Page 13 of Mutual Desire (The Awakening #1)

The Value

Damien stepped into Craig’s apartment, his mind still buzzing with the surreal kiss from Nabokov. The limo door had shut with finality, leaving Damien alone with the weight of the moment, still lingering on his cheek. Never had Damien's cheek felt a kiss so... so what?

Sensual? Intimate? Charged with desire? He couldn’t decide.

What had just happened in Nabokov’s car haunted him, swirling in his mind with a promise of not leaving him alone. He shook the thought away, trying to focus on the warmth of Craig’s place, the inviting scent of food wafting from the kitchen. The smell of garlic and tomatoes greeted him, and for a moment, he let himself relax, inhaling the comfort of a home-cooked meal. Craig had always had a way of making things feel... easy.

Their life together was simple, uncomplicated, and maybe that’s what made everything feel so unsettling tonight. He followed the savory scent of dinner to the kitchen. Craig was standing by the stove, the soft sound of a sizzling pan filling the air. His smile spread when he saw Damien, his eyes warm and welcoming.

“Hey, ” Craig greeted, wiping his hands on a towel before stepping toward him. He leaned in, brushing a soft kiss against Damien’s lips. “Right on time.”

“Smells amazing, ” Damien replied, offering a smile, though it felt a little strained, like his own face didn’t quite fit his mood. He hadn't spent enough time with Craig lately, and he knew this evening was meant to be another chance to reconnect. To be present, to enjoy the simple things together. But his mind kept drifting elsewhere. The minutes in the limo, the words left unsaid, the kiss on his cheek—it all felt like a different life now.

Craig set the towel aside and gestured to the table. Craig had cooked a simple, comforting meal. Spaghetti with pan-seared shrimp. A side of garlic bread and a light salad completed the meal. But what really caught Damien’s attention was the special spicy sauce Craig had whipped up—rich, smoky, with just the right amount of heat. In their early days of dating, Damien had asked for the recipe, and Craig had only smirked and said, “Some secrets are worth keeping”. Knowing his man well, he had no doubt there would be a delicious dessert as well.

As they sat down to eat, the comforting clink of cutlery against plates filled the space between them. The spaghetti, perfectly al dente, the garlic bread crisp but not too dry—it was simple, but everything Craig made had this quiet care to it, as though each dish was a little piece of him, carefully prepared. They talked, casually. Craig was always easy to talk to, his voice steady and grounding.

But Damien’s thoughts kept drifting, like a boat caught in a slow current, too far from shore. He tried to focus on what Craig was saying, about a difficult case he recently had at the hospital regarding a young patient. But every time he blinked, he saw Nabokov’s eyes, those piercing, unrelenting eyes, as if they were imprinted behind his eyelids.

Craig’s voice brought him back, and Damien forced himself to listen, to really listen. “You okay?” Craig asked, glancing up from his plate, eyes searching Damien’s face. “You seem a little distracted.”

“Yeah, just tired,” Damien said, offering a shrug, though he could feel the lie sitting heavy on his chest. Craig didn’t seem convinced but nodded and didn’t press. They went back to their meal in comfortable silence, the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional scrape of silverware the only sounds. Craig’s voice broke through his thoughts as he asked, “So, what’d you do today? Spent it at the garage?”

Damien froze for a moment, his fork hovering over his plate. His heart skipped. “Yeah,” he said quickly, forcing a casual tone into his voice. “The car needed some fixing, so I was there most of the day.” He glanced up, meeting Craig’s eyes, but there was an unfamiliar tightness in his chest. It felt wrong. “Nothing exciting, really. The car is still at the garage.” The lie tasted bitter in his mouth.

Craig raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further. Instead, he took a bite of his food, seemingly satisfied with the answer. “Must’ve been a long day. You look like you could use some time to unwind.”

Damien nodded, trying to relax. “Yeah, I guess we both do. It's been a while since we had a night like this, huh?” He tried to steer the conversation away from the garage, away from anything that felt like a lie.

Craig smiled, leaning back in his chair. “Work had been crazy for both of us. You with school and me with my hectic schedule at the hospital. Wanting to open a clinic probably wasn’t the right timing, huh?”

