26. Damon
Damon
The apartment feels too quiet when I get home. The kind of silence that gets under your skin, wrapping around you until it’s all you can hear. Normally, I’d welcome it—it’s better than the chaos of campus or the noise of Roman’s place—but tonight, it just feels heavy.
I toss my keys onto the counter and kick off my boots, heading straight for my bed. My hoodie comes off next, followed by my jeans, and I fall onto the bed in nothing but my boxers, letting out a heavy sigh.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I reach for it lazily, the glow of the screen cutting through the dim light.
Practice is running late. Won’t be able to come over later.
I stare at the message for a second, my thumb hovering over the keyboard as I try to decide what to say.
Don’t overwork yourself, Hotshot. Try not to break any bones.
I hit send and drop the phone onto my chest, staring up at the ceiling. A minute later, it buzzes again.
No promises.
I chuckle to myself, shaking my head as I toss the phone back onto the nightstand. Typical Roman. Always pushing himself too hard, like he’s got something to prove.
The thought lingers as I lie there, my mind drifting. It doesn’t take long for it to circle back to him—his voice, his laugh, the way he looks at me when I kiss him in front of everyone.
It’s been two weeks and fuck, he’s still in my head like one of my favorite songs.
I run a hand through my hair, closing my eyes as images of him flood my mind. Roman on the ice, his body a blur of power and precision. Roman in my bed, flushed and wrecked, the sound of his voice breaking as he moaned my name.
My chest tightens, and I shift uncomfortably, trying to will the heat away. But it’s useless. He’s everywhere—every thought, every sensation, every fucking breath.
I roll onto my side, grabbing a pillow and pressing it against my face with a groan. God, it still smells like him. “He’s yours, Damon,” I mutter, my voice muffled.
But even as I say it, doubt creeps into my mind. Caleb was his first love… Would he ever feel that way about me? Does he only like me because I look like an older version of Caleb?
I toss the pillow aside and stare at the wall, my mind spinning out of control. This isn’t what I wanted. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I wasn’t his first choice, so does that make me something he’s… settling for?
I sit up abruptly, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and running a hand through my hair. My chest feels tight, my head pounding as I try to shake the thoughts away. But they don’t go anywhere. Instead, they twist and morph, shifting from guilt to desire, from frustration to something I can’t name.
Something that feels a hell of a lot like fear.
I grab my phone, my thumb hovering over Roman’s name in my messages. For a split second, I consider texting him again, asking him to come over when practice is done.
But I don’t.
Instead, I set the phone down and lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling as the silence creeps in again.
And this time, I let it stay.
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, trying to push the thoughts away, but it’s no use. They keep coming, relentless and loud, like they always do.
The clock on my nightstand glows red—9:12 p.m.—and I haven’t moved in hours. My chest feels tight, my throat raw, and my head’s pounding like a goddamn drum.
The quiet doesn’t help. Neither does the dark. Every shadow in the room feels like it’s closing in, like it’s alive, waiting for me to lose it. If I focus too hard, I feel like the voices might come back, and that terrifies me more than anything.
I curl up tighter, pulling the blanket over my head as if it’ll keep the noise in my head from getting louder. It doesn’t. The memories, the guilt, the fear—they’re all screaming and drowning out any chance of peace.
What the fuck are you doing, Damon?
I clench my fists, my nails digging into my palms as I try to ground myself. My breaths come fast and shallow, and no matter how many times I tell myself to calm down, it doesn’t work.
I freeze when I hear a knock at my door, my heart skipping a beat. I sit up, staring at the door like it might grow teeth and swallow me whole.
Another knock, softer this time.
“Damon?”
Roman’s voice cuts through the haze, and I’m off the bed before I can even think about it. I open the door, and there he is—his hair damp and messy, his cheeks flushed from the cold.
“Hey,” he says, his usual smirk softening into concern the second he sees me. “What’s wrong?”
I don’t say anything. I can’t. Instead, I grab him by the hoodie and pull him into me, burying my face in his neck as my arms wrap around his shoulders. I’m taller than him, so it’s awkward as hell, but fuck it if it doesn’t feel like home.
Roman doesn’t hesitate. His arms come around me immediately, holding me close, and I feel his hand slide up to the back of my head, his fingers threading through my hair. “You okay, babe?”
I shake my head against him, my throat too tight to form words. He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes scanning my face as he cups my cheeks in his hands. “You want me to stay?”
I nod, my chest heaving with a breath that feels like it’s suffocating me. “Alright,” he says simply.
He guides me back into the apartment, kicking the door shut behind him and locking it. I don’t let go of him, not even when he tries to take off his shoes, and he just chuckles softly, like he doesn’t mind.
“Alright, clingy,” he murmurs, his tone light and his touch gentle. “Let me at least get my shoes off.”
I force myself to loosen my grip, stepping back just enough to let him toe off his sneakers and shrug out of his hoodie and jeans, leaving him in a plain T-shirt that he removes as well. Then he leads me back to my bed where he climbs in first, holding the blanket up for me, and I follow, curling into his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Roman wraps an arm around me, his hand resting on the back of my head as I press my face into his chest. He smells like soap and his shampoo and it’s enough to make my breathing start to even out.
He doesn’t ask me what’s wrong. He doesn’t press or prod or try to fix it. Instead, he just holds me, his fingers threading through my hair in slow, soothing motions.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs after a while, his voice soft and steady. “You don’t have to say anything. I’m here.”
I nod against him, my hands clutching the fabric of his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping me grounded.
“You’re safe, babe. I’ve got you.”
I close my eyes, the sound of his heartbeat steady under my ear. His hand moves gently, stroking my hair, and it’s enough to keep the shadows at bay.