Roommates With Benefits [BL]

We walked toward the elevator in a silence that felt heavier than the one we’d left behind, like it was weighing down on our shoulders and making each step feel like it carried leftover adrenaline.

And somehow, after all the chaos in that apartment, the second those elevator doors closed around us, I finally started to feel the adrenaline leaving my system.

Which would’ve been fine if my hand didn’t start throbbing like it had a personal grudge against me.

I glanced down at it. "Oh."

Damien’s gaze immediately dropped to my hand, and his expression changed.

"What?"

"My hand." I murmured, "It’s starting to hurt."

He stared at me for a few beats, then narrowed his eyes. "How bad?"

I flexed my fingers, pain flaring through my knuckles, and stopped right away. "On a scale of one to ten?"

"Seven."

Damien’s jaw tightened. "Oliver."

"Maybe six."

"You just said seven."

"I panicked."

"That’s not how pain works." He sighed, the sound filled with both exasperation and concern.

I could tell I was about to get a lecture that would be gentle yet impossible to argue against.

The elevator doors opened. We stepped into the car waiting in the underground garage, t he moment I sat down, exhaustion hit me hard.

Anger was still simmering under everything, but the adrenaline that kept me going was fading fast, replaced by deep fatigue and the nagging realization that my hand wasn’t going to forgive me anytime soon. Damien started the engine with the focus he applied to most things, and for the first few minutes, neither of us spoke.

The city blurred outside the windows in streaks of yellow and white, the streets mostly empty at that hour.

Damien drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift, but every few seconds, his eyes flicked over to me as though he was doing a quick check on my condition.

Eventually, I caught him looking. "You keep staring at me."

"I’m checking your hand." His lips tightened. "Your hand is swelling."

"I noticed."

"We’re going to get it checked."

"No."

His eyes narrowed. "That wasn’t a question."

I sighed, leaning back against the seat, letting defeat wash over me with what I hoped came off as dignified resignation. "Fine."

A few more minutes went by while the city lights continued their quiet parade outside, then I quietly said, "I wasn’t even the target."

Damien’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. "What?"

"Jeremy."

I gazed out the window, watching a faraway traffic light cycle through its colors without any audience. "He never wanted me."

Saying it felt strange, like finally naming something I’d only half-understood until that moment. "He just wanted you."

Damien’s expression hardened. "Don’t."

"It’s true."

"Doesn’t make what he did to you any less serious."

"I know."

I swallowed hard. "But it explains why he kept getting close to me."

Damien didn’t respond right away. The silence was filled with the gentle hum of the engine and the occasional soft click of the turn signal.

"He was just using me."

"Yes."

The coldness in his voice sent a shiver through me. I glanced at him. He looked furious again...not at me, but at Jeremy. A kind of quiet, focused fury that made the air in the car feel a few degrees cooler.

"He used you to get access to both of us," Damien said. "He watched you because he wanted to hurt me."

I nodded slowly. "And that makes you angry."

"Very."

"More than the blackmail?"

His eyes met mine briefly. "Much more."

I stared at him, and he returned his attention to the road.

"I can replace money. I can deal with my parents, I can rebuild my life if I have to."

His grip tightened further. "But I can’t undo what he did to you."

Something inside my chest tightened in response, a small ache that had nothing to do with my hand.

I reached across the space between us and placed my good hand over his on the console.

He glanced down, and his fingers turned beneath mine, gently capturing my hand in a way that felt both protective and carefully restrained.

"I’ll be okay," I murmured, I managed a faint smile. "You worry too much."

He took my injured hand gently, turning it over to check the swelling under the passing streetlights.

His touch was so soft it almost hurt more than the punch had, the contrast between the earlier violence and this careful attention making the whole night feel even more disjointed.

"Does this hurt?"

"Yes."

He barely touched my knuckles. "And this?"

I chuckled softly, the sound a little frayed at the edges but still sincere.

Then Damien lifted my hand to his mouth and pressed a careful kiss against my knuckles.

My smile faded. He looked at me seriously. "I don’t want you getting hurt because of me."

My chest tightened again. "Damien."

"Even if he deserved it."

I squeezed his fingers as much as I could without aggravating the swelling. "I’m okay."

He kissed my knuckles again, slower this time, like he was trying to erase the evidence of the night one gentle press at a time. "Good."

Then he carefully set my hand down. "When we get home, we’re icing that."

"Yes, doctor."

"And if it’s worse tomorrow, you’re getting an X-ray."

I blinked. "You’re becoming terrifyingly bossy."

He gave me the smallest hint of a smile. "At least you’re finally paying attention."

By the time we reached Preston Hall, the exhaustion had sunk deep into my bones, making every move feel like a huge effort.

The dorm was quiet when we entered, and the familiar warmth of our apartment felt almost unreal after the neon chaos we’d just left behind, like we were stepping from one version of the night into a softer, dimmer reality, scented with laundry detergent and the leftover coffee from earlier.

Damien switched on the kitchen light, flooding the small space with a warm yellow glow that made the swelling on my knuckles look even worse than it had in the car.

I sat at the dining table while he disappeared into the bathroom cabinet to grab the first-aid kit, the soft clinking of bottles and bandages sounding unusually loud in the quiet.

He pulled out the chair beside me and sat down, focusing entirely on my hand, much like he had been with Jeremy earlier. "Give me your hand."

I placed it in his without a second thought.

He cleaned the small cuts on my knuckles carefully, his movements slow and deliberate.

Every now and then, his thumb brushed against my wrist, and I could feel the tension still simmering beneath his skin, a quiet current of everything we had just walked away from.

He was trying to hide it but not very well.

The way his shoulders were set, and how he avoided making too much eye contact gave him away more clearly than any confession could.

"You okay?" I asked.

"I’m fine."

I stared at him, and he glanced up. "What?"

He shook his head, but the corner of his mouth lifted, and for a moment, the kitchen felt less like a disaster zone and more like our actual home.

We stayed like that for a while. Just being together. Just Damien tending to my hand while I studied his face, observing the small changes in his expression as he worked.

The silence between us wasn’t awkward; it was heavy with everything we hadn’t managed to say yet, making the slight rustle of the bandage and the soft sounds of the refrigerator sound louder than usual.

I looked at him. "Damien?"

He raised his eyes.

"Did you know?"

His expression shifted. "Know what?"

I swallowed hard, suddenly aware that this question had been hanging at the edge of my thoughts ever since the apartment, waiting for the right moment to bubble up.

"That he was obsessed with you?"

For a moment, he didn’t reply. He just looked at me, and the kitchen light caught the tension still lingering in his jaw.

"Is that why you wanted me to stay away from him?"

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