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Angela's good at putting words to her feelings. It comes with being an actor, with needing to use bits and pieces from her life to make her characters even more palpable— one twitch of an eyebrow, one perfectly timed voice crack closer to real. It's why she's good at playing the loud girl, the awkward people pleaser, the bumbling fool with a heart so big, it could burst out right of her chest.
So she knows what this is: the itch in her chest urging her to trace her fingertip along the lines on Damien's arm. She got the hint the moment she woke up too early in an unfamiliar bed and stared at his sleeping face for what felt like hours, right until the sun rose from behind her.
It's wonder.
That weird mix of awe and curiosity and gratitude that she's here right now, that every moment in her life has led to this very spot under Damien's soft sheets, inches away from that arm of his that she's been fascinated with for months.
(She's also grateful that he didn't laugh her out of his apartment when she drenched herself in La Croix because she was shaking so bad. Or that his cat didn't seem to like her but also didn't claw through her arm the moment she got a little too close and way too loud.
And—most especially—she's grateful that he kissed her first.)
Now, back to the arm.
It has taken everything in her not to ask Damien if she could touch it. Months of holding back her stupid, stupid impulses. They've sat beside each other and talked and laughed and made stupid jokes (specifically to make her laugh, he admitted last night), and nothing from her. Not a single idiotic request that would reveal a little too much of her fascination with his tattoo.
Well, with him as an entire person, if she's being honest.
And she has been honest with him, especially last night.
She's not going to recap the conversation, can't even recall the exact words she had to utter to make sure he knew exactly how she felt about him. She knew this was going to be the hardest part of this whole song and dance: not being able to hide behind longing glances and obvious hints. Damien's too good at boundaries, and she's too good of an actor (not that she fully believes that either).
What matters is that he finally kissed her, but only after checking a million times if she was sure (yes), if she really meant it (was the embarrassing romcom-esque speech not enough?), if he's not reading into this wrong (just kiss me damn it!).
When it finally happened… well, she discovered right away that he was damn good at it.
Soft and warm and gentle, considerate with every movement of his hands over her face and body, careful not to step on any of his cats as he walked them slowly to his room, and then— and then—
Angela yawns when she realizes she fell asleep again, memories of last night turning her body to mush. If she allows that nagging voice in her head to speak, she knows it's going to ask if that was too fast, too soon. Too likely to never happen again after they realize it's a mistake.
She doesn't listen yet, not until Damien turns in his sleep and brushes his arm against hers. Suddenly, he's jolted awake.
Oh. Her body is unfamiliar to him, of course. (Is it unwelcome, too?)
There's a split second of surprise on his face, and then it's gone, the grogginess taking over again. "You're still here," he mumbles, and Angela's stomach sinks a little. "I thought you would've gone up and vanished in the middle of the night." Oh.
He catches the tensing of her arm and smiles a little with his eyes still closed. "It's a joke. I'm a comedian, you know."
Oh. "Asshole," she grumbles.
But then he smiles at her with that dumb, dopey grin of his, and suddenly, all is forgiven.
"Go back to sleep," he says, and Angela's stomach clenches again at the sound of his deep voice, gruffer than usual in the morning. Even on shoot days that start way too early, she's never heard him like this. So relaxed. Not performing at all, not even a little bit.
(There'll be more of that, she's sure. From the both of them.)
"Damien," she whispers. Her breath blows gently against his hair, and before she can feel conscious about it, he rolls to his side and presses his forehead against her shoulder.
"Yes?" he asks, barely awake but trying.
Angela clears her throat, channels the actor in her to start making lame excuses if this goes wrong in any way.
"Can I touch your arm?" She clears her throat again, her neck and shoulders starting to tighten from beneath Damien's heavy head. "I mean, I don't want to invade your space even when you're asleep. Or… yeah."
Damien looks up at her, does that blink of his, and smiles like he knows something. (Of course he knows.)
"Angela, you're sleeping in my bed."
Oh, look at you! Mr. Damien Haas, with all the obvious facts!
"We cuddled last night," he adds, and Angela tries not to melt at the memory of his voice against her ear last night, so sleepy but desperate to say so much. "We— we're cuddling right now."
She doesn't even realize that his arm is over her waist again, not until now. Not until he pulls her a little closer, leans in to kiss the mole on her neck, nuzzles against her collarbone before pulling away.
In hindsight, it's silly. The things in her head usually are.
"It's okay with me," he says, and Angela doesn't mind seeming so silly when he smiles up at her like that. "Thank you for asking." He falls asleep before she can respond with anything, some sort of quip to level the playing field between them.
But after everything last night—and after the past few months of weird feelings that Angela's only started to process recently—she realizes she doesn't have to anymore. No need to hide behind bits and pieces from her characters to wear as a mask.
Instead, she allows herself to do what she's wanted to for months, to watch goosebumps rising along Damien's arm as she traces over the lines of his stark black tattoo against his pale skin, to let this new feeling of wonder sink into her bones and her chest like she's never felt it before.