Chapter 63: Damien Lockwood: 2, My Dignity: 0
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He turned it between his fingers, looking at it for a moment, and the touch was both incidental and charged enough to send my heart straight into my throat without warning.
"W...what are you doing?" My voice came out smaller than I meant.
His gaze lifted from my hair to my face. Something was steady and deliberate in it. "Making a point."
I slapped his hand away. Hard, like someone desperate to keep their composure while their heart raced.
"What is wrong with you?! Get the fuck away from me, shit stain!"
What point was he making?! I wanted to scream.
His grin kicked in and instantly became the most irritating thing in the room, which was saying something given the circumstances.
"See?" he said.
"See what?"
"That."
"What that?"
"You’re flustered again, pretty cute."
I reacted before I could think. "I am not flustered, don’t call me—"
"You are."
"I’m not—"
"You really are."
"Damien—"
"Oliver." He said my name with that annoying patience of someone who finds the situation genuinely entertaining. "You’re blushing."
My hands flew up to my face without any command from me. Once I realized what I was doing, the sequence, blushing, covering my face, thereby confirming the blushing... played back in my mind instantly, and I wanted the floor to swallow me whole.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Genuinely what was going on?!
Once upon a time, I was the one doing the rage baiting...now look at us! I’ve never been this irritated with anyone before, and that’s saying something.
Damien laughed. Not the quiet, restrained chuckle he usually reserved for special occasions, this was a full, warm laugh that filled the kitchen and settled in my chest as if it had found a welcoming address.
It was deeply, unjustly attractive.
I hated it. I hated the laughter, hated him, hated my own stupid face for reacting the way it did, and most of all, I hated the little flip my stomach did the moment he looked at me like that, warm, amused, like I was interesting rather than just tolerable.
"You’re fucking infuriating," I said, trying to maintain whatever dignity I could muster, which wasn’t much. "I hope you choke on your own dick."
"Okay."
"You’re genuinely the worst person alive."
"Whatever you say."
That one stupid syllable, neutral on the surface but heavy underneath, the sound he made when he said exactly what he meant and had nothing left to add. It shouldn’t have affected me, but it did.
I needed to move. I had to escape this kitchen, this tight space that smelled of cedar and coffee and the complicated presence of Damien Lockwood. I needed distance and clarity, maybe a chat with a therapist.
"Just admit it," he said.
"Admit what?"
"You wanted to make me jealous."
"I wanted to go on a date with a girl who likes me."
"Both can be true."
"They’re not."
"They are."
"Damien—"
"You did."
"I didn’t—"
"You did."
"Would you stop—"
"You did."
I pointed at him, full commitment. "Stop. Saying. That."
"You did."
"Damien."
"You did."
"Shut up!"
He looked way too pleased with himself, that contained satisfaction made it even more frustrating than if he’d just gloat outright.
I was only thirty seconds away from doing something I’d need to explain to the housing office.
Then he made a mistake. A catastrophic, irreversible mistake, the kind that happens in a split second, changing the whole course of a conversation.
He tilted his head, letting a smirk settle on his face and said, without a shred of hesitation: "You’re such a little brat."
Silence...there was total, complete silence. The coffee maker seemed to stop, the fridge held its breath. The apartment paused, like even the building understood this moment needed a proper acknowledgment.
I watched Damien realize his mistake half a second after it slipped out. I saw the flash of realization in his eyes, a brief expression of oh...and I could see he knew it was too late.
"What..."
His smile vanished. Smart guy, reading the room, but it wasn’t going to save him now.
"What did you just call me?"
"I—" He paused. Reconsidered. "Oliver—"
"No." I raised a hand. "What. Did you just. Call me?!"
His eyes danced, betraying him in the most infuriating way.
"I believe," he said, with the careful tone of someone who recognizes they’re about to make a wrong choice but does it anyway, "the word was—"
"Don’t."
"Brat."
The word landed and detonated the frustration I’d been building all evening.
"What’s your problem?!"
Damien laughed again, which was the wrong response, and he clearly knew it.
"If you laugh—"
"I’m trying not to—"
"Try harder—"
"Seriously, you’re making it really hard—"
"I will make your funeral difficult—"
"Threatening murder isn’t a healthy coping strategy—"
He pressed his hand over his mouth, trying to stifle a laugh while I glared at him. But he was clearly losing it, shoulders shaking with suppressed amusement.
And I had to acknowledge, with deep reluctance, that it looked good on him. An infuriating look. One I would spend significant effort trying to avoid thinking about later.
"You’re a shit stain," I said for probably the fourth time this evening because it remained true, and I was committed to being accurate.
"You’ve mentioned."
"And stop calling me little."
He met my gaze, his expression shifting to a small, honest admission.
"But you are though," he said, cheerfully choosing the most annoying possible response.
I gasped, not dramatically but genuinely, the involuntary intake of someone who had just taken a hit and needed a moment to recover. The betrayal. The casual, comfortable, unapologetic betrayal of a man casually standing in his kitchen, looking at me like I was a puzzle and he was enjoying every second of it.
He was winning. Clearly winning, and I had no idea how to change that.
I would have to figure it out. Urgently, because losing to Damien Lockwood while trying to avoid thinking about that laugh, the touch of his fingers, or how he said my name was draining all my energy, and something had to give.
I just hadn’t decided what that would be yet.