Chapter 112: Damien.exe Has Stopped Working
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I knew something was off the moment Damien didn’t piss me off before breakfast.
Every single morning, like clockwork, he found a fresh way to poke fun at me before we’d even had enough caffeine to function like proper humans. My bed hair and puffy cheeks was a classic target.
My struggle to wake up before my third alarm was well-documented. Then there was the time he said I looked like "a grumpy kitty that pays taxes" ... those were his exact words, said with a confidence that made it clear he’d been perfecting that line.
It had turned into a sort of routine. My morning teases was as vital as the coffee, maybe not as pleasant, but equally necessary to kick off the day.
But today? Nothing at all.
I shuffled into the kitchen, still rubbing the sleep from my eyes, expecting the usual snappy comment somewhere between the doorway and the counter. Instead, there stood Damien, silently in front of the coffee machine, one hand resting on the counter.
He wasn’t humming, he wasn’t smiling, and he definitely wasn’t scrolling through his phone while waiting for the coffee to brew. He just stared blankly at the mug, looking like he’d forgotten why he entered the kitchen in the first place.
I paused in the doorway, frowning. "You’re unusually quiet."
Usually that would be good (mostly for me), but something was fucking off.
"Hm?" He blinked at me, then managed a small, half-hearted smile... the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Didn’t sleep much."
His voice had that rough edge to it. Not just the usual morning hoarseness, but something deeper, more intense. Like he’d been screaming or crying.
I rose an eyebrow.
I leaned against the doorframe, studying him intensely. His dark hair was messier than usual, and there were shadows under his eyes, not the brooding kind that make people look mysterious, but real signs of exhaustion.
Every couple of seconds, he rubbed the back of his neck, then let his hand drop again, as if that gesture kept resetting itself without him intending to.
Okay, something was definitely wrong with him.
"You okay?"
"I’m fine, Sunshine."
That answer came out way too quickly. Damien was someone who took his time with answers... they were usually measured and thoughtful, delivered with confidence. This one slid out before the actual thought had even finished forming.
"Are you sure?"
"Just tired."
"Huh."
Yeah, you could tell I wasn’t buying it.
He reached for a mug, and his fingers fumbled slightly. The mug wobbled on the shelf, threatening to fall before he caught it just in time.
I let the silence hang for a moment. "...Nice save."
He chuckled weakly. "I meant to do that."
"Liar."
"A little."
He poured coffee into both mugs and slid one toward me. "Peace offering."
His smile lingered for a moment before fading again, slipping away like it didn’t have the energy to stay. Something was definitely off, and the knot forming in my chest agreed.
Still, Damien wasn’t one to share complaints voluntarily. If he insisted he was fine and I pushed too hard, I’d just end up getting the same answer, but with extra patience. So I decided to let it be for now.
For about five minutes... which, honestly, was generous.
He wandered over to the fridge. "What do you want for breakfast?"
"Toast is fine."
"I’m making eggs."
"I literally just said toast."
"I heard you."
"Then why are you making eggs?"
"Because I want eggs."
"Then why did you ask me?"
He paused, genuinely appearing to consider this. "...Good question."
I snorted. "You really are something today."
He smiled again, small, tired, but real — and for a second, I almost believed him. Then I noticed him trying to crack eggs into a bowl.
The first one was perfect. Clean break, no issues.
The second one missed the bowl entirely, splattering across the counter with a loud crack.
The third one slipped out of his fingers before he even tried to crack it, landing on the floor and bouncing once without breaking, rolling a few inches before stopping as if proud of its escape.
We both just stared at it.
I slowly looked back up at him. "...That egg escaped."
"It values freedom."
"You’ve lost your mind."
"I’ve misplaced it. For now."
Despite myself, I couldn’t help but laugh, a genuine surprise. "So dramatic."
"I learned from the best."
"I am never that dramatic."
