Chapter 71 Chapter 71

Chapter 71 Chapter 71
Tito’s POV

I paused halfway between my desk and the door, squinting at the faint silhouette behind it.

The hallway light cast a soft glow under the frame, but it wasn’t bright enough for me to make out anything except the shape of someone standing very, very still. My heartbeat rose to my throat. I tightened my hold on the edge of my study table and forced my voice to stay steady.

“Who’s there?”

There was a strange pause—too long, too deliberate—and I felt the air shift around me. Then a low voice filtered through, calm and completely unbothered.

“It’s me.”

Damien.

My entire body went rigid. It wasn’t fear exactly—just that natural tension that always wrapped around me whenever I remembered my first encounter with him. He could be unpredictable, a little too wild around the edges, carrying a kind of chaos that made me instinctively stay alert. I swallowed, trying to wet my suddenly dry throat.

“What… what do you want?”

Another pause, shorter this time.

“Relax,” he said, with a tone that felt like a shrug. “I just wanted to talk.”

Talk. With me. At this hour.

I hesitated, staring at the door like I expected it to swing open by force. But it didn’t. Damien just waited.

After everything that had happened—after the screaming, the desperation, the gun pressed to my throat, the blood, the shock—it felt strange to be scared of a knock on my door. But trauma had its own logic, and right now my nerves were living in a different timeline.

Still, I finally inhaled, exhaled, and stepped forward. My hand shook a little as I turned the knob and carefully opened the door.

Damien stood there wearing what could only be described as a male version of sleepwear—loose black pants tied at the waist and a soft-looking long-sleeved top that made his shoulders look broader than necessary. His hair was messy, falling into his eyes like he’d just dragged a hand through it. And surprisingly, he looked… relaxed. Softer around the face. Less sharp. Almost human.

He raised a brow when he saw me peeking at him like he might explode.

“You look like you’re about to hit me with something,” he said.

“You startled me,” I muttered, stepping back so he could enter.

He walked inside with the casual confidence of someone who had no idea how intimidating he could look, or maybe he did and simply didn’t care. Then he pulled out his phone, tapped the screen twice, and held it out toward me.

“Put your number.”

I blinked at him, slowly, deliberately. “What?”

“My phone,” he repeated, shaking it once. “Your number. Put it in.”

I stared at him because… what? That was not the usual sequence for normal human interaction. “Damien, what kind of weird flirting tactic is this? Because if this is supposed to be ‘mysterious bad-boy energy,’ it’s giving threat.”

He barked out a laugh, loud and amused. “Relax. I’m not flirting with you.” His grin sharpened at the edges. “If you don’t put it in, I won’t shoot you.”

I narrowed my eyes. “That isn’t funny.”

“It’s a little funny.”

“No, it’s not. Don’t joke about that.”

He raised both hands in surrender, the grin still tugging at his mouth. “Fine. My bad. But seriously—put the number.”

“Why?”

“Because you clearly get into trouble,” he said simply. “And Kendrick is a control freak. He won’t give you my number. And he’s not always around. So if anything happens, you call me. Simple.”

I should’ve jumped to suspicion. I should’ve asked why he cared. But standing here, with exhaustion sitting heavily in my bones and my head still echoing with yesterday’s images, I felt something else instead—sense. Practicality. Backup.

He was right, and I hated that he was right, but still.

“Okay,” I muttered, and typed in my number. “There.”

He took the phone back, glanced at the screen, then nodded in approval.

Then, out of nowhere, he stood up too fast.

I jumped and staggered backward, my heart slamming against my ribs. The reaction was instant and humiliating—fear firing before logic could keep up.

Damien froze. Then he blinked once.

“Damn,” he breathed. “That scared you?”

I didn’t answer. My throat wouldn’t let me.

He softened, not a lot, but enough for me to notice—then reached out and gently patted the top of my head like I was some startled cat.

“You’re fine,” he murmured. “I wasn’t trying to do anything. Relax.”

I let out a shaky exhale, and he dropped his hand, stepping back to give me space.

“Anyway,” he continued, as if the entire world hadn’t tilted sideways for a second, “since I’m here, you might as well talk to me. I don’t think you’ve said more than two sentences to me without panicking.”

I scoffed. “I don’t panic.”

“You literally recoiled like someone threw cold water at you.”

“That’s not panic.”

“That’s panic,” he said, then sat casually on the foot of my bed. “So. Nice place.”

I stared at him. “Is this you starting a conversation?”

“Yes. You’re welcome.”

Despite myself, a laugh slipped out. It surprised both of us.

He leaned back, resting his palms behind him. “So what do you do in here? Read? Draw? Stare at the ceiling dramatically?”

“Excuse you,” I said, sitting on the chair by my desk. “I have hobbies.”

“Like?”

I shrugged. “Music. Writing sometimes. Cleaning when I’m stressed.”

“So you cleaned the hell out of this place today, I assume.”

“I nearly polished the window frames.”

He chuckled, and I found myself easing into a comfortable rhythm—something I didn’t expect with him. We talked about small things at first—school, Kendrick’s controlling tendencies, the ridiculous things he and Kendrick used to do as kids, and how chaotic the south district used to be. Then, like conversations tend to do when it’s late and quiet and there’s no pressure to perform, it drifted deeper.

He told me about his life before moving back in with Kendrick. The fights he got into, the terrible tattoo he tried to give himself when he was sixteen, the girl who tried to rob him on a date, the time he broke his arm climbing a balcony for absolutely no reason which he still insists was “strategic.”

I laughed way more than I expected. And slowly, the tightness in my chest eased. The room didn’t feel so heavy anymore. The shadows didn’t look so threatening. My body didn’t feel like it was preparing to run.

At some point, I sighed without realizing it, and Damien’s gaze shifted to me, softer than anything I’d seen from him before.

“You know, handling so much in such little time tires you out,” he said.

“I am,” I whispered. “It’s been… a lot.”

“Yeah.” His eyes lingered on me a moment longer. Not in a creepy way—just… thoughtful. “You handled it better than most people could.”

I swallowed. “I don’t feel like I handled anything.”

“You’re alive,” he said simply. “That counts.”

We fell into silence after that, a comfortable one. The kind that felt like wrapping a blanket around your shoulders after being cold for too long.

My eyelids grew heavy, the words blurring a little. Damien noticed immediately.

“Alright,” he murmured, standing up more slowly this time so I wouldn’t jump again. “Go to sleep before you pass out mid-sentence.”

I smiled, small and tired. “Goodnight.”

He paused at the doorway. Then looked at me with an expression so unexpectedly gentle it made something warm unfurl inside my chest.

“Goodnight, Tito.”

And then he was gone, leaving the warm feeling behind—steady, comforting, and confusing as hell.
.