Chapter 79: Damien Lockwood Wants To Cuddle
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So what happened was...the sky had been ominously darkening, all afternoon, the kind of heavy blanket that signals a storm before it actually breaks. By the time I was trudging back to Preston Hall, the rain had made its choice and was falling in sheets that eagerly slipped under my collar.
I staggered inside looking like I’d just gone through a car wash. Shaking my head to get the water out, I left damp footprints on the way to the elevator, stepping into the apartment with the kind of exhausted relief that comes after an unexpectedly long journey.
The apartment was dark.
Not just evening-dark. I mean completely dark with no lights, no hum from the fridge, no soft glows from the fancy electronics. It took a moment to realize something was off since I’d never seen the place without power, and it felt wrong, like a part of the building was missing.
I stood at the doorway for a second, blinking in confusion.
"Power’s out," Damien called from somewhere near the window.
I spotted him, a shadow against the gray light filtering through, leaning against the window frame, appearing oddly composed despite the darkness.
"Hm, I can see that," I replied.
"Transformer trouble. Maintenance said it should be back by morning."
I hung my soaking jacket by the door, where it promptly began dripping. "Of course it is. My old place lost power all the time, clearly, I brought the energy with me."
"Your old place had that issue?"
"Sometimes more than once a month. There was a time in sophomore year we lost it every two weeks and the head of the building kept saying it was being looked into." I dropped my bag on the couch. "It never was."
I caught Damien shifting slightly, clearly trying not to smile. "And you survived."
"Thrived, even. I got quite good at finding things in the dark." I paused. "That sounded less ominous in my head."
He chuckled softly, his laughter filling the apartment even in the dark. I hated how much it brightened the atmosphere. I went to the bathroom to fix my hair, which had gone wild in the rain.
"We have food that doesn’t need cooking," he called from the kitchen area, rummaging around in cupboards. "Or we can cook, though that’s more trouble than it’s worth tonight."
"Sandwiches are my specialty," I said, stepping out and drying my hair with a towel. "Watch and learn, Nepo baby."
He stepped aside, which felt like a small win, and I set to work assembling two sandwiches with the focus of someone genuinely invested in the task. Part of it was true, and part of it was just needing something to occupy my hands so I wouldn’t have to figure out where to look.
We sat at the table, the rain splashing against the windows, the sound shifting from a light patter to a heavy rhythm, while the occasional rumble of thunder rumbled through the building.
The temperature in the apartment dropped noticeably, the heating seemed to be out like everything else, and the autumn chill worked its way inside.
"This is very atmospheric," I remarked.
"Mm."
"Candles would help. Do you have any?"
"I don’t keep candles."
"Rich folks always have candles. It’s practically mandatory. Candles, cheese boards, and strong opinions about wine."
"I have opinions about wine."
"Of course you do." I glanced at him over the table. He wore that expression I’d been evading all week, steady and warm, hinting at something deeper that I hadn’t figured out how to address yet. I looked back at my sandwich. "So, is there cheese board material?"
"There’s brie in the fridge."
"There’s brie in the fridge," I repeated, astonished. "Who keeps brie in there?"
"People who like brie."
"Normal people keep cheddar slices. You know, the kind that’s pre-packaged. Normal people—"
"Oliver."
"What?"
"You’re eating the sandwich I made half of and calling me abnormal."
I stared at the sandwich. Then back at him. "The brie is still a flaw."
He smiled, the genuine, unhurried kind that lit up the dimly lit apartment on a rainy Friday night. I had to look away before all the warmth from that smile made my heart do something crazy.
By the time we finished eating, the temperature had dropped a few more degrees, and I could feel it in my fingers. I retreated to my room, pulled the covers up to my chin, and lay there, listening to the rain and telling myself for the umpteenth time that I was fine, even as a part of me didn’t believe it.
The chill was that steady kind that seeps through blankets, not the dramatic kind, just the kind that knows it can outlast you. I tried to resist it, but I lost.
After about ten minutes, I grabbed the thick blanket from the back of my desk chair, heavy, soft, and faintly carrying the clean smell of Damien’s laundry detergent mixed with something else I wasn’t prepared to dig into.
I wrapped it around myself without really thinking about it.
"That’s my blanket."
His voice drifted in from the doorway, deep and laced with that teasing tone he used when he found something amusing and wanted to let me in on the joke.
I tightened my grip on it. "Yeah, it’s mine now."
"Just because you’ve been sleeping with it for weeks?"
"Using. I’ve been using it."
"Oliver." I could hear the smile in his voice, the warm undertone of it.
"I’m cold," I mumbled into the blanket. "The building has no heat and I made you a sandwich, I think we’re even."
Then I heard him get up and cross the room, sitting on the edge of my bed, a single, casual movement that made the mattress shift and sent my nerves into overdrive as they had been waiting for something like this.
I kept my gaze firmly on the ceiling.
"Since you’re not giving it back," he said, perfectly casual, "I suppose we’ll have to share."
"We’ll have to what—" I turned my head.
The heck was he on about this time?
All of a damn sudden, he was lying down next to me, pulling the blanket over both of us like it was the simplest thing in the world, not a care in the world as if he’d done this a million times with me before.
The mattress adjusted beneath us. His shoulder brushed against mine. The cold outside the blanket suddenly felt far away.
My eyes widened to the size of dinner plates as I struggled to process what this guy was up to now.
I like other humans, lacked the ability to see my face without a mirror. But I knew instantly that I went as pale as a ghost!
The apartment was dark and quiet except for the rain, which had decided to settle in, pounding against the windows like it intended to stay all night. Thunder rumbled in the distance, slow and lazy.
I sighed and kept staring at the ceiling.
Damien was there next to me, close enough that I could feel his warmth, the scent of his cologne hanging in the air between us. He wasn’t doing anything... just existing, breathing steadily, as if he had every right to be there and didn’t need to apologize for it.
But my heart beat was going haywire, and my stomach...don’t even get me started on the stupid butterflies.
"Get the fuck outta my bed," I said, dryly.