Damien opened his mouth to respond, but then his shoulders swayed ever so slightly, just noticeably enough if you were paying attention, which I clearly was without even realizing it.
His hand shot out for the counter. The bowl rattled.
"...Damien?"
He hesitated for a second. His eyes shut briefly, the careful closing of someone bracing for a room to stop spinning.
"I’m..." His voice sounded distant. "...Fine."
"Oh, come on!"
I dashed across the kitchen in a couple of quick steps. As he tried to straighten up, his knees buckled a little, an unmistakable movement that he clearly hadn’t planned. I caught him around the waist before he could fully lose his balance, his weight leaning into me for a long, unsettling moment.
My heart stopped. Not just for a second, it completely stopped.
"Easy," I managed to say, because it was the only thing that came to mind. He exhaled slowly, like someone finally letting out a breath they’d held too long.
"I just stood up too fast."
"You’ve been standing for ten minutes, how did you stand up too fast?"
"...Details."
"Not details."
He tried to pull away, but I held him firm. "Oliver."
"No."
"I’m fine."
"No."
"You don’t have to—"
"I said no, shut up."
He sighed, long, dramatically, like someone resigned to an argument they hadn’t even started. "You’ve gotten really bossy."
"I learned it from living with you."
"Fair enough."
I kept my arm around his waist, adjusting my grip. Only then did I notice how warm he felt. Not just warm, but worryingly hot against my arm in a way that made the math in my head lead to a bad conclusion.
Without even thinking, I lifted my other hand to press it against his forehead. The heat was immediate and clear.
"..." I looked at him.
"..." He looked back.
"You’re burning up, you idiot."
He blinked at me, slow and a little glassy. "I don’t think so."
"You don’t think so."
He shrugged, which seemed to take effort. "I feel mostly normal."
"You look like a Victorian child in the second act of a tragic play."
"That’s a bit dramatic."
"No, dramatic would be saying you’re about to haunt this apartment."
"I’d make an excellent ghost."
"You’d be an annoying ghost."
I stared at him for a moment, weighing whether to laugh or escalate my concern. The concern won, just barely. "Damien."
"What?"
"Let’s get you back to bed."
"I’m making breakfast."
"I’ll handle breakfast."
He chuckled weakly, then winced at the laugh. It was a quick expression of pain that didn’t escape my notice.
"See?" I pointed at him. "Even laughing hurts."
"It was worth it."
"It wasn’t."
"Definitely was."
"Bed. Now."
I wrapped my arm more snugly around his waist and guided him toward the bedroom with the kind of intensity that says I’ve made a decision and I’m sticking to it. He resisted for about three steps, then seemed to realize he wasn’t going to win this one and switched to complaining, which was a lot less physically taxing.
"Oliver."
"No."
"I have assignments."
"No."
"My presentation is due—"
"No."
"My classes—"
"No."
"You’re not even listening."
"I heard everything and I disagree with all of it."
He sighed again. "You sound like a really cranky mom."
I shot him a flat look as I led him through the hallway. "Congratulations."
"What?"
"You’ve unlocked Maternal Oliver. This is what it looks like."
"Should I be scared?"
"You definitely should be."
"I am a little, but I like it."
"Good. Keep moving."
He complained all the way down the hallway, not letting up for a second. His objections flowed in a hoarse stream that I navigated like a river, just pushing through.
I rolled my eyes so hard I thought they might hurt, steering him through the bedroom doorway with the last dregs of my patience, which was hovering around thirty percent after the morning I’d had.
Despite the worry weighing heavy in my chest, I couldn’t completely stop smiling.
Because even when sick, pale, and barely keeping himself upright, Damien was still at it...still finding the humor, still giving me something to push against, still filling every silence with his exhausting yet effortless presence.
He was pushing to make me laugh even when it seemed like standing was a struggle.
And somehow, inconveniently, frustratingly, in a way that made me acutely aware of feelings I couldn’t quite articulate, that only made my worry deepen.