Chapter 160: Who Broke Damien?
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There was a light garlic and butter scent in the apartment, alongside something I really hoped wasn’t smoke.
I stood in front of the stove, wooden spoon in one hand and my phone propped up with a recipe in the other, stirring the sauce for what felt like the fifteenth time while humming a tune I couldn’t quite place.
Cooking was way trickier than Damien made it look. He seemed to walk into a kitchen as if he’d been designed in a lab that produced both stunning people and culinary geniuses, whipping up meals that shouldn’t even be possible in a dorm kitchen.
Meanwhile, I had somehow managed to dirty almost every bowl in the place and I wasn’t quite sure how I’d done it.
Looking around, I assessed the chaos.
There was flour on the counter, even though I hadn’t baked anything. A cracked eggshell lay next to the sink, so that was in the right spot. A strange smear of what could’ve been tomato sauce was on the cabinet door. And somewhere behind the toaster?
A spoon. A spoon I distinctly remembered washing just twenty minutes ago.
"Seriously," I muttered to nobody, "how the hell did this happen?"
The pot hissed at me in a rather aggressive manner.
"Oh—!"
Then I heard the front door unlock as I began dishing out the chicken.
My shoulders relaxed a little without me even realizing it.
"You’re late," I called out, still stirring. "I was about five minutes away from eating everything myself and leaving you a sticky note saying sorry."
There wasn’t any response though.
I glanced back at the pot, frowning. Normally, there’d be some sort of playful comeback by now, something teasing about the disaster that was the kitchen or just a comment that would irk me.
The footsteps that followed across the apartment were quieter than usual. Then I felt familiar arms wrap around my waist from behind, and I jumped so violently that my spoon nearly launched into the air.
"Jesus—!"
The pot wobbled dangerously, and I quickly grabbed the handle.
"Damien, what the fuck!" I barely caught myself before dinner staged a full retreat. "I almost dropped the sauce everywhere—!"
He didn’t say anything.
His arms stayed where they were, holding me quietly, his chin resting against the top of my head.
I blinked.
Usually, this would come with some quip. A comment about my cooking skills or a question about what I was making, something to let me know he enjoyed the moment. But this was just... weight. Warmth. The kind of hug that didn’t need to shout out its purpose; it just was.
I carefully set the spoon down.
"...Damien?"
When I turned in his arms, and as his hands shifted to my waist, the playful reprimand died on my lips. His expression was unguarded in a way I rarely saw, revealing a vulnerability that made the confident guy who usually dominated a room seem heartbreakingly human.
Here he was, someone who always seemed so composed, yet now there was sadness in his gaze like a storm cloud he couldn’t shake off.
He looked tired. Not tired from a long day or a bad night’s sleep, but that deeper fatigue that was more emotional than physical... the weariness of carrying something you hadn’t let go of.
Damn, what the heck happened to him at that fancy rich students ball?
My hands moved instinctively, cupping his face like they had begun to do more often lately. His skin felt cool against my palms. He leaned into my touch, a small reflex that he didn’t even seem to notice.
That alone worried me.
This was Damien, the guy who always walked through life with the steady assurance of someone who wouldn’t let anything shake him. Seeing him like this felt like discovering a crack in something I had always thought was solid.
"Hey, what happened?" I asked softly.
I gently brushed my thumbs over his cheekbones, feeling the tension there as I searched his eyes for answers. Seeing Damien like this was rare, stirring something protective within me, a desire to shield him from whatever had dimmed his usual spark.
He smiled, but it was a tired smile. "Just a rough day."
"A rough day?" I echoed.
"That’s it."
I narrowed my eyes, suspicious. I had learned to read his evasions, there was more to it. "I don’t believe you."
"I know."
"Good, so you better start talking."
He fell silent, not the kind of silence that was deliberate, but the kind you needed when you were still figuring out how to express something.
I sighed. "If someone upset you, just tell me who and where and I’ll handle it."
Something pulled at the corner of his mouth.
"I’ll take care of them."
"You’ll take care of them."
"Yes."
He rose a perfect brow, "And your plan involves...?"
"Me." I straightened up. "Showing up. And beating the shit outta them for making you upset."
"So, you’d lose."
"Maybe, but I’ll get a few damn good hits on that motherfucker’s face."
He laughed, not the small chuckle, but a genuine laugh, warm and full, as if it had come from a place that really needed to let loose. It filled the kitchen, and I pointed at him.
"There, that’s what I was waiting for...that dumb laugh of yours."
He looked at me, still amused, but then something in his expression softened, and it got quieter. It was like he had stopped thinking about how to respond and was simply being himself.
"Would you ever leave me, Oliver?"
Huh...?
The question hung in the air without any preamble. I processed it slowly, first the words, then what it meant, and finally, how he looked while asking it.
"...What?"
"You heard me," His gaze remained steady. "Would you?"
I stood there, hands still near his face and my mind racing, grasping for an easy way out. Normally, I would deflect a question like that, maybe joke about it or dismiss it as absurd, letting the moment slip away.
But his eyes had me frozen.
There was something there I hadn’t seen before, or maybe hadn’t let myself see, a vulnerability beneath his usual composure, raw and real and, slowly, frightening.
Damien Lockwood was afraid of something.
And that something was me.
I let my hands drop to his chest and held his gaze for a moment.
"No," I said quietly, my voice softer than I expected. Somehow, it felt more sincere. "Not if you still wanted me around."
The silence that followed felt different from before.
He looked at me as if I’d said something that needed processing, something he hoped to hear but wasn’t really expecting. And now he had, and wasn’t quite sure what to do with it.
Then he asked, "Would you ever want to leave?"
I frowned, caught off guard. "What kind of question is that?"
"The kind I need a real answer to."
I looked away, at the counter, the pot still simmering, at the evidence of my chaotic cooking disaster. The honest answer was complicated in that way future-related questions always were.
The future was unpredictable, people change, people leave people behind for one reason or none at all.
And life can quickly veer away from the plans you’d made.
But when I turned back to him...Damien, who had stood by me through all the ups and downs of the last few months, who had left coffee waiting on the countertop, folded my laundry, made soup when he didn’t feel well, who had waited for me in dark apartments and always reminded me not to wander too far —
I couldn’t picture walking away from this.
"I’ll never leave you, Damien."
The words slipped out before I thought too hard about it. They were just there, simple and unfussy, hanging in the air between us.
For a moment, he looked genuinely surprised...not in an over-the-top way, but in that quiet, stunned way of someone who receives what they’ve hoped for without fully believing it would happen.
"Promise me."
I hesitated.
Promises had always made me uneasy. Not because I didn’t mean what I said, but because a promise felt like I was trying to claim a future that I couldn’t completely see.
I’d spent enough time watching life throw curveballs to be wary of making promises.
He didn’t pressure me. He didn’t try to fill the quiet with words to make it easier. He just waited, patient, as if it mattered to him, holding my gaze.
I exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of everything.
"...Okay." I looked him in the eye. "I promise."