His Secret Addiction

Chapter Eighteen

Alex's POV

We made it home by five. Damien set the books on the coffee table and stood in the kitchen looking at the farmer's market bag like it had personally challenged him.

"I don't actually cook," he said.

"I know. I've seen your refrigerator." I pulled out the sourdough and the hot honey and the herbs we'd bought without a plan. "But you can follow instructions."

"I run a billion dollar company."

"Then chopping herbs should be manageable." I handed him a knife. "Small pieces."

He looked at the knife. Then at the herbs. Then he started chopping with the focused intensity he brought to quarterly reviews, and I had to turn away so he wouldn't see me smile.

I made it simple. Pasta, olive oil, garlic, the herbs, a soft cheese we'd picked up without intending to. Nothing complicated. Damien followed every instruction without complaint, which was either a sign of personal growth or proof that he was hungry enough not to argue.

"This is the most domestic thing I've done in years," he said, stirring something I'd handed him.

"How does it feel?"

He considered it genuinely. "Quieter than I expected."

"Good quiet or bad quiet?"

"Good." He glanced at me. "Surprisingly good."

We ate at the kitchen counter because the dining table had documents on it that neither of us wanted to move. The food was simple and warm and we ate most of it without talking, which didn't feel uncomfortable the way silences used to between us.

Damien ate everything on his plate. Then looked at the pan.

"There's more," I said.

He served himself more, which felt like a small victory I couldn't explain.

******************

After dinner he opened the novel I'd bought him. I took the architecture book and settled at the other end of the couch. His feet were near my legs. Mine were tucked under a cushion. The lamp made everything warm and low.

I read four pages before I looked up and found him already absorbed, the book held in both hands, completely still in the way he got when something had his full attention.

"Good?" I asked.

"Shut up, I'm reading."

I went back to my book.

An hour passed like that. Just the two of us and the city outside and the quiet between pages. At some point his feet ended up in my lap and I didn't remember either of us moving to make that happen.

Around eight he set the book face down on his chest. "The main character is making terrible decisions."

"Everyone in that book makes terrible decisions. That's the point."

"He knows the other man is lying and he keeps giving him more access. It's not romantic, it's a liability."

"It's about choosing someone even when it's risky," I said. "Which you would know something about."

He looked at me. "Are you comparing us to a novel where someone gets shot in chapter six?"

"No one gets shot in chapter six."

"I'm on chapter six."

I laughed. Actually laughed, the kind that comes out before you can decide whether to let it. He watched me with the expression he reserved for moments he thought I wasn't paying attention. Like he was storing it somewhere.

"What?" I said.

"Nothing." He picked the book back up. "You should laugh more."

"You should give me more reasons to."

He turned a page. "Working on it."

By nine we'd migrated from the couch without discussion. He'd put on something low and instrumental that drifted through the apartment. I was leaning against the window watching the city lights when he came and stood behind me, hands on my shoulders, chin near my temple.

We stayed like that for a while. No agenda. No next thing to prepare for.

"Trevor called this morning," Damien said.

I went still. Trevor Haines. The ex who'd sold their story to the press three years ago. The one who'd shown up recently claiming he'd changed.

"What did he want?"

"Closure, apparently. He's getting married. Someone he met last year." Damien's hands stayed relaxed on my shoulders. "He wanted to apologize properly before he moved on."

"Did he?"

"He tried. It was adequate." He paused. "I didn't feel anything. That's what I wanted to tell you. I thought I'd feel something, anger or relief or something worth noting. But mostly I just wanted to get off the phone and come back to whatever you were doing."

I turned around. He was close, the city lights behind me cutting across his face.

"And what was I doing?" I asked.

"Reading. Probably annotating something in the margins even though it's not your book."

"It is my book. I bought it."

"You bought it for me."

"Possession is situational." I held his gaze. "Are you okay? About Trevor."

"Yes." He said it without hesitation. "That's the thing. I genuinely am." He looked almost puzzled by it. "Six months ago his name put me on edge. Now he's just someone I used to know who hurt me and learned better. It doesn't take up space anymore."

"Because you've replaced it with something else."

"Because I've replaced it with something real." He said it plainly, with no performance behind it. Just a fact. "You're real, Alex. What we're doing here is real. Trevor was always at a distance. Even when we were together."

I understood that. I'd kept people at a distance my whole adult life and called it independence.

"No distances," I said.

"No distances."

He kissed me slowly, unhurried, the way we rarely got to be during weeks that ran on crisis and adrenaline. Just this. Just him and me and the city going about its business outside.

When we pulled apart he rested his forehead against mine.

"Good day," he said.

"You stole my line."

"You stole my book. We're even."