Damien’s interest piqued, and he leaned in slightly, eager to change the subject. “How’s that going, by the way? The clinic?”

“It’s a lot of paperwork, a lot of red tape,” Craig said with a slight chuckle. “But it’s coming together. Luckily, I’m not alone otherwise I’d go completely bananas. We’re hoping to get the location finalized soon. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do. Being my own boss while making a difference, you know?”

Damien nodded, trying to focus on Craig’s words. It was clear how much this meant to him, how passionate he was about it. Craig always had that drive—he was always so focused, so certain of his path. It was something Damien admired, something he felt like he’d been lacking lately, floating in a sea of confusion.

They continued eating, the conversation flowing more naturally now. But even as Damien smiled and nodded along, his mind kept drifting. He kept picturing Nabokov—his cold eyes, the sharp edge of his presence. Every time he blinked, he could see him again, as though he’d never really left. Dinner passed, and for a brief moment, Damien felt like himself again, like he was right where he needed to be. Craig was kind, attentive, all the things Damien had always wanted in a partner. It was in the way Craig laughed at a stupid joke Damien made, in the way his hand rested on Damien’s thigh as they watched the end of a movie, in the way he asked, “Are you sure you’re okay?” when Damien had stayed quiet for too long.

But even in these moments, as good as it was—Damien’s chest tightened, and it wasn’t from the food. It was because even as Craig’s hand settled on his, he felt the ghost of Nabokov, the intensity of the man’s touch on his cheek, and the inexplicable ache of something darker, something he couldn’t explain or deny.

The evening passed slowly, the hours stretching out in the quiet, comfortable way that only Craig’s company could offer. They shared a bottle of wine, talked about trivial things—friends, family, their schedule for the upcoming weeks— and finished off with a plate of fresh strawberries drizzled with honey and mascarpone, but in the back of Damien’s mind, there was always that pull. A pull he couldn’t explain, couldn’t ignore. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

Later, after dinner and after Damien’s quick shower, they found themselves in the bedroom, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting gentle shadows around them. It was easy to slip into the familiar rhythm of their closeness, to let the warmth of Craig’s touch pull him in.

Craig undressed, his movements casual, as if they were both so used to this. It was easy. There was no pretense, no games. Just Craig and Damien, two people who fit together like puzzle pieces.

“Come here,” Craig murmured, voice low, inviting.

Damien took a deep breath, then climbed onto the bed, straddling Craig’s hips. He leaned down, capturing Craig’s lips in a kiss, but even as their mouths met, the taste of Nabokov’s cologne lingered on his tongue. His hand shook as it slid down Craig’s chest, and for a split second, he imagined it was Nabokov beneath him instead, imagined the cold, commanding touch of the Russian billionaire, his hands as possessive as they were intoxicating.

Craig kissed him back, his hands sliding to Damien’s back, pulling him closer. But it wasn’t enough. It couldn’t be. Damien closed his eyes, hoping it would help, but it didn’t. As Craig’s lips moved to his neck, Damien saw Nabokov instead—his piercing gaze, the hunger in his expression, the dangerous pull that Damien could neither resist nor understand.

Craig’s hands moved to his hips, guiding him in a rhythm that should have felt natural. It did, in a way. But the deeper Damien sank into the pleasure his man gave him, the more Damien’s mind betrayed him. He couldn’t stop the images of Nabokov, couldn’t escape the way the billionaire had looked at him, the way his body had ached to be touched by someone so far beyond his reach.

Damien’s breath quickened, and he couldn’t tell if it was Craig’s touch, or the phantom touch of Nabokov that had him so aroused. He felt the pressure building, felt his body responding to the familiar motions, but his mind—his mind was somewhere else entirely.

When Craig pulled him down onto the bed, it was as though his body obeyed instinct, but his mind… his mind was somewhere else. He kissed Craig, felt his lips press against his, warm and familiar, but even as they moved together, Damien couldn’t stop the image of Nabokov from seeping in. It wasn’t overpowering, but it was there, like a shadow just at the edge of his consciousness. He saw the way Nabokov had looked at him, that inscrutable, almost dangerous gaze.

