And somehow, those small things, the sound of her voice, the warmth of food, the way she looked at him when she forgot to be guarded became the most dangerous things he'd ever known.
One afternoon, she found him fixing the fence behind the cabin, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the muscles in his forearms taut as he worked.
She leaned on the doorway, smiling faintly.
"You're terrible at pretending to be normal," she said.
He didn't look up. "I'm not pretending."
"You mean you enjoy this?"
"I didn't say that either."
He glanced over his shoulder, his mouth curving. "But I enjoy you."
The words landed softly, but her heart still tripped. "That's not fair," she murmured.
"Nothing about us ever was."
They stayed like that for a beat, quiet, smiling, pretending that forever wasn't an impossible thing.
That night, the cabin glowed with candlelight.
The storm outside was a whisper, not a roar, and Isabella sat cross-legged on the floor, combing through Damian's old books.
