Chapter 273: The Things We Leave Behind

A week was surprisingly enough time for a decision to shift from feeling like a choice to feeling like a countdown.

At first, I had convinced myself nothing was really changing. Damien was still there when I woke up, still hogging the blankets despite his protests, still leaving his text books and jotters in neat little stacks while mine somehow spread out over every surface.

We still managed to share meals when our schedules lined up, still bickered over silly things like whether the kitchen sponge had outlived its usefulness, and still fell asleep entwined as if we hadn’t agreed to spend a year apart.

But then the week rolled by and just like that, boxes appeared.

So many boxes.

They were all over Room 25 as if someone had opened a cardboard factory right in our space. Some were stacked against the walls, others lay open on the floor waiting for clothes or books, and one sat next to the couch for what felt like forever because neither of us could agree on what should go in it. I kept stealing glances at that stubborn, stupid box, hoping it would reveal its purpose, but it stayed silent.

I found myself standing in the middle of the room with one of Damien’s shirts in my hands and I had already folded it for him.

I didn’t even remember doing it.

That was where the trouble began.

I looked down at the perfectly folded black shirt and realized I had imitated Damien’s folding method, smoothing the sleeves, tucking in the sides, making it look annoyingly tidy.

The kind of neatness that used to make me roll my eyes but now twisted my stomach for reasons I didn’t want to dig into.

I glanced over at the bed.

Damien was there, kneeling beside an open suitcase, organizing clothes with the same meticulousness he applied to everything else. Even the way he smoothed out a pair of jeans seemed like it belonged in an exhibit about unnecessary perfection.

I looked back at the shirt, then at him. "You’ve infected me with your perfectionism."

Damien looked up, confusion on his face. "What?"

"I’m folding your clothes like you."

His gaze dropped to the shirt I was holding. "You folded it properly."

"I hate that you sound proud."

"Of course I’m proud. Looks like you finally picked something up from me in the seven months we’ve been together." He smirked slightly.

I glanced at the shirt again before placing it carefully in the suitcase, aligning the edges just right, as if the universe itself would judge me if they didn’t match up perfectly.

"Great. just a few months, and I’m already getting emotionally scarred by your stupid folding skills."

Damien shook his head and continued packing, but I caught a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. Dumbass traitor.

That little exchange should’ve felt routine, it almost did and that’s what made it harder.

I surveyed Room 25.

It had always been huge as hell, but when I first moved in with him that night, But right now, it had somehow felt more like a whole other world. Maybe because Damien’s stuff had slowly filled the empty spaces without us noticing.

His books took over one side of the shelves. His jackets started showing up on chairs. His shoes had claimed a spot by mine near the door and his charger had always lived on the nightstand.

Now, the spaces were starting to come back and his fancy ass half of the closet was nearly bare.

The bathroom shelf had only a few bottles left and the charger was missing from the nightstand.

Even the chair where Damien usually sat to study felt odd without one of his sweaters draped over the back. The emptiness was louder than any fight we’d ever had.

I hated how much I was noticing and more than that, I hated that I could recall exactly where everything had been.

"You’ve been quiet," Damien said.

I met his gaze. "I’m thinking."

"That’s dangerous."

I shot him a glare, "Very funny, asshole."

"I try."

"You really shouldn’t."

He smiled a little and went back to his suitcase and for a few moments, we fell into silence. It felt heavier than usual, like when we both knew the next words could mess up the fragile balance we were pretending still existed.

Then I asked, "Did your parents really believe you when you said you’d come to your senses?"

Damien zipped up one compartment. "They didn’t ask many questions."

"Of course they didn’t."

"They seemed satisfied enough after an hour of them yelling and lecturing me over the phone."

I chuckled. "That’s one way to put it. I would’ve preferred if they demanded a big dramatic apology from you. Something like you standing in front of them declaring that love had totally clouded your judgment and you never shouldn’t fallen for a poor boy with no background and no future."

He looked at me. "I didn’t say that."

"You should’ve." I let out a small laugh, "Would have been more believable, you know?"

"I told them I understood my responsibilities."

"Which is basically rich-people talk for ’Fine, I’ll stop being a nuisance.’"

He gave me one of those small smiles that told me he was finding this amusing, which I mentally added to my list of "small victories I’ll later use against him."

I sat down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping in that familiar way that used to feel like home but now felt like a temporary fix. "And what’s the deal with the new mansion off campus?"

"Ready."

"Have you seen it?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"It’s large."

I stared at him. "That’s all you’re giving me? Damien, that’s were your parents are whisking you off to to keep you away from me."

"What do you want me to say?"

"I don’t know. ’Oliver, it has seven bedrooms, three pools, a personal chef, and a fucking golden toilet.’ Something useful."

"There are no golden toilets, sunshine."

"Disappointing, if I was a billionaire, I’d get one...rich people and their misplaced priorities."

"But, there are eight bedrooms." Damien elaborated.

My eyebrows shot up. "Eight?"

He nodded and I stared at him. "Why does anyone need eight bedrooms?"

Why wouldn’t you?" Damien shrugged, looking genuinely confused.

I couldn’t help but laugh quietly, rich people...

I quickly covered my mouth, feeling weird about laughing while he was packing his life into boxes, but he was smiling too.

And for a brief moment, we were just us again.

Then my eyes drifted back to the closet and the smile faded. "So they’re giving you the mansion as part of the deal?"

"Yes."

"Safety excuse?"

"That’s what they said."

"Because of Jeremy?"

Damien nodded. "The stalking incident gives them a solid reason for moving me somewhere safer off campus."

I nodded, but we both knew the real reason...the Lockwoods wanted me away from Damien completely. I glanced around Room 25.

It felt odd.

After everything Jeremy had done, all the photos, the blackmail, the threats, I’d thought that getting rid of those problems would lighten the load and in a way, it did.

The Abernathys had returned every dollar Jeremy had taken... every single dollar.

And then some.

They’d sent it back along with a formal apology that was probably crafted by some lawyer who’d never felt a real emotion in his life so stop the Lockwoods from pressing charges or whatever. The blackmail was over, Jeremy was gone, the photos were handled. Damien had done the necessary paperwork.

There was no immediate danger looming over us anymore...well,except the one we created ourselves.

A year.

I looked at my hands. "At least they returned the money."

Damien’s eyes flickered toward me. "They returned more than Jeremy took."

I leaned back on my hands, the bed creaking slightly as I adjusted my weight. "Does it feel strange?"

"What?"

"Having everything back."

Damien was quiet for a moment, then he replied, "A little."

I nodded. "Me too."

Because the money had come back and the pressure from his family had eased, even if just for now.

The threat from Jeremy had vanished and everything taken from Damien because of me was slowly being restored.

And somehow, sitting here in Room 25 with his clothes packed in suitcases, I felt like I was the one being taken away, that thought hurt so much that I quickly looked away. I didn’t want him to see.

Damien always saw and he paused his packing. "Oliver."

"I’m fine."

He studied me and I sighed. "Okay, I’m not fine."

He moved closer and sat down beside me and our knees brushed against each other, neither of us pulled away.

"I hate this," I confessed.

His fingers found mine. "Me too."

I squeezed his hand, trying to memorize the way his grip felt, just like I used to memorize how he arranged his books. "Do you think we’re doing the right thing?"