Craig’s touch was steady, familiar, the press of his lips warm as he eased Damien back onto the bed. There was nothing rushed about it—Craig never was. His fingers traced slow, deliberate paths down Damien’s body, unbuttoning his pajama shirt, peeling away the layers between them. Damien let himself sink into the feeling, let Craig’s hands and mouth guide him, his body responding instinctively to the attention. Craig slowly removed his pajama pants, the soft rustle of fabric breaking the quiet between them.

But the moment Damien closed his eyes, another touch invaded his mind. Not Craig’s. Nabokov’s.

The thought came unbidden, an unwelcome intrusion, yet it sent a jolt through him. He tried to focus on Craig—the way his lips moved down his chest, how his hands gripped Damien’s hips, urging him closer—but it wasn’t enough to silence the images creeping into his head. Nabokov’s gaze, dark and unreadable. His lips, inches from his own. The ghost of that kiss against his cheek.

Damien let out a shuddering breath as Craig slid lower, his mouth trailing heat down his stomach before taking him in. His head fell back against the pillow, a soft curse slipping from his lips. It felt good. It always did with Craig. But his body was betraying him, his mind painting over reality, twisting pleasure into something else—someone else.

Nabokov.

The way he looked at him, as if he already knew Damien would crumble. As if he was waiting for it.

Craig’s grip tightened as he moved, his pace quickening, pulling Damien closer to the edge. Damien’s breath hitched, his fingers tangling in Craig’s hair, but when his eyes slipped shut again, it wasn’t Craig between his legs anymore. It was Nabokov’s mouth that was swallowing his cock, slow and teasing, his expression unreadable but knowing.

Craig shifted suddenly, rising over him. Damien barely had time to catch his breath before Craig slicked himself and pressed in.The stretch was immediate, familiar—intimate—but Damien’s mind was still tangled in the fantasy. Craig thrust deep, firm and steady, but it wasn’t Craig’s rhythm he felt. It was Nabokov’s weight, Nabokov’s hips, Nabokov’s breath on his skin. He gripped the sheets, breath ragged, body betraying him. Heat coiled unbearably tight in his stomach, and then—

He came with a sharp gasp, his muscles locking as pleasure ripped through him like a jolt. But as the last waves of it faded, a sick realization settled in his chest.It wasn’t Craig’s name that had been on his tongue. It was Nabokov’s.

He lay there afterward, his body still humming, his breath slowing as Craig crawled back up beside him, pressing a lazy kiss to his shoulder.

“You okay?” Craig murmured, his voice low and sated.

Damien forced a nod, swallowing the dryness in his throat. “Yeah,” he lied.

Craig wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close. The warmth should have been grounding, should have anchored him in the moment. But even as he let Craig hold him, Damien couldn’t shake the feeling that he was somewhere else entirely.

Somewhere darker.

Somewhere he shouldn’t want to be.

Sleep had been elusive, broken by memories of the Russian man’s lips on Damien’s skin and the tangled thoughts they provoked. When he finally drifted off, it wasn’t restful. His dreams bled into the waking guilt that had settled in his chest hours ago.

Nabokov’s lips found his, their tongues tangling in a frenzied, consuming kiss. The intensity surged until Damien was straddling him, pressing closer, devouring his mouth with a raw passion that bordered on reckless. His hands roamed, gripping, tugging, as if compelled by some force beyond him. The air crackled with something dark, something forbidden. It felt inevitable. It felt dangerous.

The dream ended abruptly—just as his fingers reached Nabokov’s belt, as if his subconscious slammed the brakes before crossing an unforgivable line.

Damien woke with a sharp inhale, his body painfully hard, the pulse of arousal undeniable. But it wasn’t just the remnants of a dream fueling it. He knew better. It had started hours ago, buried in the way his body had betrayed him last night.

With Craig.

He exhaled, relief washing over him when he realized the bed was empty—Craig was already up. He dragged a hand over his face, frustration brewing beneath his skin. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not after last night. Not after he had been with Craig, touched him, kissed him, let himself drown in his affection.

And yet, even in the height of pleasure, it hadn’t been Craig’s name on his lips.

The weight of it drove him out of bed, straight to the bathroom, where he turned the faucet and let cold water fill the sink. He splashed his face, as if it could wash away the unwanted thoughts. It didn’t.

