The alley was quiet behind him. Just a slick stretch of asphalt and memory.
Damien pulled up beside the house—one of those too-cheerful places with balloon strings taped to the railing and warm yellow light leaking through curtains. A potluck, they said. A welcome party.
He hadn't planned to go in.
But someone called his name from the porch. Too loud. Too friendly. And after a tight pause, he nodded once—cool and mechanical.
Inside, the air was humid with too many bodies and casserole steam.
Plastic tablecloths. Folding chairs. Laughter that grated.
He moved through the room like an unwanted shadow until he saw her.
The girl.
She was standing near the fireplace, a drink in her hand, eyebrows slightly pinched—as if confused by the setup or maybe the social rituals of potlucks. She glanced up and saw him. Their eyes met.
Then—quickly—she looked down, face warming, jaw tight.
Blushing.
Damien's mouth tightened. The same girl who had come to his door uninvited, said nothing, and left like fog evaporating off the sidewalk. And now she blushed?
He didn't know her. Didn't want to.
Before he could leave, someone shoved a paper plate toward him. "Try the pasta," they said, smiling.
He stepped closer, half distracted.
And then it hit him.
A sharp, sickening sting at the base of his throat. Garlic. Potent, fresh, unmistakable.
His stomach rolled.
Damien flinched just enough to look like he changed his mind. He took a fake sip of juice and moved away, fast but not rushed.
No one noticed.
But the taste of it still clung to the back of his throat—an invisible burn, a reminder of what he was hiding from every person in this room.
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Gabby's POV
Gabby hadn't expected much from the potluck.
Mostly she hoped to make a friend—or at least avoid standing by the drink cooler like social wallpaper. The place was warm, filled with laughter, clattering plates, and enough pasta to fuel a research team through winter.
She hovered near the bookshelf with a fizzy peach drink in hand, scanning faces and smiling when it seemed appropriate.
Then she saw him.
The guy from the hallway. The one who opened his door like it was a mistake. Dark coat, cold stare. He stepped inside and instantly changed the mood—like the music had dipped, like the lights had flickered, even though none of it really had.
Their eyes met.
Just a flicker, and then she looked away fast. Too fast. Her cheeks burned. Crap. She hoped he hadn't noticed. He probably hadn't, right?
Someone nearby murmured, "That's Damien. From the lab. Russian. Brilliant. Quiet."
Brilliant. Russian. Quiet.
It sounded dramatic, like a character introduction in a novel. The idea tugged at something inside her. Her heart fluttered. Just a little.
Stop, she told herself. You don't even know him.
Still... her mind wandered—traitor that it was. She imagined those abs she'd glimpsed through the edge of his shirt when he reached for something. Tight, carved, unfair. She pictured his hands—rough and tattooed—grabbing her waist and pulling her toward—
Nope.
Absolutely not.
She took a deep sip of her drink and blinked hard. Get it together, Gabrielle.
Before her thoughts could spiral again, someone bumped into her elbow with a paper plate and asked if she'd tried the lemon chicken. She smiled, nodded, and launched herself into small talk like it was a lifeboat.
Damien? He hadn't looked her way again.
But the blush lingered.
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