Page 19 of Mutual Desire

Specifically, to him.

Nabokov’s intense gaze lingered in Damien’s mind, replaying like a scene on a loop. The way his gray eyes had locked on him, so piercing yet unreadable. The subtle curve of his lips when he’d spoken, almost as though he’d found some private amusement in Damien’s discomfort. And that voice—calm, measure, and laced with an unshakable confidence.

What the hell am I supposed to do about him? Damien thought, stabbing a piece of shrimp with his fork.

Apologizing seemed like the logical next step, but the thought of returning to the lounge, weaving through the crowd, and standing face-to-face with Nabokov again made his stomach churn. What if the man dismissed him? Worse, what if he didn’t?

He exhaled sharply, trying to shake off the unease. “Just do it,” he muttered under his breath. “Get it over with.”

But he stayed where he was, leaning against the window, his gaze unfocused as he tried to steel himself for the conversation. The food on his plate remained mostly untouched, his appetite nonexistent.

After a few more minutes of internal debate, Damien straightened up. “Alright,” he whispered to himself, setting the plate down on a nearby counter. “Bathroom first. Then I’ll go back and talk to him.”

The bathroom was easy enough to find. Damien splashed cold water on his face, staring at his reflection in the mirror. His green eyes stared back, wide and slightly restless. He took a deep breath, brushing his damp hands through his hair to calm himself.

Steeling himself, he left the bathroom and retraced his steps back to the lounge. But as he scanned the room, his stomach tightened. Nabokov was nowhere to be seen. He wasn’t at the spot where Damien had last seen him.

Damien’s jaw clenched. He’d taken too long. He wasn’t sure if he felt disappointed or relieved. Either way, the moment had passed.

Exhaling sharply, he turned on his heel and headed for Nick’s office instead. He pulled up Nick’s message with the office number, but as he walked, his confidence wavered again. The building was a maze, and each turn only seemed to lead to more unfamiliar hallways.

“Where the hell is it?” he muttered under his breath, scanning the frosted glass doors for a sign of Nick’s name.

He turned another corner, his thoughts still preoccupied with the apology he never got to give. And then, out of nowhere, he collided with someone.

“Sorry, I—” Damien started, looking up, and his breath caught.

Nabokov stood before him, his tall frame blocking the hallway. His expression was as unreadable as ever, but those gray eyes burned with an intensity that made Damien’s heart stumble.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. And shit.

EIGHT

The Apology

Damien had officially given up trying to salvage his day. At this point, it felt like he was trapped in some cliché horror movie, where he’d unknowingly picked up a cursed object at a garage sale. Except, instead of ghosts or ghouls, his curse came in the form of Nabokov. Twice now, he’d been forced into awkward, tension-filled encounters with the man, and it was beginning to feel less like coincidence and more like some cosmic joke.

Standing before him again, Damien was sharply aware of the oppressive silence that hung between them. Nabokov’s presence was inescapable, his gaze burning holes into Damien as though sizing him up for something far more significant than mere small talk. The man’s expression was unreadable, his face carved in a perfect mask of indifference, but the weight of his gaze alone made Damien’s skin prickle. It felt like being pinned down, held hostage by those calculating, storm-gray eyes. Damien's heart hammered in his chest, and no amount of willing it to slow helped. Not with Nabokov standing so close.

Damien forced his gaze to remain neutral, his face an impassive mask despite the crackling tension surging between them.He could feel the gravity between them, the inevitable pull into each other’s orbit—and it made his skin crawl with frustration. When had he become so attuned to this man? Damien hated it—hated how easily Nabokov could unsettle him, throw him off balance with nothing more than a look.

The silence stretched on, taut and almost unbearable, until Nabokov's voice sliced through it. His tone was low, composed, but there was something cutting beneath the calm.

“Should I expect this to become a habit?”

Damien nearly flinched at the smoothness of Nabokov’s voice, the words spoken with a detachment that made his irritation rise. The man hadn’t moved an inch, still rooted in place like a marble statue, and yet somehow his presence was the loudest thing in the hallway. Nabokov’s stillness only amplified the intensity of the moment, as if he had all the time in the world to study him, dissecting him piece by piece with those unyielding eyes.

“I might start taking it personally,” Nabokov added, his lips barely twitching into what might have been the ghost of a smile—if smiles even existed in his repertoire. Damien wasn’t sure.

Annoyance flared in Damien’s chest, and before he could stop himself, he snapped, “From the look of it, it seems like this happens to you a lot.”

Damn it. Why couldn’t he just keep his mouth shut? His brain had been screaming for him to maintain some semblance of politeness, to apologize and make amends for Nick’s sake. But something about Nabokov brought out a side of Damien he didn’t recognize—a side that craved confrontation.

Nabokov's brow lifted, a methodicalreaction that only made Damien's pulse race faster. “Oh? And what made you come to this conclusion?”

Damien’s breath hitched, feeling the silent demand in Nabokov’s words. His instinct told him to back down, to steer the conversation into safer waters, but no. He couldn’t stop himself. He didn’t want to. There was an odd thrill in challenging Nabokov, in testing the limits of this unreadable man’s patience.

“You always carry spare shirts, I assume,” Damien replied with a smirk, nodding at Nabokov’s now-pristine white shirt.

---