Roommates With Benefits [BL] Chapter 65: Oliver Reyes Refuses To Be Tempted!

•⋅⊰∙∘☾✶☽∘∙⊱⋅•✾•⋅⊰∙∘☾✶☽∘∙⊱⋅•

Damien laughed, a deep, genuine sound that rolled through the apartnt effortlessly, landing in my chest exactly how I’d been trying to prevent anything from doing. "Relax."

"I am relaxed—"

"You look like you’re about to have a dical ergency."

"I might. You might have triggered one with your stupid self."

"That’s a bit concerning." His grin settled in easily, as if it was right at ho. Then, with the calm of soone who knows they’re in control of the situation, he lifted one of the tickets and held it out to .

"Hockey ga," he said.

I blinked. Once. Twice. The truth seeped in slowly, rerouting around everything I had already decided.

How did this guy even know I liked, no... loved hockey? When I was a kid, my dad would spend weeks saving up money just to take to a hockey ga and buy the souvenirs.

Though we’ve never had much, my dad loved enough to sacrifice his free ti for extra shifts for a sport he wasn’t even fond of. Just because I was, those days where he’d hold my hand and we’d go to a hockey ga...were the best days of my life.

When I grew up, and saw how hard my dad worked just to put food on the table and put a roof over our head. I imdiately forgot about hockey tickets, they never seed all that important anymore.

"...hockey ga." I whispered, as the mories flooded back.

"Yes."

"That’s—" I stopped. The heat creeping into my face, which had been bubbling under the surface for the last thirty seconds, suddenly felt overwhelmingly obvious, aning it was likely obvious to him too, which ant—

His smile shifted to sothing softer, almost fond. Not the amusent or satisfaction of winning an argunt, but sothing quieter and more specific than either.

I looked away, crossed my arms, throwing up all the physical barriers of soone who’s totally fine and doesn’t feel anything, the classic move when you’re overwheld with feelings and just need a mont to breathe.

"You can’t just trick people into going on dates with you," I said, trying to sound firm but landing sowhere next to it.

"I’m not tricking anyone. I’m just extending an invitation."

"This is basically compensation."

"Because it is."

"That’s not how compensation works."

"It does if you’re rich," he said, matter-of-factly, like it was just a feature of his existence.

I threw my hands up in defeat. "See? This is why nobody likes rich people!"

"Many people like rich people."

"Only other rich people who want sothing from them."

His laugh escaped again, the real one, unfiltered, the kind that kept catching off guard. It ca without warning, and once it was in the room, there was no preparing for it.

Damn it. Damn him. Damn his laugh, his face, those stupid tickets, and the way he was looking at with that irritating patience, like he had all the ti in the world and chose to spend it on this conversation at whatever hour it was on a Sunday.

The tickets lay on the counter between us, glossy, expensive, and just sitting there, complicating the atmosphere.

Because I was genuinely trying not to think about the obvious...the thing that was less about hockey and more about the fact that Damien Lockwood could pick anyone and had chosen to point these VIP tickets at specifically.

Joey would have hurt soone to get seats like those. Half the university would have negotiated aggressively for them. And yet here they were, sitting on the counter for .

. The scholarship kid with two jobs, a complicated relationship with my grocery budget, and a well-docunted history of arguing with the very person offering them.

That thought hit , solid and uncomfortable, right in a spot I’d been trying to keep clear.

Damien was just watching , unwaveringly...not impatiently, just observing, in that steady way of his that I’d noticed over the last few weeks, growing increasingly aware that my annoyance was likely rooted in everything I hadn’t quite figured out yet.

He was waiting for an answer.

The hockey tickets suddenly felt like they were burning a hole in my hands.

As soon as Damien handed them to , I glanced at them for a re two seconds, just enough ti to identify what they were, understand their implications, and co to a firm conclusion...before I shoved them right back at him.

"No."

Damien looked down at the tickets, then back at . He seed completely unfazed, as if he already knew how this conversation would play out and just waited for to co around to his way of thinking.

"Absolutely not," I said, pushing the tickets toward him once more. "Whatever weird rich-person mind ga this is, I’m not interested. I’m out. Formally."

The corner of his mouth twitched up in a smirk. "Oliver."

"I an it, Damien."

"So do I."

I glared at him. He returned my gaze with a calm, collected expression, the kind of face that said he had all the ti in the world and nothing to prove. It was the most irritating deanor possible in this situation.

In life, there are monts when you realize you’re entrenched in an argunt that you have no hope of winning, not because you’re wrong (trust , I was right on this one), but because the other person is just waiting for you to co to the conclusion they’ve already made. No amount of reasoning is going to sway the outco.

This was one of those monts.

Damien Lockwood had a knack for being infuriatingly calm under pressure. Stubborn didn’t even begin to cover it, he was the type to dig in his heels without making a fuss. And tonight, he was showcasing both traits, which felt downright unfair and should have been banned by so sort of roommate code.

I nudged the tickets toward him again. He crossed his arms, leaving those tickets firmly in my grip.

"Take them back."

"No."

"Damien."

"No."

I narrowed my eyes at him, and he matched my intensity with an eerie calm, as if this back-and-forth could go on forever without him breaking a sweat.

Then he said, "You hurt my feelings."

I nearly choked. "I’m sorry?"

What was he on about now?

"My feelings," he reiterated, adopting a tone that was almost too formal. "You hurt them."

"You don’t have feelings."

"I do."

"No, you don’t. You have composure and judgnt and every now and then what seems like mild amusent. Those aren’t feelings."

"Na three emotions," he challenged.

I jabbed a finger at him. "See? This is why we shouldn’t be going anywhere together."

Damien, of course, looked utterly unaffected, which was sort of its own version of psychological warfare. "You still owe compensation."

"For what?"

"You made upset." He said it matter-of-factly, like it was just another minor inconvenience rather than a big reveal.

I nearly dropped the tickets. "You—what?"

He looked way too pleased with himself, not boisterously pleased, just quietly satisfied, like he’d placed a bet and was enjoying the suspense of it all.

"What is wrong with you?"

"You’ll need to be more specific."

I made a noise that wasn’t quite a word, turned away, and focused on the wall instead of his face because it was making it hard to think clearly. The tickets were still clutched in my hand, glossy, VIP, expensive, and there, and the situation wasn’t improving.

"I’m going to bed," I announced.

"You just got ho."

"I’m going to bed early."

"You never go to bed early."

"There’s a first ti for everything."

"Oliver—"

"Watch , asshole."

I started toward the hallway, trying to maintain the dignity of a graceful exit, but it lost so of its effect when I heard his warm, carefree laugh trailing behind . It filled the apartnt in a way that made the back of my neck heat up.

I stopped in my tracks and turned to face him. "What?"

"Nothing."

Damien leaned easily against the counter, relaxed as ever, which made it all the more irritating. "What does it look like I’m doing?"

"Being you," I replied. "Specifically an annoying little shit."