Chapter 175: My Roommate Is Still Full of Shit (vol 3)
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The soft golden light of early morning streamed through the half-closed curtains of the dorm room, creating gentle patterns on the tangled sheets and scuffed wooden floor that made everything seem warmer and cozier than it perhaps should have.
I woke up first, which seemed to be a trend these days, with Damien’s familiar weight across my waist and the soothing sound of his breathing against my neck.
A month had passed since then...
It still struck me how seamlessly that number fit into my mind, how it felt less like a countdown and more like just how long we had been sharing this space without needing to justify it to anyone, including ourselves.
I shifted a bit, not quite ready to leave the comfort of his arm, and my movement made him mumble something soft against my skin.
His hand flexed slightly at my hip before settling back down. The room still held a faint, clean scent of the shampoo we’d used last night, blending with the comforting smells of skin and sleep.
I breathed it in as I watched the light climb higher on the wall. There was no hurry in the morning. No classes demanding our attention yet, no messages waiting to be answered, just the calm realization that we could take our time.
When I finally slipped out from under his arm, he made a low sound of protest that almost tempted me to crawl back under the covers and into his arms and never coming out even if it killed my ass, but the thought of coffee won out just barely.
I padded barefoot into the tiny kitchenette, filling the kettle and setting out two mugs, falling into the same familiar rhythm we’d developed over the last few weeks.
The first pour of coffee filled the air with its rich, bitter warmth, and I leaned against the counter, listening to the gentle sounds of Damien stirring in the other room.
Moments later, he showed up in the doorway, hair tousled and eyes still heavy with sleep, wearing just the soft grey sweatpants he’d claimed for himself.
Without a word, he crossed the small space, came up behind me, and rested his hands at the small of my back before pressing a soft kiss to my neck.
"Morning, baby." He murmured, his voice a bit rough with sleep.
"Morning," I replied, leaning back into the comforting warmth of him without a second thought.
His hands remained where they were, his thumbs idly moving in circles against the fabric of my shirt.
For a while, we just stood there, waiting for the coffee to brew.
God, I loved mornings like this...just me and this dude who somehow wormed his way into my life, annoyed me to no end, teased me like crazy, made me fall for him and turned me gay all in the span of five months.
Congrats to Damien, he really be doing the most.
When I turned to hand him his mug, he took it with one hand and used the other to catch my wrist, keeping me close for a few moments longer than necessary before letting go.
The touch felt light, almost absent-minded, yet it lingered the way so many of his touches did, protective in a way that felt comfortable and familiar.
We sat at the little table by the window, our knees bumping into each other every now and then.
Damien buttered the toast with a focused care he usually reserved for small tasks, then slid the best-looking piece onto my plate without saying a word.
The conversation flowed easily and quietly: about the weather, a half-finished assignment, and how the light made the dust motes look almost golden.
When Jeremy’s name popped up, something about another tutoring session later in the day...Damien’s fingers tightened around his mug for a second, and his gaze flicked toward me, checking in like he often did.
I reached across the table, placing my hand over his until the tension eased.
This past few weeks, I was starting to think maybe Damien and Jeremy weren’t as good friends as I thought.
He turned his palm up and laced our fingers together for a moment before letting go so we could continue eating.
That sense of protectiveness had woven itself into the rhythm of our mornings, feeling natural rather than something out of the ordinary.
After breakfast, the quiet stretched between us, relaxed and unhurried. I was rinsing the mugs when Damien’s arms came around my waist from behind, his chin resting on my shoulder.
"Come take a bath with me."
I didn’t even look up from my task.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because every single time we get in that tub together, we end up having sex." I finally glanced at him, trying to sound annoyed. "I’m not falling for that bullshit again."
Damien’s mouth curved into that slow, knowing smirk. "Not my fault you have such a beautiful ass."
Before I could react, he gave said ass a firm squeeze. Heat shot straight up my neck.