Brushing his teeth with unnecessary force, he caught his reflection in the mirror, his jaw tight, his expression unreadable even to himself.

He turned on the shower, stepping in before the water had fully cooled. The icy cascade made him shiver, but he welcomed it. Maybe it would ground him. Maybe it would drown out the heat simmering beneath his skin.

His hand drifted lower, fingers wrapping around his aching cock, moving instinctively, desperately. He tried to think of Craig—the warmth of his skin, the way he touched him, the way he whispered his name in the dark. But nothing came. The images wouldn’t stick.

Instead, there was only Nabokov.

Damien bit his lip, stifling a curse as his strokes quickened. He hated himself for it. Hated the way the Russian man’s face dominated his thoughts, the way his mind twisted and replayed that kiss, that lingering touch.

It shouldn’t feel this good.

His orgasm tore through him, violent and consuming, the remnants of the dream still clinging to him as he braced himself against the tile. But as the pleasure faded, all that remained was guilt—thick and suffocating.

He pressed his forehead against the cool wall, chest heaving, the water rushing over him like a quiet accusation.

Craig had been inside him just hours ago. And now he was here, trembling from the aftershocks of a fantasy that should have never taken root in the first place.

Was this a betrayal?

The question echoed, gnawed at him.

Dreams were uncontrollable, sure. But his thoughts? His choices?

Those were supposed to be his.

And yet, here he was.

Thinking of Nabokov.

Desiring him.

Damien shoved the thought aside, finishing his shower quickly. He dressed without paying much attention, pulling on a pair of Craig's black Adidas jogging pants but skipping a shirt. Just as he was about to leave the room, his phone vibrated on the nightstand. He picked it up to see Eric’s name flashed across the screen—an unusual occurrence, given that Eric rarely called.

“Hey, man,” Damien answered, his voice hoarse.

“Did you just jerk off?” Eric’s bluntness landed with its usual tactless charm.

Damien laughed, tittering nervously. Somehow, Eric always managed to turn his lack of tact into an oddly endearing quality. At least, this meant nothing serious had happened.

“What? No!” Damien protested, grinning. “Why would you say that?”

“You sound like someone who just jerked off.”

Damien chuckled. “I literally just got out of the shower—”

“So, I’m right,” Eric cut him off, triumphant. “Thought so.”

Shaking his head, Damien laughed harder. “Did you really call me just to make this observation?”

“Yeah, new hobby of mine,” Eric replied with mock seriousness.

Despite knowing Eric for over six years, Damien could hardly believe that he had once held down a nine-to-five job at an insurance company. It was impossible to picture his laid-back, carefree friend in such a corporate, buttoned-up environment. Yet it was true—Eric had once been the guy in the suit, the one loitering around the coffee machine, harboring homicidal thoughts about his boss. That life had almost suffocated him, until he decided to abandon it all and become a bartender. He’d returned to his old, light-hearted self after that, the Eric Damien knew so well.

“So, what’s up?” Damien asked, steering the conversation away from his earlier activities.

“I won’t keep busting your balls,” Eric said, “but Julia and Andrea want to do a couples' night tomorrow. Bowling.”

Damien raised an eyebrow. After the disaster of their last couples' night out, he hadn’t expected another one anytime soon. Julia and Dimitri’s latest sex friend had ended with a full-blown altercation, so another get-together so soon was... surprising.

“Bowling, huh?” Damien replied. “I’ll have to check with Craig.”

“We’re counting on you, D. Don’t leave us alone with them.”

Damien smiled at Eric’s plea. “Yeah, I’ll see what I can do.”

After hanging up, Damien headed into the kitchen, drawn by the scent of fresh coffee and something sweet sizzling on the stove. Craig stood at the counter, focused on flipping crepes, his hair slightly tousled from sleep. The sight of him should have been grounding—should have been comforting.

Damien walked up behind him, pressing a kiss to Craig’s neck, murmuring, “Hey, you,” against his skin. Craig turned slightly, flashing him a small smile before returning to the pan.

“Someone slept well.” The comment sent a bolt of unease through Damien, though he kept his expression light.

“What makes you say that?”

“It’s rare for you to sleep past ten.” He forced a grin.

