Page 35 of Deliah
That was the moment something cracked. In me. In him. In whatever was growing between us. He dropped me home that night, and I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, thinking,Fuck, I’ve ruined it.I shouldn’t have told him about Jay. Should’ve kept it light. Kept it safe. But I didn’t. I cracked open like a fucking piñata, and he didn’t even flinch.
Because it wasn’t love. It wasn’t even lust—not the kind that made you ache and burn and lose your mind. It was something else. Something quieter. Something deeper. Something dangerous. Because Damion didn’t want anything from me. At least, not that I could see, and that scared me.
Over the next few weeks, he just… kept showing up. No fanfare. No pressure. He never demanded anything. We’d go out to eat, share drinks on rooftops, sit in his car by the water, and talk about everything and nothing until the early hours. He never pushed. Never flirted too hard or leaned in too close. Half the time, I wasn’t even sure if he liked me like that or if I was just a project. Some broken girl he was trying to patch back together. But I liked being around him. I liked the way he made space for my chaos without trying to tidy it up. I laughed more. I thought less. And for once, things felt almost normal. Almost. But the past has a fucked-up way of pulling you back in. Jay’s name stilllit up my phone sometimes. Not often. Just enough to keep the wound open.
Jay:“Miss you.”
Jay:“Love you, come see you soon.”
I should’ve blocked him. I didn’t. And I hate to admit it—but one night, after my shift, I saw him round the back of the club. He was leaning against the wall, hoodie up, cigarette in one hand like he owned the night. That same smug smirk on his face. The one that always made me weak and sick at the same time.
“Deliah,” he drawled, like he hadn’t ghosted me for weeks. “Looking good.”
I rolled my eyes. “What do you want?”
“You.”
“You always want me when no one else is around.”
He stepped closer, flicked the cigarette to the floor, and crushed it under his shoe. “You think I haven’t missed this mouth?”
I crossed my arms. “Get to the point.”
“I dream about it, you know,” he said, voice low. “The way you taste. The way you look when you come.”
My breath hitched. Stupid. My body reacting before my brain could stop it.
“You’re disgusting.”
“You love it.”
He pressed me hard against the wall before I could reply. Too hard. His hands grabbed my wrists, pinned them above my head like it was still his right. I struggled.
“Fuck off,” I spat, trying to twist free.
He gripped tighter. Fingers digging in deep—deliberate. Enough to bruise. My skin burned under his touch, my body screaming for me to push him away. I should’ve. I should’ve kicked him off and walked back inside. But I didn’t. Because for one fucked up second, I wanted to feel nothing. And Jay was good at that. At turning everything numb with heat and hate and history. His mouth crashed into mine, rough and familiar, and my body betrayed me. We fucked in the alley like we used to. Fast. Messy. No emotion. He pulled my thong aside and had me up against the bricks, my legs around his waist, my hands clawing at his back while I pretended not to care.
“God, I missed your pussy,” he growled into my ear.
“Shut up,” I whispered back.
When it was over, I adjusted my dress, picked my pride up off the floor, and walked away before he could say anything else.
I felt sick the whole way home. Not because of Jay. Because of Damion. Because even though he wasn’t mine, even though we weren’t sleeping together or kissing or confessing anything—we were something. And I’d tainted it. I didn’t know what we were. Maybe I was just therapy for him, too. Some distraction. But still—I couldn’t shake the guilt. And that told me more than I wanted to admit.
The next day, I saw Damion. He didn’t act like anything was off at first. Just gave me that soft smile—the one that never reached his eyes but somehow still made me feel safer than I deserved. He passed me a coffee like always and asked, “You eaten?”
I shook my head. “Not hungry.”
He nodded like he understood. Started the engine and said nothing else. But I could feel something simmering—he was holding back, the air between us loaded. I kept my gaze fixed out the window, my fingers curled tight around the cup. I’d scrubbed my skin raw in the shower that morning, but I still felt dirty.
We drove in silence, winding up towards the cliffs. It was cloudy day, grey sea, grey sky, and this buzzing panic sitting heavy in my chest. I couldn’t sit still or breathe right. And then—he looked at me. Not a glance. A full-body turn at a red light, his eyes scanning me slowly, methodically, and then stopping—right on my wrists. He reached for them before I could stop him. His fingers grazed the bruises. Barely touched them. His jaw clenched so tight I thought it might crack.
“He fucking hurt you, Deliah?”
My heart slammed. “No,” I lied, voice too sharp, too fast. “I’m fine.”
He didn’t blink.
