Roommates With Benefits [BL]

Chapter 18: Instant Noodles vs Generational Wealth

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And for a moment, it felt like I had genuinely heard an offer from him, which seemed just as unlikely as a weather alert declaring perfect, sunny conditions with no chance of condescension.

I leaned against the counter, narrowing my eyes as I studied him. He looked exactly as he always did, perfectly composed, impossible to read.

"Wow," I said slowly, tilting my head. "Was that concern I just heard? From you? Directed at me? In words?"

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, which was his version of reacting visibly.

"It wasn’t," he replied flatly.

"Right," I said. "Completely indifferent food offer. Got it. Totally normal thing people do."

I snorted under my breath, shaking my head a little as I turned back to the pot, poking at the noodles to check on them.

"Relax," I said, stirring again with the easy energy of someone who had decided not to make things awkward, even if they already kind of were. "I’m not about to raid your luxury food stash. This is a lifestyle choice. A philosophy, actually."

I lifted the spoon for a moment, inspecting the noodles before letting them drop back into the bubbling water.

"Besides," I added, glancing over my shoulder with a hesitant smile that I didn’t try to hide, "if you wanted some of this, you could’ve just asked instead of hovering over there. There’s enough. I’m generous like that."

A short silence hung in the air.

"I don’t want that shit."

The words came out sharper, clear and dismissive, like he needed to make sure everyone was on the same page about this.

I couldn’t help it, I laughed. A quiet, tired sound that slipped out before I could think, catching even me off guard.

"More for me then," I said easily, turning back to the stove as I reached to turn off the heat. "More for me and my highly refined palate. Don’t worry, I’ll clean up after myself. Wouldn’t want to disrupt the aesthetic. I know the integrity of this kitchen is very important to me."

I carefully grabbed the pot, mindful of the heat, and moved past him, heading back to my side of the room. I felt that satisfying rush of someone who had managed to finish a conversation on their own terms.

He didn’t stop me or comment.

But I could feel his gaze again, watching me as I moved across the room, like I was a variable in some ongoing calculation he was working on.

I ignored it.

I sat down on the edge of my bed, balancing the pot on my knee as I grabbed a fork and started eating. The warmth of the food settled in a way that tasted far better than it should have, but that was the thing about being genuinely hungry—everything just tasted better.

Simple victories.

For a few minutes, it was just me, my noodles, and the silence, which was the most peaceful the room had felt since I walked in, probably because neither of us was adding to the tension.

Then, I felt it again.

That familiar awareness creeping back in. I looked up slowly, fork halfway to my mouth, Damien was back at his desk.

But he wasn’t reading. His book was open, but his eyes were on me, and his expression shifted slightly from its usual nothingness, like he was piecing together a thought but hadn’t quite finished.

I raised an eyebrow. What is it this time? I had even broken any of his stupid fucking rules. freewebnøvel.coɱ

"What?" I asked, my mouth half full, my patience for mysteries wearing thin.

He didn’t respond immediately. Just held my gaze for a second longer, like he was deciding whether to say something or tuck it away.

"Nothing." Damien’s tone was flat, final and completely unhelpful.

"Right," I muttered, narrowing my eyes at him for two seconds before shaking my head and going back to my noodles.

He said nothing to that, which was par for the course. I decided to roll with it as just another feature of my new normal and moved on.

After I finished eating, I cleaned up like I said I would, washing the pot and drying it before setting it aside, because I had promised to do it and I was a person of my word, even if that word had been delivered with sarcasm. The routine helped, the simple act of keeping my hands busy grounding me just enough to push back the exhaustion that had been creeping up all day.

But it didn’t last.

Because the moment I sat down to focus on something serious, notes, reading, whatever resembled a responsible student...it returned.

That awareness.

That constant, quiet pressure of being in the same space as someone who felt like they existed in a different reality, someone who moved and looked at everything, even instant noodles, as if he were weighing whether it met an unseen standard.

I took out my notes, flipping through them as I tried to focus, my pen tapping against the page while my brain pretended to work but was really off somewhere else.

But it was harder now.

Not because of the content, I’d gone over it before and could probably recite it from memory if pressed.

But because of him.

Every tiny movement felt magnified. Every position shift, every quiet page turn registered in my peripheral like it was way more important than it should be. Even when I wasn’t looking, I felt it. That gaze. Not all the time, not overtly, but there, lingering like a sound just below what I could hear, refusing to fade into the background.

Like he was always aware of me, where I was, what I was doing, how I was moving through the space he had already decided was primarily his.

I let out a slow breath, running a hand through my hair as I leaned back, tilting my head up to the ceiling as I shut my eyes for just a moment.

This was going to be one very long year.