Chapter 64 When Proximity Turns Dangerous
Damian's POV
Racheal's suitcase looked too small to hold all the fear she was carrying.
She stood at the edge of my living room that evening, fingers knotted in front of her, eyes darting around like she expected Lucas to burst out from behind one of the couches with another bomb.
"Are you sure I'm not imposing?" she asked softly.
"You're not," I said, dropping my keys into the bowl by the door. "You're safe here. That's all that matters."
She exhaled shakily, the tension in her shoulders easing a little. I could still see the way her hands trembled-after almost blowing up in my car earlier that week, anyone would tremble. But Racheal wasn't just anyone. She'd always been composed, mature, grounded. Seeing her like this made something protective coil inside me.
"Besides," I added, giving her a faint smile, "Elena's apartment is just upstairs. If anything goes wrong, there's backup."
Racheal's mouth twitched. "You mean if she stops hating me long enough to help?"
I smirked. "She doesn't hate you."
But she did. Elena hated the sight of Racheal. And now, with Lucas' jealousy firing missiles in every direction, the whole situation had turned into a chaotic triangle I had zero time to manage.
I motioned toward the hallway. "Come on. Let me show you the guest room."
She followed me inside, the soft sound of her slippers brushing the floor. When I pushed open the door, she stepped past me-and immediately wrinkled her nose.
"This bed is too soft."
"You haven't even tried it."
"I don't need to," she said. "I can already feel my back complaining."
I crossed my arms. "Are you ever satisfied with anything?"
She shot me a sideways look. "You used to like that about me. You called it 'precision'."
"I called it 'stress,'" I corrected.
A tiny smile lifted her lips. Something warm flickered in my chest.
She placed her suitcase down and sat on the edge of the bed. "I'll try to adjust."
"We'll survive," I said.
Every time Racheal laughed too loudly. Every time she left my apartment, hair messy, lips swollen. Every time she heard footsteps, whispers, movement from below her.
She'd stomp around her apartment so aggressively I could hear the vibrations through my ceiling. Sometimes she slammed doors. Once, she dragged furniture at midnight purely out of spite.
Racheal loved it.
"She's going to break her own tiles if she keeps doing that," I muttered one evening as Racheal leaned over the kitchen counter, scrolling through her phone.
She grinned. "Good. Let her channel her jealousy into something productive."
"She's not jealous."
Racheal snorted. "Damian. Please."
I ignored her. "Finish your tea. We're leaving for work early tomorrow."
"Yes, boss."
But then she stood on her toes and kissed me on the cheek.
I didn't flinch this time.
That was the beginning of the end.
The night everything exploded, I had just stepped out of the shower when Racheal entered my room without knocking-again.
"Do you ever-" I started, then stopped.
She was wearing one of my shirts. Only my shirt. And the top three buttons were undone.
"You were saying?" she asked innocently.
"Racheal..."
She crossed the room slowly, like she owned the space. Like she owned me.
"I can go back to the cold, uncomfortable guest room," she said softly, "or I can stay here, where I don't have nightmares."
My jaw clenched.
She touched my chest lightly, fingers tracing a slow line downward. "You choose."
I didn't choose.
My body did.
One second I was breathing; the next I was kissing her like she was oxygen. She tugged me closer, fingers sliding into my hair, lips warm, desperate, familiar. Clothing fell. Restraint vanished. And soon-
The bed frame hit the wall.
Hard.
Repeatedly.
Racheal gasped my name, nails digging into my shoulders. I buried my face in her neck, trying to muffle the sounds she made-but she wasn't helping. She was loud. Deliberately loud.
Especially when she screamed my name.
Upstairs, something slammed.
Elena.
And Racheal only arched back and got louder.
When we finally collapsed, breathless and tangled in sheets, she laughed softly against my chest.
"She heard that."
"Yes," I said hoarsely.
"Good."
By the next morning, Elena couldn't even look at me when I passed her on the stairs.
Racheal, however?
She smiled sweetly and waved.
This was going to be chaos.
And God help me-
I wasn't sure I wanted it to stop.
Racheal moved through my apartment like she'd always belonged there. Not in a clingy way - in that quiet, confident way she had, where she never asked for permission, just... slipped into your space and made it feel warmer.
She'd only been here two days, but her mug was already beside mine on the kitchen rack. Her travel bag sat half-unzipped near my shelf, spilling out books, perfumes, and the exact hoodie she kept "forgetting" to return since last year.
"This place didn't have enough life in it," she teased, pushing a stray plant pot into alignment. "Now it does."
I snorted. "Is that your poetic way of calling my apartment boring?"
"Not boring," she said, glancing over her shoulder with a smirk. "Just... very unmarried man vibes."
I tossed a small pillow at her. She dodged it easily, laughing - that same laugh that used to get me in trouble whenever we stayed late together at HQ. Familiar. Warm. A little dangerous.
We'd always been like this - close enough to be obvious, but never crossing into labels. Work made things messy. The transfer made timing messier. But the spark? That never died.
When I walked past her to grab my keys, she hooked her finger in my shirt, stopping me.
"You didn't think I'd just sleep here quietly and behave like a polite guest, right?" she asked.
"That's... exactly what I thought you'd do," I lied.
She stepped closer, eyes glinting. "Damian. You know better."
And I did.
Because when she leaned in and brushed a soft kiss against my jaw - light, familiar, intentional - my entire body froze the way it always used to around her.
Not shocked.
Remembering.
"We used to be good at this," she whispered.
"We still are."
She smiled - slow, satisfied, knowing. "Then prove it."
Her hand slipped into mine as she led me toward the bedroom, and it wasn't new, or rushed, or confusing. It was two people picking up something they never really put down.
Upstairs, the ceiling creaked - Elena's footsteps pausing. Listening.
Good.
Maybe she needed to hear everything she threw away.