“Maybe it’s because you always wear me out the night before.” The words came easily, but they felt hollow.

Craig smirked, flipping the crepe with practiced ease. “You’re lucky you don’t need sleeping pills.”

Damien let out a soft chuckle, but something in his chest twisted. Lucky. If only Craig knew. If only he knew what had kept Damien in bed so long—what had haunted his sleep and followed him into waking.

The weight of it pressed down on him as he watched Craig move, so familiar, so effortlessly warm. This was supposed to be enough. Craig was everything his last relationship hadn’t been—stable, kind, good. Damien knew this. He felt it in the way Craig had held him last night, the way he had kissed him, touched him, murmured his name with such certainty.

And yet, even then…

Even in the haze of pleasure, Damien’s mind had betrayed him.His stomach turned. He pressed a quick kiss to Craig’s cheek—only for the simple act to trigger a sharp, unwanted memory. Nabokov. The brush of his lips. The heat that had followed.

Guilt crashed into him, heavy and unshakable. He quickly turned away, grabbing his phone to distract himself and sending Dimitri a message about the bowling night. Anything to keep his thoughts from spiraling further.

A few minutes later, Craig brought their breakfast to the table, and they ate in an easy, comfortable silence.

Until Craig suddenly asked, “Are you picking up your car today?”

Damien nearly choked on his coffee. Shit. Nabokov had said he’d deliver the car himself. He scrambled for an answer, forcing a casual shrug. “Uh… yeah, I’m just waiting for them to call me to go pick it up.”

Craig nodded, sipping his apple juice, seemingly satisfied with the response. Damien swallowed down the guilt and hurried to change the subject.

“Oh, by the way, we’re invited to a couples' night tomorrow—bowling.”

Craig raised an eyebrow, chewing thoughtfully. “Hmm. I have a night shift tomorrow, but if we go early, I could make it.”

Damien exhaled, relieved. “Eric will be thrilled. He’s already guilt-tripping me into going.”

Craig chuckled, the moment of tension passing, and the conversation moved on.

* * *

The rest of the day unfolded like a scene from a life Damien should have been content with—grocery shopping, a movie, dinner on a terrace. It was easy, natural. A perfect day.

And for a while, it worked.

For a while, he didn’t think about Nabokov. At least, not until Craig got called in for an unscheduled shift. They walked to the building's exit together, exchanging a goodbye kiss when Damien’s gaze froze.

Nabokov.

Damien’s pulse kicked up, not just from the sight of him but from a sudden, gnawing question—How the hell did he even get in? Craig’s apartment complex had strict security, a gated entrance, a doorman. Yet Nabokov strolled through like he owned the place, like barriers didn’t apply to him. Did he bribe someone? Threaten them? Or worse—did they just let him through without question?

The thought sent a fresh wave of unease through him.

Nabokov stopped just in front of them, his expression impossible to decipher. He was dressed casually—well, as casual as a man like him could be. A crisp white linen shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealed toned forearms, and the top buttons were left undone, just enough to hint at the smooth skin beneath. Paired with tailored dark blue trousers and expensive-looking loafers, he still managed to look effortlessly refined, as if he’d stepped out of a magazine

“Good evening,” Nabokov said smoothly, his eyes flicking briefly to Craig.

Damien swallowed hard, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Hey.”

Damien’s voice cracked like a strangled whisper, leaving him unsure if he’d even been heard. To his surprise, he managed to respond at all. An uneasy silence settled over them, a bizarre tension that felt like they were stuck in a Broadway show where one actor had forgotten their lines. But Damien couldn’t let this icy quiet linger any longer. He had to make the introductions, even if it was the last thing he wanted to do.

“Uh… Craig, this is hum...” He fumbled, unsure how to categorize Nabokov. Who was he supposed to call Nabokov? An acquaintance? A friend? A stranger? A man who haunted his not-so-Catholic dreams?

“He is…the… the CEO of the company that Nicolas works for.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, he glanced at Craig, bracing for his reaction, terrified of the questions that might come. To his relief, Craig remained silent. Damien deliberately avoided specifying Craig’s relation to him; it wasn’t Nabokov’s business, nor was it relevant.

