[ESTELLE]
Contrary to what I had expected, when I woke up, Damien wasn't gone.
He wasn't standing by the window in deep regret, running a frustrated hand through his hair, muttering about mistakes. He wasn't pacing the room, trying to find the right words to tell me last night shouldn't have happened.
No.
He was casually sitting on the sofa, legs crossed, face unreadable as he sipped his coffee and read the news like he was in a five-star resort instead of a hotel room where he had spent the entire night wrecking me.
On the table before him, a spread of food was neatly arranged—all my favorites. Fruits, pastries, eggs cooked just the way I liked them. Even the coffee smelled perfect.
My brain lagged. This . . . wasn't the morning-after scene I had mentally prepared for.
"W-what? What's this?" I croaked, my voice scratchy from last night's—uh—activities.