"Fuck off, man!" I glared at him, face burning.
He just laughed, low and warm, and didn’t let go.
"Come on. I promise we’ll actually bathe this time."
I stared at him for a long second, still flushed, still pretending to be reluctant even as my resolve crumbled.
Well, damn. Guess I really couldn’t say no that face.
And it seemed Damien knew that all to well and never failed to use that to his advantage.
"...Fine."
Damien’s smile widened like he’d already won.
Damn it, boy! Grow a bigger back bone!
Anyway we moved through the small bathroom with the same easy coordination we’d developed in the kitchen, filling the old tub until the water was hot enough and steam began to cloud the mirror.
Damien checked the temperature a couple of times before he was satisfied, then reached out a hand to help me in, even though we both knew I didn’t actually need it.
As the water surrounded us in a gentle rush of warmth, I settled behind him, my legs framing his hips.
For a long moment, we just sat there, letting the heat seep into our sore muscles while the bathroom filled with the soft sound of water shifting.
I grabbed his expensive, fancy ass shampoo and worked a bit into my palms before carefully running my fingers through his dark hair.
Damien’s shoulders relaxed almost immediately.
He leaned back into my touch, his eyes drifting shut, while one of his hands found my thigh beneath the water, fingers lightly curling against my skin as if to keep me anchored there.
I massaged his scalp in slow circles, being gentle around his temples, and he let out a low sound that was almost a purr.
I let out a defeated sigh as my heart was basically swelling.
Every now and then, he’d tilt his head just enough to place a lazy kiss on my wrist when my hands paused or turn slightly for his lips to brush the wet skin of my shoulder.
Those gestures were soft and unhurried, a kind of affection that didn’t need to be declared.
"You’re good at this," he murmured after a while, his voice low and a bit rough with contentment.
"I’ve had practice," I replied, smiling against the back of his neck as I worked the lather deeper. "You complain less when your hair’s clean."
He let out a quiet laugh that sent a little ripple through the water. "I never complain."
"You do. Just quietly, with your eyebrows."
That got me another soft laugh, and then his free hand reached back to cover one of mine, guiding my fingers back through his hair.
The steam rose around us, softening everything, and the only sounds were the gentle lapping of water against the tub and the occasional quiet breath he released when my thumbs found a tight spot at the base of his skull.
He kept the water warm by shifting a little now and then, letting more heat circulate, always careful not to jostle me too much, always maintaining that steady contact with my leg or hip, as if just holding each other mattered more than anything else at that moment.
I was rinsing out the last of the shampoo when a stray trail of suds slipped down his forehead and into one eye.
Damien hissed softly and blinked hard, and I froze, my hands still buried in his hair.
"Oliver."
"Shit! I’m sorry, it was an accident."
"You’re doing it on purpose."
"I am not." I couldn’t quite keep the laugh out of my voice, which only made him tilt his head back to give me a look that was more fond than accusatory.
Water dripped from his lashes as he reached up, grabbing both of my soapy wrists and pulling my hands back to his hair.
"Keep going," he said, the corner of his mouth already curving into a smile. "But aim better."
I laughed quietly against the warm skin at the back of his neck and followed his request, slower this time and more careful, while his fingers stayed loosely wrapped around my wrists for a few seconds before sliding away to rest back on my thigh.
That brief bickering melted away just like it always did, swiftly and softly, leaving nothing but the easy affection that had woven itself into our moments together.
Damien leaned into my hands again, eyes halfway closed, and I returned to washing his hair in the same leisurely rhythm, with the steam and the quiet and the solid warmth of him beside me turning the morning into something that felt almost weightless.
Outside the dorm. Preston Hall continued its regular morning sounds...distant and unimportant.
In here, though, there was only the water, the slow pass of my fingers through dark hair, and the quiet certainty that this shared space, instinctive touches, comfortable silence.
It had become the most natural thing in the world.