Chapter 138: My Roommate Is Too Handsy (I’m Not Complaining)
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A few days had zipped by since the pool party, and somehow life had settled into a routine that felt both cozy and a little unsettling.
Not that we ever put a label on any of it.
We hadn’t. There was no big reveal or carefully worded conversation where we decided to be something specific. We just kept on coexisting, and suddenly, Damien seemed to think that personal space was a concept invented by people who weren’t him.
If I was making coffee, he would appear behind me, wrapping an arm around my waist before I even noticed him. If I was curled up on the couch reading, he’d slide in so my legs ended up draped across his lap, and I’d complain about it until I didn’t even notice it anymore.
If I brought any of this up, which I did because I had standards, and also, his reactions were too entertaining to pass up...he’d just look at me with that maddening calm.
"You complain a lot for someone who never actually moves away."
"I don’t move away because you’re built like a load-bearing wall and I’m trapped."
"So you admit you like leaning on me."
"I’ll take that as a compliment."
"I wasn’t giving you one."
He laughed, the real kind, relaxed and warm, without the forced vibe he had early on when I had to earn it, just laughter that came as easily as breathing, filling the apartment without needing to ask for permission.
The annoying part, the really annoying part, was that I still liked hearing it.
Damien was still his teasing, wonderfully caring self, always managing to make the most ordinary moments feel charged with emotion.
He’d wake up early to whip up breakfast, sliding plates of eggs and toast across the table with that playful smirk that never failed to make my heart race.
In the evenings, he’d pull me onto his lap for "cuddles" during what was meant to be study time, his arms wrapping around me as he planted gentle, lingering kisses along my jaw, making me forget all about whatever textbook I had pretended to be engrossed in.
We could barely keep our lips off each other these days, wrapping up in passionate make-out sessions that left me breathless and craving more, but we hadn’t taken that final plunge into intimacy just yet.
But damn, I really wanted to...like, really fucking badly.
But figuring out my bisexuality had left me feeling a bit lost.
I had no idea how to please a guy in bed.
The porn videos I had watched nervously in private had done nothing to calm my nerves; instead, they filled my head with even more questions about how to please him, how to make it enjoyable for both of us without totally fumbling like a complete rookie.
Despite that...
Things had become easy. Comfortably, warmly, specifically easy, and that was the part that caught me off guard more than anything else.
Not the closeness, which I’d been navigating for a while. Not the feelings, which I had at least partly admitted, in a frat house, to his face, with questionable grace. The ease. The way it had settled in without needing any upkeep.
Every day, I found myself looking forward to coming home. Not just for the apartment, which was unreasonably comfortable. Not for the view or the kitchen or the furniture that probably cost more than any college tuition.
It was for Damien, who was there when I got back, who made breakfast before I was even up, who knew how I took my coffee without me saying a word, who had somehow become, in that specific way that things change gradually and then all at once...the person I wanted to talk to at the end of the day.
That realization hit me on a Tuesday afternoon hard enough that I figured I needed a few hours of physical distance from him before my brain could process it without me doing something I couldn’t take back.
So instead of acting like a normal adult and studying at home, I took off.
"There’s no way," I said to the pavement as I crossed campus, "I’m going to get any damn work done with that ...with him wandering around the apartment."
An older professor coming toward me shot me a concerned look, like he’d stumbled into a scene he didn’t know how to handle.
"...I was talking to myself," I added.
He nodded, slowly. "...Right."
Great. The academic community now had concerns about my sanity. This was going well.
The library was quiet in that specific way it gets on weekday afternoons, the frantic morning energy gone, the evening rush not here yet, just the comfortable buzz of a building doing its job.
Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting warm columns over polished wood floors and long rows of bookshelves. Students were scattered around, some typing or highlighting, and one seemed to be really committed to napping.
I headed toward the psychology section, scanning for the texts I needed, running my finger along the spines like someone trying to keep a good streak alive of not thinking about their roommate for a whole four minutes.
Just as I reached for one: "Excuse me..."
I turned to see a tall guy standing a few feet away, wearing the expression of someone who knew me and was figuring out if that was a good opener.
He was and this is just a factual observation, not me having any opinions ridiculously well put together. Dirty blond hair curled effortlessly over his forehead in a way that obviously required expensive shampoo to achieve.
Green eyes stood out against lightly tanned skin, framed by the easy confidence of someone who’s never walked into a room and questioned their welcome.
He wore a navy cable-knit sweater over a crisp white collar peeking out just right. Cream trousers, brown loafers pristine enough that they looked like they’d never seen a puddle. A silver watch, a signet ring.
An Hawthorne Elite.
I blinked at him boredly, the hell does this one want now?
He was obviously a product of old money. I had learned to spot it, people whose wealth was so established that it had become part of how they carried themselves.
He smiled, a bit awkwardly, which was surprising. "You’re Oliver, right?"
"...Depends on who’s asking."
His smile wavered, then adjusted. He rubbed the back of his neck. My first reaction was one of instinctive distrust; from experience, rich people often came with their own set of complications, and the memory of that night’s jealousy still lingered like a faint bruise.
But there was something adorably awkward and cute about how he shifted on his feet, flashing a sheepish smile as if he genuinely didn’t want to intrude.
"Fair. I’m Jeremy." A pause. "We met at the pool party."
My shoulders tensed automatically, like they always did whenever that night came back into focus. "One of Damien’s friends?"
"More like an acquaintance." He seemed to pick up on my stiffening. "I actually came to apologize."