Nabokov and Craig exchanged a strange, tense handshake, while Damien felt like a helpless spectator in slow motion, holding his breath. The exchange felt perfunctory, almost dismissive.Craig’s gaze quickly fell on Damien as if Nabokov had vanished. Just as Damien thought this might be the most awkward moment of his life, a ringtone pierced the air—Nabokov's phone. If he could, he would've kissed that phone in gratitude. Saved by the bell, huh?

“Excuse me,” Nabokov said tiredly, studying his phone screen.

He stepped away slightly to take the call. Craig ignored the wealthy man, and Damien forced himself to do the same. He silently prayed Craig wouldn’t interrogate him about Nabokov's unusual presence. To his relief, Craig broke the silence first.

“Don’t finish the whole bag of chips,” he said humorously.

This light comment should have alleviated the uncomfortable atmosphere, but it didn’t. Damien couldn’t even muster a smile. Though he hadn’t been questioned about Nabokov’s inexplicable presence, he knew it was only a matter of time. At least this gave Damien time to concoct a plausible excuse.

Craig leaned in and planted a quick peck on Damien’s lips, though it felt like an eternity. They exchanged goodbyes, and as soon as Craig disappeared, Damien’s gaze fell to the floor. He wanted to bolt, to avoid whatever confrontation was coming next. The images of his dream from last night flashed back in his mind, and a mix of guilt and frustration twisted in his chest.

Nabokov ended his call and returned, standing too close for comfort. Damien reluctantly lifted his eyes, locking on to the Russian’s hard, cold stare. Great.

“Your boyfriend?” the Russian man asked, gesturing slightly toward the main door where Craig had just exited. Though his tone casual, it carried an underlying sharpness that Damien didn’t miss.

Damien wavered. He swallowed, his heart pounding. How had Nabokov known? He hadn’t even seen them kiss, had he?

“Yes,” Damien answered curtly, watching as Nabokov’s expression darkened slightly. He immediately regretted the answer. The look on Nabokov’s face screamed disapproval—disgust, even.

Damien’s chest burned with anger. It was a look Damien had seen before. Too many times. The kind that told you someone wasn’t quite okay with who you were, no matter how polite or composed they seemed on the surface. The stereotype about Russians being homophobic flashed through his mind, and anger rose in his chest like acid. He tried to tamp it down, but the familiar bitterness gnawed at him. Of course, someone like Nabokov would judge.But then, why the kiss? Why the...?

No, Damien refused to let those thoughts invade his already troubled mind.

“I called you thirty minutes ago,” Nabokov said, smoothly shifting gears as if the moment hadn’t just soured. His voice was calm, controlled—an infuriating contrast to the tension crawling under Damien’s skin.

Damien blinked, caught off guard by the change in topic. “You did?”

He cursed silently. He hadn’t checked his phone since leaving it in Craig’s room.

“I’m sorry I missed your call,” Damien said, scrambling to compose himself. “I spent the whole day outside, and when I got home, it was what, eight o’clock? My phone was dying and…” He trailed off, annoyed at how easily he was rambling. Why the hell am I explaining myself to him?

A faint grin ghosted across Nabokov’s otherwise impassive face, but the dangerous coldness in his eyes remained, leaving Damien feeling small and cornered.

“I didn’t have my phone with me,” Damien added quickly, eager to end the conversation. The more he talked, the more it felt like Nabokov was silently evaluating him, looking for cracks to slip through.

Nabokov’s gaze remained steady on him, their eyes locking in a familiar, uncomfortable game of stare. Silence loomed again. Damien could still feel the weight of that earlier look—the flicker of disgust—and it gnawed at him.

“Your car is fixed,” Nabokov finally said, breaking the silence like a knife through ice.

“Thank you,” Damien replied stiffly, feeling the weight of their staring match growing unbearable.

They held each other’s gaze for a moment, Nabokov’s unreadable eyes seeming to mask a tumult of emotions. How could that be? The longer their eyes remained locked, the harder it became to tell if Nabokov’s coldness was contempt or something else entirely. For a second, Damien convinced himself it was nothing more than casual disapproval—a subtle judgment on his relationship with Craig. That was easier to believe. Safer. If Nabokov was just another homophobic asshole, it made things simpler. It gave Damien a reason to ignore the way his pulse quickened whenever the Russian man came too close, a way to dismiss the pull between them as an illusion.

