Chapter 80: Why Is He On Top Of Me?!
•⋅⊰∙∘☾✶☽∘∙⊱⋅•✾•⋅⊰∙∘☾✶☽∘∙⊱⋅•
The words came out flat, tired, and didn’t carry the authority I wanted. And trust me, I wanted lots of authority because this was my bed, and I was the one who’d been here first, with very clear feelings about the whole deal.
But, surprise, surprise...Damien didn’t fucking budge.
If anything, he seemed more at ease, even making a small shift like someone who’s found a comfortable spot and is letting it know he plans to stay and no one could ever change his strange ass mind.
Again...kill me now.
Outside, the storm was still throwing its weight at the windows, rain hammering the glass in waves while distant thunder rolled lazily across the sky, like it had all night to get wherever it was going.
The apartment was cloaked in darkness since the power was out, with just enough dim light sneaking through the curtains to make out the unmistakable shape of Damien lying next to me like this was just a normal setup that didn’t need any explanation.
"Did you catch that?" I asked, unwilling to give up yet.
"Mm..."
My eye twitched. "So why are you still here?"
"Because I’m cold."
I stared at the ceiling, which was dark and offered zero help. "No."
"No?"
"No, that’s not a good enough reason. That’s just a circumstance, not an excuse. I’m cold too. Everyone in this powerless building is cold, being cold doesn’t give you a free pass into someone else’s bed."
Damien shifted again. Just a little more comfortable. "Seems to be working out okay for me."
Oh my God...I just can’t with this guy! He was even more stubborn than I was.
"It is not okay," I said, still staring at the ceiling.
"You seem warm."
"I’m warm because I have the blanket, which I got through the principle of first-come-first-served, and you need to go find something else."
Damien chuckled, "You’re so mean."
I pulled the blanket tighter around me...a clear, decisive gesture, the body language version of making a claim. Damien reached over and grabbed the edge. I gripped it harder, for a moment, neither of us moved or said anything, just two people pulling on opposite ends of a blanket in the dark while the storm raged outside like we were freaking kids!
I had a short, vivid moment realizing how this must appear to a bystander and what conclusions they’d draw.
Then he tugged.
I tugged back.
He pulled harder, calmly, almost methodically, like he’d made a choice and was following through.
I nearly got yanked across the mattress. "Oh, no way—!"
Damn, he was strong... could I even take him? In a fight?
I sat up, and so did Damien. The blanket stretched between us, tense like something about to snap. The room was silent except for the storm and the odd dynamic of two people caught in what could generously be called a negotiation.
"You," I said, pulling, "are a billionaire’s son!"
"So?" He pulled back.
"So you have resources. Fucking use them!"
"You have my blanket. That’s my resource."
"Quit saying that—"
"You stole my blanket and now you won’t share it—"
"Quit—"
"You stole my blanket, Oliver."
I groaned, the kind of groan that comes from someone who feels wronged and lacking the proof to back it up. "You sound like a broken record!"
"You sound guilty."
"I sound cold and tired, which is different—"
"Still guilty."
Then his laugh came out, short, genuine, catching me off guard, and I hated it with a focused intensity, knowing exactly why and wishing I didn’t.
That laugh had become a problem, a real ongoing dilemma. The kind that showed up when something caught him by surprise, warm and unguarded, without the usual composed mask he wore.
No one had warned me about reactions like this. There should’ve been guidelines for what happens when you try to keep a safe distance from someone who starts laughing at your jokes in the dark and your stomach does something entirely unauthorized.
The blanket jerked again, and I nearly lost my grip.
"Oh, come on—!"
He pulled, I pulled. An elbow caught my shoulder, which led to something else, and the blanket twisted between us into a shape that satisfied neither of us. Then Damien leaned forward to get a better hold on it, and suddenly he was half-pinning me against the mattress, about four inches away from my face.
Everything froze, my brain stopped as if to say ’Error 404: File Not Found’.
My argument and yelling stopped immediately.
The storm, considerate as it was, kept going, oblivious to the specific crisis happening in Room 25.
He was close. So close!
The kind of close where the darkness made it even more intense, because without clear visibility, my other senses kicked in, the warmth radiating off him, the faint cedar scent, the change in his breathing, which had quieted a bit, like he was focusing on something.
His face was right there. In the dim gray light, I could make out the lines of his features, the hint of his eyes, and the look on his face which was —
Not teasing. Not the smirk I’d expected.
Something else, something that had gone still. I couldn’t quite make out his expression in the dark. But I guessed that it was surprise.
Neither of us moved.
Then he blinked. "Oh."
"Oh?" I replied, my voice coming out a lot smaller than I planned.
"Sorry."
"Sorry?"
"You moved."
"You moved—"
"This is your fault by the way."
And there it was. The grin, creeping into view slowly, spreading across his face even in the low light, the grin of someone who isn’t sorry and hasn’t been sorry about anything ever.
"Get off me," I said.
"I’m trying."
"Try harder."
His shoulders shook. He was laughing. He was lying half on top of me during a power outage, and he was laughing!
Which made me shove him, not too hard, just enough to create the space my heart needed to function normally again and he rolled back to his side of the mattress effortlessly, as if he had no embarrassment about what had just happened.
Damn him! Damn my racing heart!
I instantly cocooned myself in the blanket. Every inch, every corner. Sealing off every possible gap, wrapping myself up like I was building a fortress.
A moment later, Damien reached over, grabbed the edge, and pulled himself underneath anyway.
I stared at the darkness above me. "Most people would take a hint."
"Most people don’t steal blankets."
"If you say that one more time—"
"My blanket."
I exhaled through gritted teeth.
"Oliver."
"What now?"
"You’re so warm."
"I’ll smother you with this blanket."
"That might end up warm too."
He said it so sincerely that I couldn’t even think of a comeback, and the silence that followed felt like an argument that had run out of steam but wasn’t ready to call it quits.
Then, gradually, it shifted into something else.
The playful vibe didn’t end so much as settle, like a tide receding, leaving a quieter atmosphere behind it. Outside, the storm continued, rain tapping steadily against the glass, thunder rolling in the distance.
The warmth under the blanket had turned genuine, chasing off the cold that had lingered in the apartment all evening. The mattress had adjusted around us as they tend to do, and despite my best efforts to resist it, the whole situation felt oddly comfortable.
I let out a long, resigned sigh.
"Giving up?" Damien asked right away.
"I’m conserving energy."
"For what?"
"Future arguments. I’ve got a few lined up."
"You keep a schedule for arguments?"
"Living with an asshole with you? It’s a living document. I update it regularly."
His laugh this time was softer, warmer, settling into the dark like something that belonged.
I stared at the ceiling, reminding myself I wasn’t analyzing the quality of his laugh, and I wasn’t noticing the difference in how it felt in a quiet room compared to a crowded one. I wasn’t doing any of the things I clearly was.
The silence stretched on.
Outside, the storm and inside, darkness, warmth, and the weight of unspoken things sitting between us, taking up space without revealing themselves.
My thoughts, without asking, began their usual dance. Back to the hockey game, where I’d grabbed his arm during a penalty shot and realized it only after it was over. Back to the limo, the city lights, the warmth inside, and how easy it had been to talk.
Back to the souvenir stand, the matching keychains, and the straightforward way he’d handed mine over without making a big deal out of it. Back to all the small moments, the coffee, the notes, the breakfasts, waiting in dark apartments...I’d been trying to process one by one, which kept adding up to the same conclusion, no matter how I arranged them.
Back to the kiss.
My stomach twisted. Not unpleasantly, which was its own issue.