Page 44 of Mutual Desire

“Uh… good,” Damien stammered, mentally kicking himself. Why did he sound so pathetic? Ten seconds into the call, and it already felt like the most awkward conversation of his life. A text would’ve been so much easier.

After a long, uncomfortable pause, Damien tried to get the words out. “I… I was just thinking—”

“You’re on your way?” Nabokov interrupted, cutting straight to the point.

Damien blinked. Of course, Nabokov wouldn’t beat around the bush. He scrambled to keep control of the conversation.

“Well… actually, it’s getting a bit late. Maybe we should push it to another time?” He winced as the words left his mouth. He hadn’t planned to postpone the dinner—he was supposed to refuse it. Why did it sound like he was trying to reschedule with a friend?

“Are you working tomorrow?” Nabokov asked, his question catching Damien off guard.

“No...” Damien frowned. “Why?”

“Good,” Nabokov said smoothly. “Then I don’t see a problem. I’ll be waiting for you.” His tone left no room for argument.

Damien fell silent, his carefully rehearsed refusal slipping away. What was it about this man that made saying no so impossible?

“Damien?” Nabokov’s voice softened slightly, though the undertone of command remained. “I’ll see you in an hour, yes?”

Damien swallowed hard, knowing he was already defeated. “Y-yes.”

“Good. Drive safely.”

The line went dead, leaving Damien staring at his phone, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Again, Nabokov had managed to manipulate him into doing something he didn’t want. It was maddening. Damien hated how easily the man could disarm him with a few words. And yet, deep down, part of him knew—he let it happen.

As Damien changed into something more presentable, he told himself this wasn’t about attraction. This was about control. Nabokov was just testing his limits—trying to get under his skin. If Damien kept telling himself that, he could ignore the way his pulse quickened when he thought of the man. He could ignore the way Nabokov’s lingering gaze had made him feel exposed. Vulnerable.

Before heading out, a message buzzed on Damien’s phone:

Security is aware you’re coming. I’ll be on the roof waiting for you.

The absurdity of the message made Damien’s stomach twist. Why the roof? His mind conjured ridiculous scenarios—was Nabokov planning to push him off the edge? Or worse, was this some elaborate homophobic setup disguised as a dinner?

Shaking off the intrusive thoughts, Damien drove to Nick’s workplace. He told himself it was paranoia—that his instincts were overreacting. But deep down, he couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling that something about this meeting was… off.

When Damien reached the rooftop, he spotted Nabokov standing near the edge, his silhouette sharp against the glow of the city skyline. Damien’s nerves spiked at how close the man stood to the edge, his posture relaxed, as if he owned the view.

“Hey,” Damien called out, his voice tentative.

Nabokov turned, a small smile curving his lips. “Good evening, Damien.”

There was no menace in his tone, no sign of hostility. Yet, Damien couldn’t ignore the tension simmering beneath the surface. Why had Nabokov gone to such lengths for this dinner? It didn’t make sense. If the man really was disgusted by Damien’s relationship, why invite him here at all?

And that was the crux of Damien’s cognitive dissonance—the contradiction that gnawed at him. If Nabokov were truly homophobic, he wouldn’t be doing any of this, right? But that look on his face, the disgust when he learned about Craig… Damien couldn’t forget it. He clung to it, using it as a shield—a way to justify resisting whatever pull Nabokov had on him.

Nabokov gestured toward a sleek dining table, transformed into a feast worthy of royalty. The spread was an opulent showcase of Asian-inspired delicacies—each dish plated with meticulous elegance.

Polished slate boards bore rows of pristine sushi, their vibrant fillings offset by curls of cucumber, pickled ginger, and glistening roe that sparkled under the ambient light. At the center, a tower of sashimi—tuna, salmon, and yellowtail—lay artfully arranged on crushed ice, each cut so fine they looked like edible gems.

A bamboo steamer released fragrant wisps of steam, unveiling delicate dumplings: shrimp har gow, truffle shumai, and pork jiaozi, each adorned with edible flowers. Bowls of dipping sauces—soy, sriracha, and freshly grated wasabi—were placed nearby for customization.

Further down, a lacquered bowl cradled a miso-glazed black cod, its caramelized exterior giving way to tender flakes atop sautéed greens. Surrounding it, sides of sesame seaweed salad, golden vegetable tempura, and fried rice crowned with a runny egg added layers of color and texture. Even the pickles—rare, jewel-toned and delicately arranged—spoke of excess and intention.

Two crystal wine glasses waited at the head of the table, filled with chilled, rare sake—clear as spring water, with notes of cherry blossom and pear. Nabokov’s silent invitation was clear: indulge, savor, and be swept away.

“I may have gone overboard,” Nabokov said with a hint of a smile, watching Damien take it all in. “But I wanted tonight to be... memorable.”

Damien forced a smile, though his stomach churned with unease.“It’s… a bit much for two people, don’t you think?” Damien murmured, trying to keep his tone light as he took in the sashimi, delicately plated with edible flowers, bowls of aromatic soup, and a selection of sushi and tempura, each dish more elaborate than the last. Every detail seemed calculated, a silent statement that left Damien both impressed and wary.

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