Chapter 60: I Fear We Need To Talk
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By the time I got back to Preston Hall, my brain felt like it had been tossed into a blender and left on high speed all the way home.
Given everything that happened that day, that felt pretty spot on. Between Joey practically drawing up a guest list for my imaginary wedding with Damien Lockwood and Maya looking at me with that calm, knowing gaze, like she’d already figured everything out and was just waiting for me to catch up...
I was completely wiped out in every way possible. Mentally, emotionally, physically, spiritually. Maybe even at a cellular level.
The evening air had cooled quite a bit on my walk back, carrying with it the scent of rain that hadn’t made up its mind yet. You know that charged feeling the air gets when a storm is considering whether to hit?
Students were meandering through campus in loose, laughing groups, living their uncomplicated lives with the carefree attitude of people not currently having a meltdown, and I envied each and every one of them.
I stuffed my hands into my jacket pockets and stepped into the elevator.
Normal folks don’t get nervous about going home. That just doesn’t happen. Home is supposed to be where you go to unwind, breathe easy, and be yourself without any pretense.
The thing is, I hadn’t been particularly normal for weeks. Not since that certain wealthy, infuriatingly attractive roommate of mine kissed me during a party game and then quietly turned my entire world upside down, one cup of coffee and one loaded comment at a time.
I reached the door to our apartment and paused for a moment.
Then I sighed. "Get it together, Reyes."
The hallway, wisely, said nothing.
I unlocked the door and stepped inside.
The first thing that hit me was the light, warm and golden, spilling from the kitchen into the living room, which meant someone was home, and that was something my nervous system needed to prepare for.
The second thing I noticed was the smell. Something was cooking, and it smelled rich and leisurely, the kind that hints at someone with access to great ingredients and time to spare, which described exactly one person in this apartment.
Spoiler alert: it wasn’t me.
I lingered in the doorway for just a beat longer than necessary.
Well. He was home.
My stomach did a flip that was both athletic and entirely unwelcome.
Not because I was nervous. I was just experiencing a brief moment of internal organ confusion. Totally physiological. Nothing emotional about it at all.
If I was more honest with my own damn feelings, I’d say that I was happy he was back home.
Well I’m not so, I wished that he was ran over by a bicycle instead.
I kicked off my shoes and closed the door behind me, and the sound must have carried, because a second later, there was movement in the kitchen, and then, through the warm light...Damien looked up.
Our eyes locked.
Everything suddenly felt a bit too still.
The stove was quietly hissing, the refrigerator hummed. A clock ticked somewhere behind me. The apartment was filled with sound, technically, but the space between us had this quality of silence that made it all seem irrelevant.
Damien was sitting at the kitchen island, a mug beside it. The mug didn’t have any steam coming off it. It was probably cold, sitting there neglected, like something left in place out of habit or just the refusal to accept that time had passed.
Interesting. Very interesting. I wasn’t analyzing anything, just taking in the facts.
His gaze lingered on me for a fraction longer than necessary. Then he looked back at his screen, putting on that calm composure of someone who’d had a few hours to prepare for a conversation and chosen to start with something that sounds neutral but isn’t.
"You’re late again."
His voice was calm, the kind of smoothness that suggests someone has spent a good chunk of time preparing for this moment, easing in with what seems like a neutral opener.
"Hello to you too," I replied.
A muscle twitched in his jaw. "I said you’re late."
I rolled my eyes, "And I said hello, we’ve both communicated. This is going well."
His expression remained perfectly neutral. He had a knack for that, always had...but I’d lived with him long enough to tell the difference between the genuine neutrality and the one with a hidden agenda. One felt more textured; one was doing a lot of quiet work beneath the surface.
The fact that he looked up the moment I walked in was a little suspicious. The cold coffee? Suspicious. And the way his shoulders relaxed just slightly when I opened the door, that involuntary release? Okay, that was the most suspicious thing of all, and I was absolutely not going to think about it.
I walked toward the kitchen, needing water, because water was safe. It was a reasonable, uncomplicated request that carried no emotional weight whatsoever.
Damien stood up at the same moment.
Of course he did.
We almost collided. Both of us halted, recalibrating, stuck in that awkward space between the island and the counter where it felt like we’d forgotten how to navigate close quarters.
For a ridiculous moment, we just stood there. Too close, again, because the universe definitely had a quirky sense of humor when it came to me.
He was, I was reminded with exasperation, incredibly tall. Unreasonably tall. The kind of tall that forces you to tilt your head slightly to maintain eye contact without looking ridiculous, which felt downright unfair given that dignity was already in short supply that night.
His blue eyes met mine, and my pulse made a decision that I didn’t authorize.
First my stomach betrayed me, now my freaking pulse does the same?!
I looked away. Water, I needed water. I reached past him, grabbed a glass from the cabinet, and filled it at the sink. The glass quivered slightly in my grip, which I promptly blamed on dehydration and the exhaustion from a long day. Absolutely nothing else.
Damien leaned against the counter. Close enough that I was aware of him, like you’d notice warmth in a cold room...not touching, not imposing, just there in such a way that made everything else fade away.
As if he was trying to make me aware of him somehow, as if he was trying to make it so it was impossible to ignore him.
I hated this, I hated that I had become so finely tuned to his presence that I could sense him without looking.
I hated being aware of the faint cedar scent of his cologne, or the fact that his hair was a little messy tonight, or the way he altered his posture after being alone for a while compared to when he was assembling his persona for an audience.
I drank some water.
Then another sip.
Then a third, because as long as I was sipping, I didn’t have to say anything, and right now, silence was the best strategy I had.
Unfortunately, my mouth had never been too loyal to my strategies.
"So," I finally said.
Damien glanced over from his lean against the counter. "So?"
I set my glass down carefully, as if I was resisting the urge to throw it across the room. "You know."
His expression didn’t change at all, blank, patient, waiting. "Know what?"
I stared at him. He stared back. The clock ticked, and the refrigerator continued its indifferent hum.
"Oh, I don’t know," I said, throwing my hands up with what I thought was perfectly proportionate dramatic flair. "Maybe the part where you stormed out of the apartment last night after dropping a line that could’ve come straight out of a premium drama? Six words, very loaded, very mysterious...and the door slam for dramatic effect? You know, that part?"