Chapter 347: So, I’m the Housewife?

I opened my mouth, realized he was right, and felt a surge of resentment toward the whole idea of keeping accurate records. I closed my mouth again, then opened it once more, as if a better argument might have wandered in while I wasn’t looking. None had. Before I could come up with another one, he wrapped his arms around me and kissed my forehead.

"Your work is important to you, Oliver. I want you to have what you need to do it right."

Those words silenced me more than any debate could have, mainly because Damien had never dismissed my career as less significant than his own. He actually listened when I talked about my students, showed interest in my research, and remembered little details about my colleagues I talked about that I didn’t think he’d even notice. Once, he asked how a professor I had mentioned exactly one time was doing after her knee surgery, and I stared at him like he had performed a magic trick. He genuinely wanted me to thrive in my own goals, rather than giving them up to fit into his life.

Sadly, his respect for my independence didn’t stop him from being a total nuisance when I tried to focus. He’d bring me coffee and just hang around my desk, radiating the quiet menace of a man with nowhere to be, until I finally looked up. Or he would lean down and kiss my neck at the exact moment I was trying to type something important, and all of a sudden... everything I wanted to write fucking disappeared from my head. Entire paragraphs, gone, as though they had never existed.

"Could you stop sabotaging my career?" I muttered during one particularly focused attempt to finish up a lesson plan.

"What? I brought you coffee."

I shot him a glare, only to find him grinning, sleeves rolled up to his forearms and his tie hanging loosely. It was an unfair look, and I suspected he knew it.

"You’re a complete menace."

He chuckled, kissed my forehead, and finally left me to my work, though he was back ten minutes later asking if I needed anything from the kitchen.

"I need a different boyfriend," I said, without looking up from the screen.

"Come on, you know you don’t."

I hated that I laughed.

By the end of the month, my stuff had pretty much taken over almost every room in the penthouse, from the stack of ungraded papers on the dining table to the single sock I would later find on a bookshelf and refuse to explain.

Damien seemed to have accepted that his meticulously organized home was now shared with a guy who considered snacks a necessity.

The entertainment room had turned into a battleground for our ongoing debate over who was the better Lockwood...a title I snagged after beating Damien at a racing game three times in a row. I had celebrated with a victory lap around the sofa, which he watched in stony silence.

"You cheated," he said, staring at the screen.

"I fucking won!"

"You drove into a damn wall."

"And still won, which reflects wonderfully on my natural talent."

"You took the wrong shortcut."

"It was a shortcut. Please address your complaints to the appropriate department."

He pulled me onto his lap before I could properly bask in my victory, and I immediately accused him of abusing his executive powers to silence a superior competitor. He did not deny it, which I felt only proved my point.

Other afternoons were spent in the kitchen, where I tried to help Gabriel make dinner while Damien repeatedly snatched ingredients off the counter.

My contribution was mostly standing near the stove with an air of confidence, but I considered that a valid role.

"Are you stealing from your own chef, Asshole?" I asked when I caught him taking another piece of roasted chicken.

"I’m sampling."

"You’re stealing."

"Want a bite?"

I took the piece he offered, not being foolish, and Gabriel shook his head with a look that said he had long given up on wealthy people acting like normal adults.

He went back to stirring the sauce with the weary dignity of a man who had seen things.

Our evenings were quieter, usually filled with books, terrible TV, and increasingly complex debates over who had swiped the pillows. The investigation was ongoing, and I maintained that the evidence pointed squarely at him.

I stopped putting my stuff away every time I left a room, and I no longer thought of the penthouse as just a temporary place for me to stay.

It began to feel like home in the little, everyday ways...like the coffee cup Damien saved for me every morning and how he would shift over on the couch without even looking when I got closer. Neither of us ever mentioned it, which was probably why it worked.

One evening, as we read together, I noticed a notification pop up on his phone.

When I glanced at the screen, it showed a photo of me asleep on the couch, a book covering half my face, and my mouth open in a way that surely would ruin my whole ass reputation. I turned to him slowly.

"Damien. Are you shitting me?" He looked up from his book. "Why do you have photographic evidence of my suffering?"

He glanced at the screen, and for the first time, Damien Lockwood looked almost guilty.

"You looked comfortable."

"I look deceased."

"You were snoring."

"I do not snore, shut the hell up."

He raised an eyebrow. I narrowed my eyes at him and reached for his phone, but he grabbed my wrist and pulled me against his side before I could investigate further.

"I like having pictures of you," he said, his voice softening. "Especially the ordinary ones."

The teasing comeback I had ready faded away before I could say it. He brushed his thumb over my knuckles, looking at me with a kind of openness that still caught me by surprise sometimes.

"I like coming home to you," he added. "Knowing someone is here makes the day feel different."

I leaned against his shoulder, trying to ignore the embarrassing flutter in my heart.

"Well, of course. The penthouse was sorely lacking in personality before I got here."

He smiled and kissed my temple. "It was."

I decided not to ask if he meant the apartment or his life, fearing it might make me too emotional, and dealing with feelings was a risky endeavor best saved for after dinner.

Damien came home late Thursday night, looking so worn out that I put my research aside before he’d even finished taking off his jacket. His shoulders sagged in a way he would have denied under oath.

"Sit down," I said, patting the couch beside me.

He gave me a tired smile. "Hello to you too."

"Hello, Asshole. Sit down before I start charging you for ignoring your own exhaustion."

He complied, and I pulled him closer until his head rested on my shoulder, gently running my fingers through his hair as the tension left his neck.

For a while, we didn’t say anything. When he eventually settled with his head in my lap, I picked up my psychology textbook and began reading aloud, pausing occasionally to explain a passage or complain about the author’s writing style.

"You’re critiquing the book while you’re reading it to me," he murmured, eyes closed.

"I’m just offering additional educational value."

"Of course, Sunshine."

His voice got softer as I carried on, and before long, I could tell he’d drifted off into a peaceful sleep.

One hand loosely held onto my wrist, fingers tightening occasionally as if part of him needed reassurance that I was still there. I brushed his hair off his forehead, gazing down at him, feeling a deep affection that was almost painful.

For years, I believed that loving someone meant taking on every burden they wouldn’t let go of, even if it left me drained. I thought if I understood someone well enough, I could fix whatever was hurting them, shield them from hardship, and ensure they never felt alone in their struggles.

I had been a self-appointed rescue service with no days off and, frankly, terrible pay.

But watching Damien fall asleep in my lap, his face relaxed without the weight of his responsibilities, I started realizing that taking care of him didn’t always mean fixing things.

Sometimes, it just meant reminding him he could take a break, that the world could wait while he caught his breath, and that someone would still want him even when he had nothing to give but his tired self.

Someone who would steal his blankets, defeat him in video games, critique his eating habits, and read a not-so-romantic textbook aloud until he fell asleep.

Someone who would be waiting for him when he came home.

I leaned down and kissed his forehead, smiling when his fingers tightened slightly around my wrist even though he was still asleep.

Then I nestled back into the couch and kept reading, letting the city lights twinkle outside while the penthouse filled with a sense of calm around us.

For someone who never planned to embrace a domestic life, I was surprisingly good at this.