Chapter 65: Oliver Reyes Refuses To Be Tempted!

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Damien laughed, a deep, genuine sound that rolled through the apartment 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 medical emergency."

"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 home. Then, with the calm of someone who knows they’re in control of the situation, he lifted one of the tickets and held it out to me.

"Hockey game," 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 me to a hockey game and buy the souvenirs.

Though we’ve never had much, my dad loved me enough to sacrifice his free time 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 game...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 immediately forgot about hockey tickets, they never seemed all that important anymore.

"...hockey game." I whispered, as the memories 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, meaning it was likely obvious to him too, which meant—

His smile shifted to something softer, almost fond. Not the amusement or satisfaction of winning an argument, but something quieter and more specific than either.

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

"You can’t just trick people into going on dates with you," I said, trying to sound firm but landing somewhere 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 something from them."

His laugh escaped again, the real one, unfiltered, the kind that kept catching me off guard. It came 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 me with that irritating patience, like he had all the time 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 me specifically.

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

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

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

Damien was just watching me, 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 me, I glanced at them for a mere two seconds, just enough time to identify what they were, understand their implications, and come to a firm conclusion...before I shoved them right back at him.

"No."

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

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

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

"I mean 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 time in the world and nothing to prove. It was the most irritating demeanor possible in this situation.

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

This was one of those moments.

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 some 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 judgment and every now and then what seems like mild amusement. Those aren’t feelings."

"Name 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 me compensation."

"For what?"

"You made me 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 home."

"I’m going to bed early."

"You never go to bed early."

"There’s a first time for everything."

"Oliver—"

"Watch me, asshole."

I started toward the hallway, trying to maintain the dignity of a graceful exit, but it lost some of its effect when I heard his warm, carefree laugh trailing behind me. It filled the apartment 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."