NEXT MORNING : DAMIEN’S HOUSE
The morning light filtered through the curtains, painting soft stripes on the floor. Lucian stood in front of the mirror, buttoning up his shirt, his brows slightly pulled together. He hadn’t slept much. His thoughts had been a tangled mess of Georgia, Clara, and the look Georgia gave him before walking out of the hospital.
Behind him, Damien walked out of the bathroom, towel hanging over his shoulder, rubbing his damp hair with one hand. He glanced at Lucian and frowned.
“You look like someone hit you with a frying pan,” Damien said, walking over to his wardrobe.
Lucian didn’t respond immediately. He focused on the buttons of his shirt, a little too much.
“I mean it,” Damien added, grabbing a clean t-shirt. “You barely said a word this morning. What’s up
