Roommates With Benefits [BL]

Chapter 47: In Which My Stomach Betrays Me

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I crossed my arms tightly over my chest and shot daggers at Damien’s back as he effortlessly moved around the kitchen, like he was auditioning for some fancy cooking channel instead of just being my roommate who takes his money back.

"You rich people are crazy," I muttered. "Seriously. Who tips someone a hundred dollars? That’s just not normal."

Damien glanced back at me, his icy blue eyes calm and annoyingly attractive in the warm light. "Still on that? Really?"

"Yup, still on it," I snapped. "Because some of us can’t just toss around grocery money like it’s confetti, Lockwood."

He smirked a little, and I instantly regretted saying anything, because apparently making Damien smile was a new weakness of mine I did not like one bit.

"Oh," he said smoothly, "so you’re admitting it would help in groceries?"

"That’s not the point."

"It sounded like the point," he replied, casually adjusting the heat on the stove, completely unfazed.

I glared harder, feeling my face get hot from anger, but also, I had to admit, from the steam rising from the pan.

God, I wanted to argue with him.

But I also wanted to know what that sauce tasted like, which made it tough to keep up the full force of my anger. The way it bubbled, releasing those rich, savory smells, felt like a crime.

Damien picked up a spoon and tasted the sauce, adding something else to the pan with a focus that should be illegal on someone that attractive.

The sleeves of his dark shirt were rolled up, exposing strong forearms that flexed with every move, and I once again absolutely refused to let myself be distracted by that.

Nope, not happening.

We were both guys for crying out loud, stop looking at his biceps for crying out loud!

My brain was not allowed to think about how handsome he looked while I was arguing about being proud over tips.

That was a slippery slope.

"You know," I said while leaning against the counter, trying to sound casual despite the growling protest from my stomach, "you’re exactly the kind of person people complain about when they mention nepo babies."

Damien raised an eyebrow, still not looking up. "Nepo baby?"

"Yeah, rich. Annoyingly handsome. Probably has stocks in three companies for no reason. Tips a hundred bucks because reality just doesn’t exist for you."

That actually made him chuckle softly, low and warm enough to flip my stomach.

My stomach was a traitor.

"You talk a lot when you’re mad," he murmured, reaching for fresh herbs from a bowl nearby.

"I’m about to get violent."

Another soft laugh slipped out of him, and I could tell he was genuinely amused by my escalating threats.

Great.

Why now? For weeks he’d communicated through icy glares and brooding silence, and suddenly he was smiling and laughing and making dinner like we were in some rom-com.

Actually terrifying.

I pushed off the counter with an exasperated huff. "Whatever. I gave your ridiculous money back, take it or leave it. My job here is done."

I turned to head back to my side of the apartment.

Just then—

"I made extra," Damien said quietly, with that steady calm that always pierced my defenses. "Sit down and eat. There’s plenty, and it’ll just go to waste."

My steps slowed...damn him.

I could smell the butter and the juicy steak.

And the garlic.

And whatever fancy herbs and spices he was using.

"I’m not hungry." I said, proudly and forced myself to turn away.

Then something happened that I could never recover from the shame of...my traitor of a stomach chose that exact moment to growl loudly, echoing embarrassingly in the quiet room.

There was silence as I froze, my eyes were the size of plates.

There’s no way that happened...maybe...maybe he didn’t hear that?

Damien turned to me, one eyebrow raised in mild surprise. Fuck, he heard it!

Then he had the gall to chuckle at me, not a full-on smile. Just enough to make me want to throw myself into oncoming traffic.

"Oh my God," he said, clearly holding back more laughter. "Was that your stomach? It sounded like it was staging a protest."

"Shut up."

"It sounded aggressive. Like it’s personally offended by your stubbornness."

"I said shut up," I shot back, feeling my cheeks heat with embarrassment as I crossed my arms even tighter.

His shoulders shook with another laugh while I stood there burning alive in humiliation.

This was awful, all of this was awful.

"You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?" I accused, narrowing my eyes at him.

"A little," he admitted, plating the food with calm precision before setting down one dish at the kitchen island across from another already waiting there. "Can’t blame me when your stomach is making such compelling arguments."

I eyed him suspiciously. "You poisoned it, didn’t you?"

His unimpressed look was obvious. "Oliver."

"You’re right. Poison is probably too cheap. You rich people just hire hitmen."

"If I wanted to put something into your food..." He smiled and shook his head like I was some bratty child, he couldn’t help but humour. Then he said with that sexy tilt if his head...he’s eyes boring into mine intensely. "It’ll probably be a love potion."

I blinked at him in blatant confusion, what the everliving fuck did that mean?

"At least, then you would be nicer to me. Sit down before your stomach starts yelling at me again," he said, teasing warmth creeping into his tone, making my resolve crack just a bit more.

I hated him.

I really, really did...

Sadly, I was also starving.

I wasn’t very good at saying no to free food anyway.

After a few seconds of stubborn internal warfare, I marched toward the island and flopped onto the stool like a guy who’s lost the battle against grilled steak.

Damien set the plate down in front of me, steam curling up invitingly.

I stared at it.

Then back at him.

Then the food again.

"You made this?"

"Yes."

"With your own hands?"

"You just saw me cook it." His mouth twitched. "That’s how cooking works. Unless you thought I had a personal chef hidden somewhere."

I blinked, because before tonight...I actually thought he did. Ignoring him, I carefully cut into the steak. The fact it looked good and smelled didn’t mean it tasted good.

One bite, I chewed slowly...

And immediately—

"Oh, screw you!"

Damien blinked in surprise. "Excuse me?"

"This is good," I accused. "Like... ridiculously good. How am I supposed to stay mad when it tastes like this?"

A hint of amusement crossed his face as he sat down across from me with his own plate, settling in with that effortless charm. "It’s just food."

"No, instant noodles are just food. This is some five star restaurant cuisine," I grumbled around another bite, unable to help myself. "I guess you aren’t completely useless. You’d make a fine husband at least."

Damien nearly choked on his drink, coughing lightly before setting it down.

I pointed my fork at him triumphantly. "Aha! I made you react. Finally!"

"You need help," he muttered, though the corner of his mouth was still curved up.

"And yet here you are cooking for me."

The words slipped out before I could stop them. Something softer flashed across Damien’s face.

Not pity.

Not amusement.

The silence wasn’t awkward exactly, heavy maybe. It was quite charged.

The kind of silence where you notice every tiny sound...the scrape of forks against plates, the brush of knees beneath the counter, the warmth of Damien across from me in gray sweatpants and a black shirt that fit him way too well for my sanity.

I hated how homey this felt. Coming home after a long day to someone cooking dinner shouldn’t affect me like this. But it did, because no one had cooked for me in a long time.

Dad used to, before the hospital, filling the house with simpler yet heartfelt meals that always tasted like home even while he was drunk. Joey tried to cook once and burned down our dorm making grilled cheese, leaving me with no where else to stay except here.

So sitting here now with warm food in my belly and soft light reflecting off the marble counters felt dangerously nice.

And that was the issue. Because Damien Lockwood wasn’t supposed to feel nice. ƒгeewёbnovel.com

He was supposed to be that cold jerk of a roommate with a million rules and emotional baggage.

Not this, not quietly sliding the bowl of roasted potatoes my way when he saw mine was almost gone without a word as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Not asking softly, "You worked all day, didn’t you? Must’ve been a long shift if you’re this hungry."