Page 30 of Deliah

A fter replaying every stupid decision I’d made in the last year and every blurry memory I wasn’t ready to let go of, I finally crashed out. And when I woke up, it was like someone had lit a fire in my belly. A proper one. Burning hot. Damion. That blue-eyed bastard.

What even was he? A warning? A lesson I never quite got the chance to learn?

All I knew was that my head was fried. And him?

He was bold—so fucking bold. Just swoops back in like months of silence didn’t mean shit.

No apology. No explanation. Just swagger and that same maddening confidence.

But why now? Was he bored? Had his little Spanish flings dried up?

Had he been watching me all this time, waiting for the perfect moment to crawl back into my bloodstream?

He wasn’t mysterious. He was a problem. Wrapped in pretty eyes and the kind of dominance that made you question your morals.

And what was I even meant to reply to that message?

I spiralled for hours, trying to come up with something cool.

Detached. Unbothered. The best I managed by morning was: “Look who came out of the woodwork.” Cringe. But I hit send anyway.

Seconds later, he replied: “Unforgettable.”

My heart stuttered. I replied with a laughing emoji like I wasn’t already reliving every chaotic, addictive second we’d shared. Then came the gut punch.

“I’m flying back to England for the weekend. I’m taking you out.”

Excuse me? Back at it again with the commands, not questions. I rolled my eyes and typed: “I’m afraid I’m booked up.”

Felt smug for about three seconds—until he hit me with: “It’s non-negotiable, Deliah. See you Saturday at seven.”

I froze. Wait—how the fuck did he know where I lived? I stared at the screen, pulse hammering. Was I scared? Excited? Turned on? Honestly, probably all three.

I wandered downstairs and said to my mum, super casual: “Someone from Spain has asked me on a date. He’s flying back just to see me.”

She raised an eyebrow, half interested. “Ooh, he must be keen, bab. What’s he like?”

I paused. How do you even begin to explain Damion? So I went simple. “He’s nice.”

“Yeah? What’s he look like?”

“Tanned. Blue eyes. Pretty fit,” I said with a smirk.

She grinned. “Well, if he’s flying back for you, he must be confident.”

I laughed, nerves fluttering in my chest. “Yeah... I’m probably gonna go.”

God help me—I already knew I was.

I went upstairs and jumped in the shower to try and wash the stress off me—though no amount of hot water could rinse the stress out of my head.

I scrubbed at my skin like it might cleanse the memories, too.

When I finally got out, towel-wrapped and half fogged in the mirror, I rang Cherry.

“Guess who’s got a date planned for Saturday? ”

There was a pause, then, “Ha! No way. I knew you’d text him back.”

“Well… he is flying back. And he is kinda hot.”

“Kinda hot?” She scoffed. “He’s fucking scorching. And we both know he’s loaded.”

That was Cherry for you. Not a gold digger—just a girl who understood value. Emotional and financial. We spent the next hour spiralling over what I should wear.

“Something subtle?” I asked.

“Subtle’s for librarians, babe. Go slutty.”

“Slutty gets ghosted.”

“No, boring gets ghosted. Slutty gets flown across countries.”

She had a point. Eventually, I gave in; I thought fuck it.

The red dress. The red Prada dress I’d stupidly splurged on back in summer when I was still trying to feel expensive in a life that had gutted me.

I’d never even worn it. Paired with black Louboutins that screamed, “Kiss me or regret it.” I spent the whole week preparing like it was Miss Fucking Universe.

New hair, new nails, sunbeds to wash out the winter greys in my skin.

I hit the gym like I was training for war.

And maybe I was. Because this felt like a comeback.

The sass was returning. The ‘I will ruin you’ energy was crawling back into my bones.

I hadn’t thought about Jay once that week.

Not seriously. Not the way I used to. His ghost didn’t live in me anymore.

And the bruise he left? Gone. In fact, I fucking hated him.

Saturday came. And I was a wreck.

Even my mum noticed. “It’s only a date, Deliah.”

“Yeah, I know, Mum,” I muttered, leaving the room before she started planning the wedding.

6:59 p.m. Of course. I heard the car pull up and bolted out the door before he had the chance to knock and meet my parents like some lad I’d picked up off Hinge.

