When Damian stirred awake, he found himself enveloped in the comfort of his lavish bed. The mattress beneath him was decadently soft, and the warmth around him tempted him to slip back into sleep. With a quiet hum, he turned over and pulled the plush pillow beside him into his arms.
"Mmm... so soft..." he murmured drowsily.
But then he paused.
Something didn't feel right.
His eyelashes fluttered open, and his dazed eyes locked with a face so achingly familiar it made his heart lurch.
Theodore.
His breath caught. No—this had to be a dream. It wouldn't be the first time. In the long, brutal nights of the apocalypse, he had often dreamed of Theodore—his warmth, his scent, his voice.
Without thinking, Damian pulled him closer, burying his face against Theodore's neck. The scent of white chocolate surrounded him, sweet and nostalgic. His arms wrapped tightly around that delicate waist, the one he'd once taken for granted.
"I missed you," he whispered, voice cracking with raw emotion against his skin.
—
Theodore stiffened.
For a moment, he froze at the unexpected warmth pressed against him. But then the memories of last night crashed down like cold water. The stench of other omegas on Damian's clothes. The late hours. The hollow excuses.
The tenderness in Damian's embrace felt like mockery.
"I missed you..."
The words only deepened the ache in his chest—twisting into disgust.
So he pushed him away.
Damian's arms loosened in surprise as Theodore sat up, expression unreadable and distant. "Let go," he said quietly, voice cool. "The sun's already up. I need to make breakfast."
He didn't wait for a reply. Standing from the bed, Theodore took his pillow and fluffed it, not missing the startled look Damian gave him from the corner of his eye.
Was he really that shocked?
Jaw clenched, Theodore walked out without another glance. The silence between them felt heavier than any argument.
In the kitchen, Theodore grabbed a chopping board, taking the thawed chicken from the cooler and slicing it with practiced ease. The rhythmic sound of the knife against wood filled the space.
—
Back in the bedroom, Damian sat frozen.
He slowly looked around, heart pounding in his chest. The room... the house... everything was exactly as it had been four years ago—before the world fell apart. Even the soft clatter of knife against board echoed just like it used to.
His chest tightened.
No. This couldn't be a dream.
He scrambled out of bed and snatched his phone from the nightstand. The date flashed on the screen: 26XX, June 11.
One month. One month before the apocalypse begins.
Damian's legs nearly gave out from under him. He clutched the phone with trembling hands, tears welling in his eyes.
He was back.
Back before the world burned.
Back before he lost everything.
He blinked rapidly, wiping away the tears before they could fall. This wasn't the time to break down. He'd been given a second chance—a miracle. And he would not waste it.
—
The scent of simmering ingredients drew him into the kitchen. Theodore stood with his back to him, slicing vegetables. Even from behind, Damian could see how familiar every movement was—fluid, graceful. Years of cooking for someone who didn't deserve him.
His gaze dropped lower, and his heart clenched.
Theodore's fingers—slender, pale—were covered in cuts. Some fresh, others faded into scabs. Guilt surged up his throat.
Without thinking, he stepped forward and gently took Theodore's hand, stopping his chopping.
"Don't cook for me anymore," he said, eyes fixed on the wounds. "Your hands... they're in terrible condition."
Theodore froze.
Damian's heart pounded. He hadn't meant to sound so forward. He quickly added, "I'll hire a chef. You don't need to do this again."
There was a beat of silence before Theodore pulled away, placing the knife down and walking off without a word.
Damian let out a shaky breath, unaware he'd been holding it. He stood at the counter for a moment, eyes flickering over the neat rows of chopped vegetables. He hadn't even noticed the quiet, loving efforts Theodore made each morning even though he often injured himself doing so.
Snapping back to the present, he took out his phone and began making arrangements. There was no time to waste. He had all the money, the problem was time.
—
From the hallway, Theodore glanced back toward the kitchen. A strange weight sat in his chest. He should be relieved—grateful even—that he didn't have to cook for Damian anymore.
So why did it feel like something inside him had been ruthlessly taken away?
He sighed, brushing the thought aside and heading for the bathroom. The water helped clear his head. When he stepped out, toweling his hair dry, he noticed the villa was quiet again.
Damian was gone.
No note. No goodbye.
Just silence.
Theodore dressed quickly and left for work, his footsteps heavy, his appetite gone. Everything felt... muted. As always.