Aria pov
Then it was just us, standing in the hallway like awkward teenagers. "So," I said.
"So," he echoed. "Ready?"
"As I’ll ever be." I grabbed my purse, suddenly nervous all over again. "Where are we going?"
"You’ll see." He offered his arm, and I took it, hyperaware of every point where we touched. "But first—" He pulled out a single red rose from behind his back. "For you."
"You brought a flower." My voice ca out embarrassingly breathy.
"First date tradition." He tucked it behind my ear gently. "Though I have to say, I’ve never been this nervous for a first date before."
"Never?" I raised an eyebrow. "The great Damien Blackwood, nervous?"
"Terrified," he admitted. "Because Aria, this matters. You matter. And I really, really don’t want to screw this up."
"You won’t." I squeezed his arm. "Just be yourself. That’s all I want."
"Then let’s go." He led to the elevator. "And Aria? For what it’s worth, I’m really glad we’re doing this. The slow, normal, getting-to-know-you part. I feel like I’m finally getting the chance to date the woman I fell in love with."
"Fell in love with?" I looked up at him as the elevator descended. "Past tense?"
"Am in love with," he corrected, his eyes intense. "Am completely, irrevocably, madly in love with."
The elevator doors opened before I could respond, which was probably good because I’d completely forgotten how to form words.
The car ride was surprisingly comfortable. Damien had music playing softly—jazz, which I discovered was one of his favorites—and we talked about easy things. Noah’s latest dinosaur obsession. A funny thing that happened at Monroe Global that week, the rger progress.
"We’re good at this," I said after a particularly comfortable silence. "The talking thing."
"We’ve had a lot of practice lately." He glanced over with a smile. "Rember when we could barely be in the sa room without fighting?"
"Vividly." I laughed. "You were so infuriating."
"You were terrifying," he countered. "Smart, successful, beautiful, and completely immune to my usual charm. It drove insane."
"Good." I settled back in my seat. "You needed soone to challenge you."
"I needed you," he said simply. "I just didn’t know it yet."
We pulled up to a small Italian restaurant tucked into a quiet street corner. Nothing fancy, no photographers lurking, just a warm glow from the windows and the sll of garlic and wine.
"Damien" I looked at him, surprised. "This is Marcello’s D Town."
"You ntioned once that you loved Italian food but had never been anywhere that felt authentic, just corporate business dinners at overpriced restaurants." He helped out of the car. "Marcello’s is run by an actual Italian family. No pretense, no scene, just really good food and wine. I thought" He paused, suddenly uncertain. "I thought you might like it?"
"I love it." I kissed his cheek impulsively. "This is perfect."
Inside, we were greeted by a grandmother-type who exclaid over us in rapid Italian before showing us to a corner booth. The restaurant was tiny, maybe ten tables, all filled with families and couples talking and laughing.
"This is amazing," I said, taking in the mismatched furniture and photos covering every inch of the walls. "How did you find this place?"
"Lucas, actually." Damien grinned at my surprised expression. "I asked him for advice on where to take you. Figured he’d know since he—well. You know."
"Since he tried to date ." I felt warmth bloom in my chest at his slight discomfort. "Are you jealous?"
"Insanely," he admitted. "But I’m working on it. And he gave good advice, so I can’t hate him too much."
"Damien Blackwood, being mature about a rival." I pretended to check my forehead. "Are you feeling okay?"
"Hilarious." But he was smiling. "Order whatever you want. Everything here is supposed to be incredible."
We ordered wine and appetizers, fell into easy conversation about everything and nothing. I learned that Damien had wanted to be an architect as a kid before his father crushed that dream. He learned that I’d been terrified of dogs until I was twelve, when a neighbor’s golden retriever had slowly won over.
"What else?" he asked, refilling my wine glass. "What else don’t I know about you?"
"Lots of things." I considered. "I hate the sll of coffee but love the taste. I can’t whistle. I once got detention for correcting my economics teacher in high school."
"You didn’t." He laughed.
"I did, he was wrong about supply and demand curves and I couldn’t help myself." I grinned at the mory. "My father was furious, and said I was embarrassing the family. But the teacher apologized the next day and said I was right."
"Of course you were." His eyes were soft. "You’re brilliant, Aria. Always have been."
"What about you?" I leaned forward. "What don’t I know about the great Damien Blackwood?"
"I’m terrified of heights," he admitted. "The rooftop at the penthouse? I had to work up to being comfortable there. But you loved it so much, I couldn’t tell you."
"Damien"
"I taught myself to cook so stuff." He continued, staring at his wine. "Burned every dish for months. But I kept trying because I rembered how much you loved ho-cooked als and I thought—maybe if I learned, if you ever considered " He stopped. "Pathetic, right?"
"Not pathetic." I reached across the table for his hand. "Sweet. Hopeful. But not pathetic."
"I missed you every single day," he said quietly. "Every morning I’d wake up and for a second, I’d forget. I’d think you were down the hall. And then I’d rember and it was like losing you all over again."
"Damien"
"No, let finish." He gripped my hand tighter. "I need you to know that those years weren’t easy for . I didn’t just move on, didn’t just forget. I grieved. For us, for what I’d destroyed, for the family I’d thrown away. And I beca obsessed with finding you because I needed" His voice cracked. "I needed to apologize. To tell you that you were right about everything. That I’d been a coward and a fool and I’d lost the best thing in my life because I was too damaged to see its value."
"You found ," I whispered. "And you fought for us. That’s what matters."
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