And yet… there was the kiss on the cheek. It haunted him, no matter how much he tried to dismiss it. Who does that if they’re disgusted? But clinging to that moment—acknowledging what it could mean—was too dangerous. Far easier to believe the kiss was part of some twisted game.

Nabokov studied him for a long, quiet moment before saying, “Goodnight, Damien.”His voice was soft now, disarmingly smooth. He turned to leave.

Damien felt a surge of irritation—why was he letting Nabokov make him feel like this? He shouldn’t care what the man thought. He clenched his jaw. He had no reason to care about this man’s approval. And yet here he was, trying to make sense of the contradictions swirling between them.

“Wait,” Damien blurted out before he could stop himself.

Nabokov stopped, turning slowly. His expression was unreadable once more, but the weight of his gaze pinned Damien to the spot.

“How much do I owe you?” Damien asked, his voice strained as he clung desperately to something—anything—that would put distance between them.

Nabokov’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t insult me, Damien.”

“I’m not insulting you,” Damien snapped, the frustration bubbling to the surface. “I just don’t like owing things to strangers.”

Nabokov took a step closer, his gaze unwavering. “So, I’m just a stranger to you?”

Damien clenched his jaw, throat tightened. Yes. You need to be a stranger. Because if you’re not, I don’t know how to resist this.

“Yes,” Damien replied, forcing the word out. “Just like I am to you.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of Nabokov’s mouth, and he leaned in, invading Damien’s space with a deliberate slowness. “Then let’s get better acquainted,” he murmured, the heat of his breath ghosting over Damien’s skin.

Damien scoffed, trying to mask his unease. “I have no interest in knowing you.”

Nabokov’s smirk widened, the glimmer of amusement in his gray eyes almost cruel. “Then stop looking at me the way you do.”

Damien’s stomach flipped, though he refused to break eye contact. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Nabokov’s smirk widened. “Every time we meet, you stare at me like you’re trying to figure me out. Why is that?”

Because I need to believe you’re homophobic, Damien thought bitterly. If you’re not—if this tension between us is real—then what the hell does that make me ? Damien stayed silent, not daring to admit the truth—to himself, let alone Nabokov. He held Nabokov’s gaze, his breath hitching. There was no safety in the truth. The only way to resist Nabokov was to convince himself there was nothing real between them.

“How much do I owe you?” Damien demanded again, sharper this time, clinging to the transactional nature of the conversation like a lifeline.

Nabokov paused, his expression unreadable again. “Consider it a gift.”

Damien gritted his teeth and shook his head, unwilling to let it slide. “I don’t want any gifts from you.”

Nabokov’s smirk deepened. “Since you insist…have dinner with me tomorrow night.”

Damien blinked, stunned. Of course. Another twist in this maddening game. The words hit it like a punch. He couldn’t help but laugh nervously. “What?”

“Dinner,” Nabokov repeated smoothly. “Tomorrow night.”

There was no hesitation or doubt in his tone. Damien stared at him, trying to process the unexpected proposition, while a thousand thoughts scrambled through his head.

What the hell was this man’s game? One moment, Nabokov seemed homophobic, judging Damien for his relationship with Craig, and the next, he was asking him out to dinner. Damien couldn’t wrap his head around it. The tension between them was undeniable, and now this strange offer was adding a new layer to the confusing dynamic.

“Why?” Damien blurted out before he could stop himself. His voice carried a mix of incredulity and wariness. What the hell are you playing at?

Nabokov’s lips curled into a slight smile, though it didn't reach his eyes. “Why not?” Nabokov’s reply was smooth, effortless—as if his invitation wasn’t the most confusing thing in the world. He stepped closer to Damien, his gaze never wavering.

Damien’s heart pounded in his chest. He could feel the heat rising to his face as Nabokov’s presence loomed over him, making it hard to think straight. Everything about this man unsettled him, made him question what was real and what wasn’t. The man was a walking contradiction. Disgust one moment, an invitation the next.

