Page 33 of Deliah
“With who?”
“Yourself.”
Silence. God, this prick, he could see things I hadn’t even admitted to myself. Like he could peel me open with one sentence and not even flinch.
“What about you?” I asked.
“Same, really. Solid parents. Moved out when I was seventeen. Been building since.”
“Building what?”
“Something better.”
“That’s vague.”
“That’s intentional.”
The more we talked, the more confused I got. Because he didn’t flirt. Not really. He didn’t lean in too close or touch my knee or drop sly compliments into the conversation. He just… stayed. Present. Observing. Still. Orbiting me like I was a planet worth calculating.
Then came the question I’d been waiting for. Dreading. The one I knew was coming the second he started asking real things and not hiding behind dry humour.
“So… what do you do?”
I stared at him, the cliff lights casting shadows across his face. “Damion, don’t act like you don’t know what I fucking do.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Why?”
“Because how you say it matters.”
I scoffed, leaning back in my seat. “Fine. I dance. At a strip club. Sometimes I strip. Sometimes I don’t.”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. “Do you like it?”
That caught me off guard. The question hit something raw in my throat. “What?”
“Do you like it?”
I laughed, bitter. “Does it matter?”
“It does if it’s breaking you.”
His voice was quiet. Measured. But there was something behind it—something he was holding back. And I could feel it. He wasn’t judging or trying to fix me, but he was watching. Not with curiosity. With concern. I turned away, staring out at the sea. The stars felt too loud now. “It’s not the job,” I said eventually. “It’s what came with it.”
He didn’t rush me. Just let the silence hold space for whatever came next. “Tell me.”
“Why?” I shot back, sharper than I meant to.
“Because I want to understand.”
“There’s nothing to fucking understand, Damion. I dance. I get paid. That’s it.”
His jaw flexed, but he stayed calm. And it made me want to scream. Or cry. Or both.
“I can see you cracking, Deliah.”
The way he said my name—low, careful—like it was fragile.
