Tempted by My Best Friend’s Father

"Some wounds aren't reminders of what hurt you… they're proof of who held you through it."

---

The mirror was gone.

Or at least, that's what they told themselves.

But even after it shattered, even after the darkness inside it screamed and vanished like smoke caught in a sunbeam, something remained in the air of that penthouse. Not fear. Not evil.

Memory.

Serena stood at the kitchen sink the next morning, the loose collar of Damon's shirt slipping off one shoulder. Her hair was messy, her feet bare, her breath quiet as she filled a glass of water with hands that still trembled slightly—not from fear, but from the weight of everything she'd survived.

The woman who had kissed Damon wasn't her.

But part of her had seen something in that reflection.

Something she couldn't unsee.

How easy it would be… to become the version of herself that didn't hesitate. The version that didn't second-guess every emotion. Every scar. Every soft place she tried so hard to harden.

And yet…

It was Damon's hands last night that had steadied her. His voice that had called her real when the reflection tried to call her replaceable.

"You're awake early," he said softly behind her.

She turned. He was leaning against the doorway, shirtless, eyes still heavy with sleep but steady on her.

"No dreams," she murmured. "Didn't want to waste it."

He walked to her slowly, reached out, and slid her hair off her shoulder so he could kiss the base of her neck. A kiss like apology. Like promise.

"You should've woken me," he said.

"You needed rest," she said. "You were fighting too."

He pulled back and studied her. The lines under her eyes, the bruise at her temple, the tension still tucked inside her ribs. "You always worry about everyone else first."

She didn't answer.

Because it was true.

---

Later, she sat cross-legged on the bed, the blanket draped over her thighs, his shirt swallowing her frame. Damon moved in and out of the bathroom, brushing his teeth, drying his hair with a towel, but always looking at her like she might disappear if he blinked.

"You keep watching me," she said without looking up.

"I keep thinking I'll wake up and you'll be gone."

She raised her gaze then.

"I'm not a ghost."

"No," he said softly. "But you came through a haunted place to reach me."

Serena stared at the scar near his hip. The one she had touched last night.

"Will you tell me about that one now?" she asked.

He didn't move at first.

Then, slowly, he sat on the bed across from her, the tension in his shoulders returning like muscle memory.

"I got it in Paris," he said, voice low. "Before I inherited the Cross estate. I'd gone there chasing someone who stole from me. A woman."

Serena swallowed. "A lover?"

He nodded. "I thought she loved me. She only loved what I could give her. I trusted her. Let her in."

His hand grazed the scar. "She waited until I was vulnerable. Until I turned my back. Knife between the ribs."

Serena moved closer, lifting the hem of his shirt on her body so she could press her lips to the scar.

He flinched.

But not from pain.

From memory.

From tenderness.

"I'm not her," she said.

"I know."

"And I'll never wait until your back is turned."

His hands found her waist, pulling her into his lap. "You don't need to," he whispered. "You already know how to undo me face-to-face."

She smiled softly, but her heart thudded hard in her chest.

Because she wasn't sure if that was a warning or a vow.

---

They stayed like that—her straddling his lap, his arms around her, forehead against hers—until the sunlight crawled higher through the windows.

And when they kissed again, it wasn't frantic.

It was quiet.

Like two souls learning each other's shape in daylight for the first time.

She pulled his shirt off over his head. He didn't resist.

Her fingers ran over the scars on his chest.

And for every one, she whispered:

"I see you."

"I'm still here."

"You're not alone."

By the time her lips trailed down to the oldest wound—near his rib—his breath was shaking in her hands.

"No one's ever kissed my scars before," he said.

"No one ever loved them," she replied.

He lifted her then, laying her back against the pillows, and kissed her in a way that felt more like worship than temptation. Their bodies met again—but slower. Softer. More reverent. Like every touch was a thread stitching something broken back together.

And when he whispered her name against her collarbone, it wasn't lust. It was something deeper.

Something that scared them both.

Because it wasn't just about falling anymore.

It was about staying.

---

Afterward, they lay tangled in the sheets, Serena's hand resting over his heart.

"You're quiet again," she whispered.

He kissed her hair. "I'm trying not to fall too hard."

She looked up at him. "Too late."

He met her gaze.

And didn't argue.