•⋅⊰∙∘☾✶☽∘∙⊱⋅•✾•⋅⊰∙∘☾✶☽∘∙⊱⋅•

He chuckled, and I pointed at him speechlessly. We both stared at each other with that energy two people share when they know they’re treading a familiar path and are doing it anyway.

Then, almost simultaneously, we burst into laughter.

The sound caught me off guard, my own laughter, showing up unannounced when I hadn’t even meant to laugh. It was one of those genuine moments, too tired to care about dignity.

Damien was laughing as well, softly, the real kind and the absurdity of the situation was just too much. For about ten seconds, we couldn’t stop.

Eventually, the laughter faded. The room settled back into its calm state, and morning reasserted itself.

I dressed for class on autopilot, my brain busy elsewhere...halfway through buttoning my shirt when I noticed something.

I stopped, my hands frozen on the buttons.

Something had shifted. Standing there in my room, I tried to wrap my head around it. My body felt different, or rather, it didn’t feel like the usual morning-weight, the heaviness of too little sleep stacked on too little sleep.

I checked my phone.

Eight hours.

I stared at the screen. Checked it again, just to be sure because the number felt too good to be true. Eight hours of uninterrupted sleep.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen that number, not in months, maybe even longer. Sleep had become a managed task rather than a natural state...something I squeezed in between obligations instead of a restorative experience.

My eyes widened.

My brain, always helpful, started building an argument I wanted to ignore.

You slept through the whole night. You weren’t anxious. You felt...

You felt safe and complete–!

"No," I said out loud to myself in the privacy of our room.

"What?" Damien’s voice drifted in from the living room.

"Nothing."

I finished buttoning my shirt with more focus than necessary, trying to shut down the thought forming, there was no connection between how well I’d slept and how I’d slept. Those circumstances had no bearing on each other. This was basic reasoning, and I was adhering to it.

The fact that I was already warm in the face was a random coincidence.

The rest of the day unfolded with a suspicious ease.

Classes were not just manageable, they were genuinely so, unlike the endurance drills they’d felt like most of the semester.

I answered questions smoothly, absorbed information without struggle, sat through an economics lecture that usually had me foggy-headed and actually followed along.

My body cooperated in ways I hadn’t experienced in ages.

The flower shop was even better than fine. The familiar scents of fresh-cut flowers and crisp, cool air wrapped around me like a warm embrace; the quiet rhythm of arranging, trimming, and managing orders created a sense of ease I couldn’t fully explain.

My manager...Bree was her name, in the middle of rearranging a display of lilies, paused to glance at me.

"You seem mad cheerful today."

I almost dropped the watering can. "I’m not cheerful."

"You smiled."

"I can smile, I smile all the time."

She shot me a look that said she had been working with me for three months and had enough data to support her claim. "Not like that you don’t."

For the next twenty minutes, I aggressively trimmed rose stems, channeling all my energy into proving I was not at all cheerful and would like that noted for the record.

Dad’s hospital room smelled like it always did, an antiseptic base underneath some floral scent, the little vase of flowers I’d brought last week still on the windowsill, the television playing softly in the corner.

He looked up when I entered, and his face lit up with that immediate, uncomplicated joy that always got to me.

"There’s my favorite son!"

"Your only son." His only child for that matter.

"Meh, details."

I set down my grocery bag and began unpacking. That should’ve been that, but Dad was too observant for his own good.

"You look different."

I groaned. "Not you too."

"Too?" He pointed at me like he’d just caught onto something. "Someone else said that?"

"No one said anything."

"You said ’not you too.’ That implies someone said—"

"I’m just well-rested. That’s all."

He lounged back against the pillow, that knowing look on his face that said he’d raised me for twenty-one years and wasn’t fooled for a second. "You’re usually not well-rested."

"I slept well."

"How?"

"With my eyes closed, Dad. Like everyone else."

His grin emerged, the one that always meant he was about to enjoy my expense as a source of entertainment. "Something happened."

"Nothing happened."

"Something good happened."

"Nothing happened."

"You walked in here with a smile—"

"I was not smiling—!"

"You were definitely smiling. I have eyes, Oliver. I’m in a hospital bed, not blind."

