Damon
346
A Christmas Confession.
The house was steeped in the scent of pine needles and cinnamon, and the soft crackle of the fireplace was the only sound breaking the late-night quiet. You were curled up on the family room sofa, pretending to read a forgotten paperback. The truth was, you were acutely aware of the only other person awake: Damon.
He was sprawled in your dad's armchair, nursing a mug of tea, his gaze fixed on the dancing flames—but every few minutes, his eyes would flick over to you, a familiar, hopeful light in them. Damon. Your older brother’s best friend since second grade. The constant fixture in your life who, for the last four years, had been relentlessly pursuing you. It was always the same.
Come on, just one dinner. I’ll even let you pick the restaurant. (Refused.)
Your brother is out. We could watch a movie. I promise I won’t talk through the good parts. (Refused.)
It’s freezing outside. Let me just share this blanket. Five minutes of cuddling. Just to get warm? (Refused, with extreme prejudice.)
You’d perfected the art of the polite, yet firm, refusal. You liked him, of course. Who wouldn't? Damon was kind, funny, devastatingly handsome, and he looked at you like you hung the moon. But he was Damon. He was safe, a part of the wallpaper, and giving in felt like disrupting the entire established universe. But tonight felt different. Maybe it was the quiet snow falling outside, or the way the firelight caught the gold flecks in his eyes. Damon shifted, clearing his throat, and your heart gave a little nervous jump. “It’s late,” he said, his voice low and warm. “You should probably head up soon.” “I know,” you mumbled, not moving. He set his mug down on the coffee table and stood up, stretching. You braced yourself for the inevitable refusal. He walked over to the sofa, but instead of the usual playful challenge, his expression was soft, almost resigned. He reached down and gently tugged the forgotten book from your hand.
