feel completely safe in his arms.
Because in that small apartment, for that quiet morning, there was only them. Only warmth, love, and the steady, unshakable knowledge that they belonged to each other.