He was leaning against the car, suited in deep charcoal grey, smug, holding a bouquet of twenty-two perfectly wrapped red roses. He looked at me, slowly, eyes dragging from head to toe, and the corner of his mouth lifted.

“Good girl.”

I blinked. “Good girl? What’s that supposed to mean?”

He smirked, low and knowing. “The red dress. You remembered. And you look…” He paused, his gaze shamelessly bold. “Perfect.”

He handed me the flowers and opened the door like we were stepping into a world only he knew the map for.

I sat down, my legs shaking slightly, and he got in like he’d already decided how the night would end.

We drove into the city. He didn’t speak much at first—just glanced over every now and then like he was studying me. I glanced back, defiant.

“Staring is rude,” I muttered, turning just enough to catch the edge of his smirk. “So is ghosting,” I added, sharper this time, watching the road like it might give me answers he wouldn’t.

His grip on the steering wheel tightened, jaw flexing once before he spoke. “I didn’t ghost you.”

I scoffed. Loudly. “Oh, right, you just vanished into thin air. Like a magician. Or a coward.”

He glanced at me, the muscle in his cheek twitching. “I had my reasons.”

“And I bet they were so noble,” I said with a dramatic eye roll. “Let me guess—‘It was for your own good, Deliah.’” I put on a mocking, deep voice. “Classic male cop-out.”

“You done?” he muttered, eyes flicking to mine again, slower this time.

“Not even close.”

The air thickened between us like a storm rolling in. I leaned back in my seat, arms crossed, heat prickling across my skin. “You acted like I mattered,” I snapped. “Then left me like I was just another girl in your rotation.”

His jaw clenched. “It wasn’t easy for me either.”

“Oh, please, you disappeared, Damion. Don’t try to rewrite it.”

“I left because I saw what was happening with you,” he said, voice low but laced with steel. “With him.”

My stomach knotted.

“You were falling apart. And I wasn’t about to stand there and watch it.”

“So instead you ran?” I laughed, but it wasn’t funny. “Wow. How heroic.”

“I didn’t run. I stepped back,” he snapped. “I gave you space to figure your shit out.”

“You didn’t give me anything,” I said, leaning in now, eyes burning into him. “You took the one good thing I had—us—and disappeared without a word. That’s not stepping back, Damion. That’s fucking off.”

His knuckles whitened on the wheel.

“I knew if I stayed,” he said, eyes fixed ahead, “and watched you go back to him… I’d never look at you the same.”

Silence dropped like a bomb. I turned away, swallowing the lump in my throat. My voice came quieter now, but still sharp. “And now?”

He exhaled hard. “Now you see him for what he is. Now you’re not that girl anymore.”

I turned back, head tilted. “And what girl was that, exactly?”

He finally looked at me. Really looked. His voice was gravelly. “The girl who thought she had to burn herself to keep someone else warm.”

The words landed deep. I blinked. Once. Twice. “That girl’s gone,” I said, trying to sound smug, even though my chest ached.

“I know.” His eyes didn’t leave mine. “That’s why I’m here.”

I leaned back again, trying to play it cool, even as my insides flipped. “So, what… you want a medal for timing?”

He grinned, faint but dangerous. “No. I want you.”

I laughed under my breath. “Typical. Vanish for months and think you can just swoop back in because you’ve got blue eyes and good bone structure.”

“I didn’t come back to woo you,” he said. “I came back because I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

“You sure it’s not just because I looked hot in that red dress on Instagram?” I teased.

His jaw twitched again. “That too.”

I grinned. But only for a second. Because even with all my sass and sarcasm, part of me wanted to believe him. Wanted to scream at him. Kiss him. Maybe both. But I stayed silent. Let the tension stretch between us like an elastic band. Dangerous. Pulling. Ready to snap.

Dinner was at a rooftop restaurant I couldn’t pronounce—one of those places where the staff wear earpieces and call you “Madam” like you’re royalty or dangerous.

Probably both. The table overlooked the city, the kind of view people post on Instagram with soft jazz and filtered wine.

Candlelight. Privacy. Every detail deliberate. He ordered for both of us, obviously.

