Page 22 of Deliah

T he next day, I thought about texting him.

More than once. But I didn’t. Not after dinner.

Not after that smug little “wear red next time.” I told myself it was just a moment.

A slip. I wasn’t the kind of girl who got reeled in by clean shirts and quiet confidence anymore.

Not after Jay. I knew better. But a couple of days after, there it was. Another message.

“Be outside at six.”

What the fuck? How did he even know I was off tonight?

I didn’t care. I was excited. He was just the distraction I needed—a fucking hot distraction with an attitude problem that gave me a thrill.

I didn’t text him back, just to see if he’d show up without a reply again.

I told Cherry everything while we got ready for work.

How sure of himself he was. How he didn’t beg for attention. How I liked that more than I should’ve.

She grinned like a schoolgirl. “You’ve got that giddy look again.”

I scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You do!” She tossed a makeup brush at me. “You like him.”

I rolled my eyes. “I like that he’s not up my arse 24/7. It’s… refreshing.”

“You like him,” she repeated, smirking. “It’s okay, babe. It’s just nice to see you smile again.”

I didn’t reply. Mostly because she was right. So I got myself ready. I didn’t wear red. That was deliberate. A tiny act of rebellion just to see what he’d do. But I did wear red shoes. Just a hint. Just enough.

At exactly six o’clock, he was there. Not with flowers.

Not with some over-the-top gesture. Just parked outside, engine running, eyes on the road like I hadn’t spent two days ignoring him.

I stepped into the car, and he clocked the shoes immediately.

One raised brow. That was it. No comment.

But I saw the twitch at the corner of his mouth—the one that betrayed more than he meant it to.

We didn’t do anything wild. He just drove to the cliffs.

To nowhere. To silence. Said nothing for the first ten minutes.

Just handed me a takeaway coffee and pointed up at the stars like he’d arranged them himself.

“You think you’re that smooth?” I teased, sipping the drink.

“No,” he said. “But you needed quiet. And stars help.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“Not yet.”

We talked for hours. And laughed. God, we laughed.

He was funny—not in that loud, performative way.

But sharp. Dry. Clever in the quietest way.

He didn’t need to take up space. He just filled it with calm.

And when I got chaotic—when I challenged him, talked too fast, said things I should’ve kept to myself—he didn’t flinch.

Didn’t roll his eyes. Didn’t try to fix me. He just listened.

“So, what’s your deal, then?” I asked, legs curled under me, watching the sea below. “You got a wife hidden somewhere? Kids?”

“No wife. No kids. No skeletons.”

“Boring.”

“Safe.”

“Hmm. I’m not used to safe.”

“That’s obvious.” He glanced at me. “But you deserve it.”

I laughed, bitter and twisted. “You don’t know what I deserve.”

“You’re right,” he said simply. “That’s why I’m here.”

I didn’t know what to do with that. So I changed the subject. “Where’d you grow up?”

“London.”

“Figures. You’ve got that look.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What look?”

“Like you’ve killed a man in your time.”

He laughed. Low. A little too casual. “Maybe I did.”

“So what was it—love, power, money?”

He chuckled. “Something like that.”

Then he looked at me. Really looked. “You?”

“Midlands. Small town.”

“That explains a lot.”

“Oi, what’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ve got that need-to-escape-and-fuck-everything-up energy.”

I grinned. “Fuck off, I’m perfect.”

“Maybe.”

He smiled like he knew better. “And your family?”

I smiled. “They’re… great.”

“Go on.”

“Mum’s the best. Dad’s a legend. What more can I say?”

“So why are you always fighting?”

“I’m not always fighting.”

He tilted his head. “You’re fighting now.”

“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.

“Well, maybe I fucking am,” I snapped, voice shaking more than I wanted it to.

“Then let me see what’s underneath.”

I hated that he meant it. That he wasn’t backing off like most men would’ve by now. I looked at him. Then the stars. Then back. And it just slipped out. “His name was Jay.”

Damion didn’t even blink. “Ex?”

“Something like that.”

“You still love him?”

I hesitated. “I don’t know.”

“Do you miss him?”

“No. Yes. Sometimes.” I shook my head. “Depends on what day you ask.”

“What happened?”

I sucked in a breath so sharp it hurt. “He’s a prick.”

“Be more specific.”

“He lied. Cheated. Took everything and made me think I was lucky just to be there.”

He didn’t speak right away. He just watched me. And I felt the temperature in the car shift. Like the air got heavier.

“He ever hurt you?”

“Sometimes. Not with fists.” I swallowed. “But he knew exactly how to fuck me up. Put it that way.”

“And now?”

“Now I don’t trust anyone.”

Damion’s brow twitched. “That’s smart.”

“No, Damion. That’s sad.”

“Both can be true.”

I laughed under my breath. Bitter again. “Story of my life.”

I hated that I was telling him this. Hated that I couldn’t stop. All the things Jay twisted inside me, I was now handing to someone else on a silver platter. What the fuck was I doing?

“Why am I telling you this?” I muttered.

He smiled faintly. “Because now I can see what you need, and it clearly isn’t him.”

His voice was steady. Firm. But there was heat behind it now. Not the kind that scared me. The kind that said he meant every damn word. And suddenly, I wanted to cry. I blinked hard, fighting it.

“He fucked me over,” I whispered.

“He was wrong.”

“He used me. Not just my body… my soul.”

“He should’ve been lucky you gave a shit,” Damion said quietly. Then he looked me dead in the eye. “And he should’ve begged to keep it.”

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 pinata, 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 still lit 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.