Chapter 68: Excuse Me, What the Actual Fuck?
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There was a long beat of silence.
Not the kind that’s charged or controlled. It was a complete silence, the kind that fills the space left by a statement that’s so straightforward, there’s no room for argument.
My brain, which had been limping along all evening, suddenly shut down.
I just stared at him wide eyes. W...what did he just say?!
He met my gaze with the calm of someone who had spoken a truth and was perfectly okay with that.
All the coherent thoughts I’d had vanished at once, like a fire drill where no one comes back. The apartment felt ten degrees warmer, and my cheeks were probably twenty degrees hotter. Something stirred in my chest that I didn’t have words for, nor was I going to search for them at that moment.
Then, miraculously, my instincts kicked in.
"Shut up," I said.
Smooth, poised. A real masterpiece of emotional articulation.
Damien laughed, a warm, genuine sound that filled the apartment. I picked up my bag and bolted. Not just walked. I bolted. Straight to my room, slammed the door behind me, leaned against it in the dark, breathing like I had just narrowly escaped something.
"Shut up," I said again to the empty room because, apparently, saying it twice was necessary to feel like I had the last word.
The blue-eyed menace. The absolute demon. The human embodiment of a problem I didn’t sign up for and couldn’t seem to return.
Twenty minutes later, I stepped out wearing the best clothes I owned, which really said it all. Dark jeans that were clean and not frayed. A gray sweater that fit well and had no issues. Freshly washed sneakers, which I counted as an effort.
Nothing fancy, nothing that had graced a magazine, and nothing that should be mentioned in the same breath as whatever Damien had on.
I walked back into the living room.
Damien looked up from where he’d been waiting, standing near the window in his coat now, looking like he had just stepped out of an ad for something high-end and his eyes swept over me. Slowly. With an unhurried, unabashed attention, like someone who had decided to take their time because they were allowed to.
The silence lingered a moment longer than comfortable.
Then he smiled. Not the teasing, wide grin, but something quieter, more genuine, something that showed up without trying and just sat there.
"You look nice."
My ears instantly felt warm. "You’ve already used your compliment quota for the evening."
"I don’t remember signing up for a quota."
"I implemented it by myself. Consider it done."
His smile widened, relaxed and pleased. "Unilaterally."
He was enjoying this little back-and-forth. The amusement was quiet but clear, and unfortunately, I was painfully aware of it, as I had this habit of paying attention to Damien that I couldn’t shake off.
"Can we go now?" I asked. Before I freaking melt to the floor.
"Of course."
We headed out together, falling into step as we walked toward the elevator. I spent the ride down doing what I’d taken to calling my standard practice, focusing on a neutral spot in the distance while being completely aware of everything around me.
The elevator was a tight squeeze, and Damien was certainly not small. His cologne...something cedar and fresh that I had learned to recognize whether I wanted to or not, filled the air with certainty.
I kept my eyes glued to the floor numbers with way too much concentration.
"Stadium’s about an hour away," I said, figuring it was better to talk than stand in comfortable silence as if we were totally fine with each other. "We should call an Uber."
A sound escaped him. It wasn’t really a laugh, more like a smaller cousin of laughter, an involuntary exhale when something catches you off guard before you decide to laugh about it.
I glanced over. "What?"
"No need."
I frowned. "Why not?"
He smiled at the elevator doors, the kind of smile that said he had something up his sleeve.
The doors opened.
We crossed the lobby, and through the glass front of the building, the evening outside looked dark and clear, streetlights casting warm amber light on the pavement, the usual sounds of campus drifting from down the block.
We pushed through the front doors.
I spotted it immediately.
A limousine. Long, shiny, and black, gleaming under the streetlight with all the authority of something that was placed there on purpose, knowing it belonged. Not parked down the street, not in a reasonable spot; it was right in front, like it had claimed the spot, like the universe had orchestrated its arrival.
A driver stood at attention next to the rear door, dressed sharply, ready to assist.
I froze. This wasn’t happening...did I accidentally get high or something?!
Damien took two more steps before he noticed and turned back, looking at me with complete calm, like nothing was amiss.
"What?" he asked. As if he hadn’t completely blew my mind. We were just going to a hockey game, not the Met Gala! Why was there a limo parked in front of us?!
I pointed because, for a few seconds, I was physically unable to do anything else. The pointing was the only response I had.
"What," I finally managed to say when I could form words again, "is that."
Damien followed my finger with the patience of someone humoring a simple question. "The car? That’s our ride."
I looked at the limo. Then back at Damien, then at the limo again. Then at the driver patiently waiting, seemingly unfazed by the fact that one of the two people he was waiting for was visibly freaking out.
Just who was he trying to impress?!
Then I looked back at Damien, because I kept finding myself doing that, which was a whole other issue.
"You ordered a limousine," I said slowly, as if trying to piece together a timeline. "For a hockey game. That we’re going to as two friends. On a completely non-romantic outing."
"I prefer to travel in comfort."
I stared at him, and he stared back, while the driver remained patiently in the background.
The driver, very professionally, pretended he wasn’t witnessing any of this.
"Get in the car, Oliver," Damien said softly, and there was something about his voice that carried a hint of seriousness, not teasing, but something deeper that said I did this for you, without actually saying it out loud.
I looked at the limo for another moment.
Then back at him.
"This is not a date," I repeated, for what felt like the hundredth time, with a lot less conviction than before.
His mouth curled into a smile. "Of course not. We’re just friends after all."