“This... this is just weird,” Damien muttered, trying to regain control of the situation. “I don’t even know you.”

Nabokov raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “But I think you’d like to,” he said softly, his words wrapping around Damien like a challenge.

Damien clenched his jaw, the conflicting emotions surging inside him. He wanted to push Nabokov away, to reject his offer, yet a part of him—a darker, more curious part—was tempted. He hated the way this man seemed to effortlessly get under his skin, making him feel things he didn’t want to feel.

“How is eating with you considered paying you?” Damien asked dryly.

“Being in your company. That's the value,” Nabokov replied soothingly, his expression remaining nonetheless impassive.

Damien's hardened features relaxed instantly. His proud and haughty look abandoned him.

“I already have plans,” Damien said, his voice firm. He needed to shut this down, to distance himself from whatever this was.

“Alright then. When you're done, come by my office. I'll wait for you.”

Nabokov's answer did not surprise Damien. Nabokov gave the impression that when he wanted something, he undertook absolutely everything to obtain it. There weren't any nos with him, nor maybes.

“It…it might take the whole night and—”

“Even better, I'll have more time to get some paperwork done,” Nabokov reassured Damien.

Damien didn't know what to say. He had the feeling of being a newbie lawyer arguing in court against a senior fellow with over twenty years of experience under their belt. He was clearly not of the same caliber as Nabokov. No doubt the man was a cold-hearted, ruthless businessman.

“I…”

Damien’s mind raced, caught between the thrill of attraction and the fear of misinterpretation. A part of him wanted to resist, to remind himself of Craig and the life he’d built. But another part, the part that thrummed with desire and curiosity, whispered for him to say yes.

“Alright, fine,” he relented, his voice barely above a whisper.

Nabokov’s smile widened, a glimmer of triumph dancing in his eyes. “Text me at least an hour before, so I have time to make sure everything is set.”

Damien could only stare at the man standing at ease before him. Any excuse to obstinately refuse this dinner invitation evaporated. Damien admitted defeat. He had dug his own grave the moment he had refused out of pride when the “gift” was offered.

“Goodnight, Damien.”

“Goodnight,” Damien replied, feeling a mix of dread and excitement. As Nabokov turned to leave, Damien couldn’t shake the feeling that his life was about to change in ways he couldn't yet understand.

“Thanks again for bringing my car back and for getting it fixed,” Damien blurted, an awkward ghost smile playing on his lips, trying to mask the tension thrumming between them.

After a moment of silence, Nabokov’s intense gaze lingered on him, studying him with an unsettling intensity.“Of course,” Nabokov replied smoothly, a glimmer of something unreadable in his eyes. “I figured you’d prefer to have it tonight rather than waiting.”

Damien nodded, his mind racing back to the kiss on the cheek. It left a burn on his skin, one he couldn't ignore, no matter how hard he tried.“You didn’t have to go out of your way, really.”

“It's no trouble.” Nabokov leaned in slightly, his voice low and enticing. “What’s important is that you’re safe.”

Damien swallowed hard, the warmth of Nabokov’s words wrapping around him like a thick fog.“I appreciate that,” he replied, struggling to maintain eye contact.

Nabokov shifted, his gaze softening. “See you tomorrow.”

Nabokov began walking towards the door when he turned slightly to Damien. He regarded him with a particularly piercing stare.“By the way, you two form a beautiful couple,” he commented, his tone bizarrely tinged with threat.

He stood there for three short seconds, watching Damien with that intense look. Then he turned and strode out, leaving Damien rooted in place, grappling with the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside him.

“What just happened?” he muttered to himself, feeling a confusing mixture of anxiety and exhilaration wash over him.

As he returned inside Craig’s apartment, he wondered what new game Nabokov was playing and what his dinner invitation really meant for them both. Damien felt a spark of excitement but also a sharp edge of caution. The kiss on the cheek played in his mind again, and he couldn’t help but question Nabokov’s motives. This was exactly why he needed to believe Nabokov was homophobic. It gave him an anchor—a way to reject the dangerous pull between them. If he could convince himself that Nabokov's interest was just another form of manipulation, then Damien could resist. At least, that’s what he told himself.

Being in your company. That's the value.

These words prevented Damien from easily finding sleep.