Damn, did that mean I usually went around with a resting bitch face to the point that a simple smile made the world notice a difference?!

I tossed a packet of crackers into the cabinet with a bit more force than necessary. "I’m not having this conversation."

"Your eyes are doing that thing—"

"I have no idea what ’thing’ you’re talking about—"

"The thing they do when you’re happy but don’t want to admit it."

Just then, my phone buzzed.

Honestly, the timing was a godsend, I reached for it like a lifeline and found a message from Melanie when I unlocked the screen.

Melanie🌻: Hope your day is going well ❤️

The message was simple, warm, and sincere, and the guilt that washed over me was equally simple and unwelcome. Because my day had been surprisingly great.

Unreasonably so, and the cause...those eight hours, that solid arm, the warmth lingering throughout the day, had little to do with Melanie and a lot to do with someone back at Preston Hall likely brewing expensive coffee with his usual calm.

I tucked my phone back into my pocket.

Dad, with his perceptive instincts, raised an eyebrow. "Who was that?"

"No one."

"A girl? Melanie?"

"Dad—"

"I’m just asking—"

"Please stop asking."

He leaned back with the satisfied smirk of someone who felt they’d gotten a good amount of what they wanted from a conversation.

His laughter echoed gently as I continued unpacking, the sound comforting, and despite everything, the guilt, the confusion, the crazy way my inner world seemed to have shifted overnight...

I found myself smiling back at him, really smiling, like you do with someone who knows you too well and loves you anyway.

"Well, whatever you’re doing...I think you should keep doing it." he said, quieter now. The teasing faded into sincerity. "You’ve also been looking good, Ollie,"

"Yeah?"

"You look like someone’s been taking good care of you."

I glanced at the cabinet I had just stocked, at the crackers, the snacks he’d requested, the small carton of his favorite juice.

An image of a certain blue eyed demon flashed across my mind.

"Someone’s...trying," I replied, and the honesty caught me off-guard. Dad picked up on it too, and he didn’t say anything...just gave me a knowing nod, satisfied he’d uncovered what he needed.

I suppose my change was so obvious to the people around me. Whether I liked it or not, living with Damien had improved my life and appearance.

I made my way back to Preston Hall as the sun dipped down, the city glowing gold in that gorgeous autumn light that slanted in low and made everything appear warmer than it really was.

I should’ve felt exhausted. By all measures, I should’ve been running on fumes...after a full day of classes, a work shift, a hospital visit, and the weight of a challenging week.

Instead, as I walked through campus in that fading light, I felt surprisingly great.

Rested, clear-headed. Functioning in a way I had long forgotten was possible for me.

Every time I tried to pinpoint a reason that didn’t lead back to the same conclusion, I came up short because the evidence was pretty straightforward, and my brain had stopped cooperating with my usual narrative.

A warm arm...

Steady breathing...

Eight hours of sleep.

I groaned at the sidewalk. A passing student shot me a glance. I kept my dignity and continued walking.

This felt dangerous. That was the right word for it, dangerous in that way things become when they can no longer be ignored but have instead become a reality.

The story I had constructed for myself had hit a dead end, and I was standing on the brink of something I hadn’t yet identified but could see clearly enough from here.

I pushed through the front doors of Preston Hall and took the elevator up.

Unlocking the apartment, I was greeted by the smell of coffee.

Good coffee. The genuinely brewed kind. That warm, rich scent reached me before I fully stepped inside.

I paused in the doorway.

Damien looked up from the kitchen.

When his gaze met mine, it was the quieter version of his expression, not the smirk, not the composed neutrality, just a simple acknowledgment, like he’d been waiting for me without making a fuss about it.

"Welcome home," he said.

"Uh...thanks." I dropped my bag on the floor.

Damien didn’t respond directly but made a sound, his quiet, contained exhale that hinted at a laugh...followed me down the hallway.

I closed my bedroom door, stood in the center of my room, and glanced at the bed.

Specifically at the side that wasn’t mine, the subtle signs of rearrangement, the remnants of the previous night still lingering in the way the blanket lay.

I knew this needed addressing eventually. But not tonight—