“Still like bold flavours?” he asked, not really asking.

I raised a brow. “You remember everything, don’t you?”

“Only what matters.”

The food was outrageous—one of those meals that makes you hum by accident.

The wine didn’t help either. It slipped down too easily and made my mouth a little looser than it should’ve been.

We talked. Laughed. Fell into old rhythms way too fast. His voice was deeper than I remembered.

His eyes still had that same razor-sharp way of watching me—it’s as if he could see through the front I barely had energy to keep up.

“You’re quieter than usual,” he said, watching me over the rim of his glass.

“I’m just… thinking.”

“Dangerous habit, that.”

I smirked. “You know I’m not the same girl you left behind.”

“I know.”

“I’m not looking for a mess. Or a saviour.”

“Did I say you were?”

I picked at my napkin. “Just laying the ground rules.”

He tilted his head, all calm confidence. “Still think you’re the one in charge here?”

I didn’t rise to it. I just looked at him. “What’s the real reason you came back?”

He leaned in, elbows on the table. “I told you. Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

I let that hang in the air for a second before brushing it off. “So… how’s Spain?”

“Good. I’m moving to Marbella next week. The lads landed an office out there.”

“Marbella,” I echoed, like I hadn’t already imagined myself there in three different bikinis. “Must be nice.”

“You’d like it.”

“Oh yeah?” I raised a brow. “Planning a travel vlog together now?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Come with me.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Come to Marbella,” he said, like he was asking me to pass the salt. “With me.”

I laughed, full-body this time. “Right. Let me just pack up my life and hop on a plane with the man who ghosted me.”

“You’re not packing up. You’re just having a break.”

“And doing what exactly when I get there? Sunning myself into a new identity?”

He didn’t flinch. “You’ll figure it out when you’re there. If it helps, I’ll take care of things for a bit.”

I stared at him, really stared. “What does that mean?”

“It means you won’t need to worry about anything.”

That stopped me. I leaned back.

“No money? No job? No plan? You’re just… offering to sort me out?”

His eyes didn’t waver. “Yes.”

It made something in my mind buzz—because it was tempting.

The freedom. The ease. The idea that maybe, just maybe, I didn’t have to fight for once.

But also—what was I even going to do? I couldn’t just play house and sip cocktails while my bank account slowly depleted.

And I wasn’t the type to sit around and be looked after, even if every part of me craved the break.

“And where exactly would I be staying?” I asked, guarded.

“With me.”

“Of course.”

“You’d have your own room,” he added. “If you wanted it.”

“And if I didn’t?”

His gaze sharpened. “Then we’d figure that out, too.”

I rolled my eyes, trying not to smile. “You’re ridiculous.”

But my mind was already spiralling—visions of sun-warmed skin, long days, no Jay, no clock-in shifts or crying on bathroom floors. Just space. And maybe softness.

“I’m not a girl you can just fly around like some... convenience,” I warned.

“You’re not a convenience,” he said. “You’re trouble. The kind that I like.”

I looked away, swallowing a smile I didn’t want to give him. “You think I need saving.”

“No,” he said. “I think you’ve done enough surviving. Maybe you deserve to rest.”

I blinked hard. That one nearly broke me.

“And if I say no?”

“Then I go,” he said simply. “But I’ll still send the flight info. Just in case.”

I stared at him—steady, calm, devastating.

“You do realise how insane this sounds, right?” I asked, quieter now. “We haven’t even… This is the first time we’ve seen each other in months.”

“And yet,” he said, “you still came.”

The drive back was quiet. Not awkward—just heavy, like both our brains were buffering.

He walked me to the door later like a gentleman dipped in sin.

The night was cold, but he was warm beside me.

The kind of warmth you want to fall into and get lost in.

He kissed my cheek, slow and deliberate, like it was a promise he hadn’t said aloud yet.

“I’ll text you the flight info,” he murmured. “Think about it.”

Then he got in his car and drove off—just like that.

No big speech. No pressure. Just an offer and a plane ticket.

I stood there—six-inch heels sinking into my porch, dress clinging to my skin, twenty-two roses in my arms—wondering…

What if this wasn’t reckless? What if this was my chance to finally be chosen properly?