Chapter 186: Absolutely Not Missing You
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Well, it turns out my awful therapy advice actually paid off.
Unfortunately, that is...
I only suggested that Damien confront his family, thinking he’d just nod and completely ignore me, and we’d keep pretending the Lockwood family was from another planet...maybe Neptune, or some chilly, distant place with great PR and no forwarding address.
Instead, two days later, he looked up from his laptop during breakfast and casually said, "I’ll going home this weekend," as if he were talking about the weather.
I almost choked on my coffee, coughing in a way that was neither graceful nor attractive. "...I’m sorry?"
"I’m going home."
I stared at him, waiting for some punchline that just wasn’t coming.
"You mean..."
"My parents’ house."
I was frozen, my spoon hovering midway to my cereal bowl, completely forgotten.
"You actually listened to what I said?"
"I do that sometimes."
"I thought you only listened when I was saying something dumb."
"You say something dumb way too often."
"Rude."
He gave a faint smile before his expression turned serious, the humor fading from his face like someone pulling a plug somewhere behind his eyes. "I’ve avoided this long enough."
I placed my mug down, the ceramic clanging a bit too loudly against the counter. "Are you sure?"
"No."
"...Oh."
"But I think you’re right."
I didn’t know if I should feel proud or guilty...probably a bit of both, in an uncomfortable mix, like winning an argument and regretting it right afterwards.
"When are you leaving?"
"This afternoon."
"...This afternoon?" My voice pitched higher than I intended, cracking slightly.
He nodded. "I’ll just be gone for the weekend."
Just. It was amusing how one tiny word suddenly felt so... long, stretching out in my mind like it was testing the limits of the English language.
I forced a grin, one that took real effort to maintain.
"Well." I dramatically cleared my throat. "Finally, I’ll finally have a night where you don’t steal half of my blanket."
He tilted his head with a smirk, "Oh, so you won’t miss me?"
I scoffed, "Why would I?"
I rolled my eyes, but the corner of my mouth was already giving me away. "I’ll also enjoy sleeping diagonally for once."
"You sleep diagonally anyway."
He chuckled softly, the sound low and warm, completely distracting me from the real point of this conversation.
If I could keep making him laugh, maybe I wouldn’t have to think about him leaving and how this apartment would feel like a museum of a life that used to have two people in it.
By the time the afternoon arrived, the apartment resembled a tiny battlefield. An expensive one, to be fair, since even Damien’s chaos often came with a designer label.
He was definitely not a messy packer. Everything was folded with military precision, corners so sharp they could cut paper, all stacked neatly in a suitcase with the kind of geometric confidence usually seen in architects.
Meanwhile, I was somehow creating clutter just by existing nearby, as if my very presence was magically generating stray socks and half-empty water glasses.
"I can fold that." I reached for one of his sweaters.
"You’ll wrinkle it."
"I know how to fold clothes."
He took the sweater from my hands before I could show off my ’art,’ holding it just out of reach like a parent keeping scissors away from a toddler.
I frowned. "You don’t trust me."
"I’ve seen your closet."
"My closet has character."
"It has survivors."
I stuck my tongue out at him. Childish? Sure. Worth it? Definitely, some victories can’t be measured in dignity.
He zipped up his suitcase halfway, then paused, his hand hovering over the zipper pull. Then, without a word, he walked over and adjusted my hoodie, gently tugging at the fabric bunched near my shoulder.
"...What?"
"The hood’s folded."
"So?"
"It bothers me."
His fingers lingered near my collar, brushing lightly against my skin in a way that made the moment stretch longer than it strictly needed to. He smoothed it down, then brushed a piece of hair away from my forehead, his touch, almost reverent.
Then... he kissed me...softly and briefly. Like he just couldn’t help it, like the gesture slipped out before he had time to think about it.
When he stepped back, I blinked, my brain taking a moment longer than usual to catch up. "...What was that for?"
"I wanted to."
"...You’re getting sentimental."
"I might be."
I narrowed my eyes suspiciously, scrutinizing him like he was an imposter wearing a convincing Damien costume.
He chuckled, returning to his suitcase, the sound easing some of the tightness in my chest.
I watched him quietly, observing the meticulous way he tucked everything into place. Every few minutes, he’d check his phone.
Each time, his smile faded a bit, replaced by something tense and guarded. Whatever awaited him at home clearly wasn’t good, and I found myself wishing I could reach through the screen and delete every single notification lighting it up.
By the time everything was packed, neither of us seemed keen on acknowledging it. We stood in the sudden stillness of a suitcase that had run out of things to hold. The apartment felt quieter than it had any right to be for four in the afternoon.
"So..." I shoved my hands into my hoodie pockets, rocking back a bit on my heels. "Don’t let your dumb family bully you."
"I won’t."
"And if they do..." I pointed at him, poking his chest for emphasis. "...Bully them back."
"I’ll remember that."
"I’m serious."
"I know."
"And call me."
"I will."
"And text me."
"I will, mom."
"And don’t mysteriously disappear."
His lips twitched. "I wasn’t planning to."
"I’ve seen rich people movies." I said in actual seriousness. "They disappear all the time, sometimes they even fake their deaths too."
"I’m not in a movie."
"Can you prove that?"
Before he could answer, the doorbell rang, slicing through the moment with all the subtlety of a fire alarm. We both looked toward it.
"...Already?"
Damien checked the time on his fancy ass watch. "My driver."
Right. Of course, rich people don’t use rideshares, they have chauffeurs. Fancy.
Mental note: ask what the going rate is for someone who shows up in a beat-up sedan and honks twice, because clearly, I was on a whole different economic level.
He grabbed his suitcase, and the apartment suddenly felt... smaller. No, bigger. Much bigger, like someone had quietly removed a wall when I wasn’t looking and left the space to echo.
He walked to the door and opened it. An older man in a perfectly fitted black suit stood outside, hands folded neatly in front of him, looking like someone who’d spent decades mastering the art of appearing both present and invisible.
"Young Master."
"Thank you, Harris."
"I’ll take your luggage, sir."Harris took the suitcase with practiced ease, then stepped back, giving us space while politely looking elsewhere.
Damien turned to me. "I’ll see you Sunday."
I nodded. "Yeah."
He smiled. "Take care of yourself, sunshine."
"I always do."
He shot me a look, the unimpressed one he reserved for statements he found clearly untrue.
"...Fine." I mumbled, "I try my best."
Another step. He was leaving. Just like that, as if those last five minutes hadn’t been a lengthy stalling tactic on both our parts.
He reached the doorway.
"...Damien, wait."