Page 43 of Mutual Desire

Damien could only stare at the man standing at ease before him. Any excuse to obstinately refuse this dinner invitation evaporated. Damien admitted defeat. He had dug his own grave the moment he had refused out of pride when the “gift” was offered.

“Goodnight, Damien.”

“Goodnight,” Damien replied, feeling a mix of dread and excitement. As Nabokov turned to leave, Damien couldn’t shake the feeling that his life was about to change in ways he couldn't yet understand.

“Thanks again for bringing my car back and for getting it fixed,” Damien blurted, an awkward ghost smile playing on his lips, trying to mask the tension thrumming between them.

After a moment of silence, Nabokov’s intense gaze lingered on him, studying him with an unsettling intensity.“Of course,” Nabokov replied smoothly, a glimmer of something unreadable in his eyes. “I figured you’d prefer to have it tonight rather than waiting.”

Damien nodded, his mind racing back to the kiss on the cheek. It left a burn on his skin, one he couldn't ignore, no matter how hard he tried.“You didn’t have to go out of your way, really.”

“It's no trouble.” Nabokov leaned in slightly, his voice low and enticing. “What’s important is that you’re safe.”

Damien swallowed hard, the warmth of Nabokov’s words wrapping around him like a thick fog.“I appreciate that,” he replied, struggling to maintain eye contact.

Nabokov shifted, his gaze softening. “See you tomorrow.”

Nabokov began walking towards the door when he turned slightly to Damien. He regarded him with a particularly piercing stare.“By the way, you two form a beautiful couple,” he commented, his tone bizarrely tinged with threat.

He stood there for three short seconds, watching Damien with that intense look. Then he turned and strode out, leaving Damien rooted in place, grappling with the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside him.

“What just happened?” he muttered to himself, feeling a confusing mixture of anxiety and exhilaration wash over him.

As he returned inside Craig’s apartment, he wondered what new game Nabokov was playing and what his dinner invitation really meant for them both. Damien felt a spark of excitement but also a sharp edge of caution. The kiss on the cheek played in his mind again, and he couldn’t help but question Nabokov’s motives. This was exactly why he needed to believe Nabokov was homophobic. It gave him an anchor—a way to reject the dangerous pull between them. If he could convince himself that Nabokov's interest was just another form of manipulation, then Damien could resist. At least, that’s what he told himself.

Being in your company. That's the value.

These words prevented Damien from easily finding sleep.

FOURTEEN

The View

Throughout the bowling night, only Damien’s body was present; his mind wandered elsewhere. If his team—consisting of Eric and Andrea, Samuel’s fiancé—had lost, it was entirely his fault. He hadn’t scored a single point, missing every shot, his thoughts far removed from the game. Thankfully, no one commented on his unusually poor performance.

Despite the night passing without incident, Dimitri's absence hung over them, thoughDamien was relieved when no fights broke out. But the night ended with Julia—Eric’s wife—already planning another couples’ night. Damien exchanged exasperated glances with Samuel and Eric, united in their silent dread of yet another forced social event.

When Craig left for his night shift, Damien felt both relief and a sense of impending dread. Craig hadn’t brought up Nabokov, not yet. But Damien knew it was only a matter of time before the subject surfaced, and the questions came. Questions such asWhy the hell is Nick’s boss showing up to see you? Late at night. At my place. When you don’t even work for him. Again—at my place. How did he even know where to find you?Yeah, Damien needed to come up with a damn good excuse. Fast.

The only reason he’d managed to avoid an interrogation so far was likely because Craig still remembered Damien had been helping Nick with his work project. Hard to forget, considering that had been the spark that lit their worst fight yet.

But that excuse only covered so much. It didn’t explain the rest. The questions Craig hadn’t asked yet but inevitably would.

I’m fucked. Completely fucked.

As Damien drove home, the buzz of the evening slowly faded, replaced by the thoughts he had been pushing aside all day.By the time he pulled into the parking lot and stepped into his apartment, the weight of his dilemma settled fully on his shoulders.Should he accept Nabokov’s dinner invitation or find a way to refuse it? Not that the Russian man had really given him much choice. No matter how Damien tried to rationalize it, he couldn’t understand why someone like Nabokov—a man who had seemed disgusted by the knowledge of Damien’s relationship with Craig—would want to share dinner with him.

Maybe it was just a power move. A way to show control, Damien reasoned, clinging to this idea. Because if that were the case, it wasn’t personal. If Nabokov wasn’t truly interested in him, Damien could resist him—easily.

Now alone, Damien knew it was time to act. Against his better judgment, he decided to call Nabokov instead of texting. A call was quicker—a way to end this nonsense once and for all. He told himself it was the safest option.

The phone barely rang three times before Nabokov’s voice answered, deep and assertive. “Nabokov.”

Hearing that voice made Damien instantly regret calling. It was too late to back out now. “Hey, uh… it’s Damien.”

He cringed at how awkward he sounded, trying to keep his tone casual, though he knew he was failing miserably. “How are you?”Really? How are you? Ugh, kill me please.

“Good. How are you?” Nabokov replied, his voice smooth and distant.

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