Roommates With Benefits [BL]

When I finally got back to Preston Hall, I realized I had walked all the way from the park without calling or texting Damien, or doing anything else a typical person might do while carrying an envelope full of photos that could wreck whatever fragile peace remained in his relationship.

Instead, I spent the whole walk in a battle with myself.

One part of me was convinced I should tell him right away because he deserved the truth.

The other part? It suggested I could just toss the envelope into the nearest river and pretend the evening had all been a crazy dream brought on by exhaustion, being surrounded by drunk people, and way too much caffeine.

But since I lived in a university town, where rivers seemed less common than emotional baggage, that idea was off the table pretty quickly. The sidewalks were still damp from an earlier drizzle, and every streetlight I passed felt like it was judging me for the evidence tucked under my arm. I kept shifting the envelope from one side to the other, as if changing its position might somehow change what was inside it.

I climbed the stairs to our floor, the envelope clutched tightly under my arm, pausing outside our door for a moment to collect my thoughts before I turned the key. The hallway smelled faintly of someone’s late-night instant noodles and the cheap air freshener the RA insisted on using. My pulse was doing an energetic little drum solo against my ribs.

I noticed a light shining from under the door, Damien was still awake.

Of course he was.

He could probably feel my presence from three buildings away.

I unlocked the door and stepped inside.

”You’re late,” he said from the living room.

I closed the door behind me and turned around. The soft click of the latch sounded louder than it should have.

There was Damien, lounging on the couch, one ankle resting over the other knee, his phone casually held in one hand.

He had changed into a dark shirt and comfy pants, and his hair was tousled in that way that somehow made him look even better, rather than like someone who’d just been waiting all night for me to come home. The lamp on the side table cast a warm glow across the sharp line of his jaw, and for half a second I almost forgot why my stomach was in knots.

His eyes met mine, then narrowed. ”What did Melanie have to say to you?”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. My brain helpfully supplied a series of unhelpful options ranging from ”funny story” to ”we might need a lawyer.”

Damien stood up, and the relaxed look vanished from his face as he took in my tired eyes, the tension in my shoulders, and probably the fact that I looked like I’d just come from a meeting with the devil, without even asking for a receipt. The shift was instantaneous—one moment he was the picture of casual domesticity, the next he looked ready to dismantle whatever had put that expression on my face.

His gaze dropped to the envelope under my arm.

”What is that?”

I walked further into the apartment and set the envelope on the coffee table, the action feeling way more serious than the object probably warranted. The wood was cool under my fingertips. I straightened slowly, as if sudden movements might set the whole situation off like a poorly timed firework.

It landed with a soft thud.

Not that it felt harmless.

Nothing about it felt harmless. The silence that followed was thick enough to chew on.

Damien stared at it for a few tense seconds before looking back at me.

”Oliver.”

”I need you to see these.”

His expression shifted at something in my tone. Whatever calm he’d been holding onto thinned out like ice under warm water.

He walked toward the table slowly. Each step was measured, deliberate, the way he moved when he was already calculating ten different outcomes at once.

I opened the envelope, letting the first photograph slide onto the table. The glossy surface caught the lamplight and threw it back at us like an accusation.

Damien froze as his eyes scanned the image. Then came another photograph...then another, his face became completely blank.

That was how Damien looked when he was about to explode with anger.

Not loud or animated, but cold. The kind of cold that made the air in the room feel thinner.

His fingers curled into fists at his sides, but then he forced himself to relax them, the tension evident in the tendons of his forearms. I watched the careful control settle over him like a second skin.

”Where did you get these ones now?”

”Melanie.”

His eyes snapped back to mine. ”What?”

”She gave them to me.”

”Why? How did she get them?”

”Because she was involved in this whole shit.” I replied. The words tasted bitter on the way out.

The silence stretched so long I could hear the refrigerator humming faintly from the kitchen, Damien looked back at the photographs. His breathing had gone shallow and even, which somehow felt worse than if he’d started yelling.

”Explain.”

I ran a hand through my hair. ”She helped Jeremy.” The name landed between us like a dropped plate.

His body went completely still.

”Jeremy.”

”Yeah.”

I let out a weak laugh. It came out more like a cough.

”Looks like my tutoring sessions were more effective than I realized.”

Damien didn’t laugh, not even close...I sighed. ”Sorry. Bad joke.” My attempt at levity died a quiet, undignified death in the middle of the living room.

His focus remained on the photographs. ”What did she do?”

”She basically followed us around and told him where we’d be.” Every word felt heavier than the last.

His jaw clenched again. ”How much?”

”I don’t know.”

”Oliver.”

”I really don’t know, Damien.” My frustration made my voice crack. ”She said Jeremy came to her first. He knew about me, knew that Melanie and dated a little. He started asking about us, where we went, if we were together now, where we spent our time.” The details tumbled out in a rush, like I’d been holding them behind my teeth the entire walk home.

Damien’s eyes slowly lifted. ”And she answered him.”

”Why?”

I looked down. ”Because she wanted me back.” The admission sat there, ugly and simple.

Something dark flickered across Damien’s face. ”She thought you’d leave me.” The words were quiet, but they carried an edge that could have cut glass.

Damien’s gaze moved back to the photographs, and I could see the muscles in his jaw tighten. ”How long?”

”Several weeks.”

His eyes squeezed shut for a moment, he turned away from the table and walked toward the window, staring at nothing in particular, his reflection faint against the dark glass. The city lights beyond the pane looked distant and unconcerned.

His shoulders were tense...I recognized that posture.

I’d seen it before.

It was the same stance he took when talking about his parents, when he stood in front of them with a calmness that felt way more dangerous than if he’d been shouting.

But this time, there was no sadness. Just fury...cold, focused fury. It rolled off him in quiet waves.

”I let him into my life,” I said softly, Damien turned to face me. ”And I tutored him.” Guilt was a persistent little parasite, and right then it was having a field day.

”That’s not your fault.”

”I should’ve seen it coming.”

”You had no reason to suspect him.”

”Still, I should have been aware.”

”Oliver.”

”I spent hours with him.”

My voice grew heavier as I continued.

”I answered his questions, helped him with his assignments. I let him joke with me. I thought he was just some annoying fellow student who couldn’t pass a class without my help.”

Each memory felt like another small betrayal stacked on top of the last.