He Hates Me, He Loves Me Not

Damon wakes up with a headache.

The first thing he notices is the painful throbbing in his head. Next is how weak he feels, as if his body has been put through the grinder overnight. Using a hand that has yet to feel like his own, he covers his eyes from that beam of light penetrating his closed eyelids. The action makes his headache worse.

Damon knows what this is. It's not often but sometimes, he drinks to the point that the next day, it feels like he's been left out in the sun for a decade. Like right now, when he's rolling over to get out of bed, desperate to soothe his dry throat.

There's a loud thud, followed by a groan. Instead of his feet landing on the ground, it's his backside that hits the floor first.

He lies there with his eyes closed, wondering where his motor skills went..

Great, he thinks to himself, what a wonderful way to start the morning. He's a grown man yet he still can't get out of the bed properly.

Damon rolls over to his side, tempted to spend the rest of the day like this. With how weak he is, nothing feels as important as going back to sleep. It doesn't matter if he is lying on the carpet.

Wait. Carpet? Since when was the carpet in his room moved near the bed?

Refusing to open his eyes, he caresses the thick woven fabric underneath him, trying to jog his memory. However, no matter how soft it feels under his fingertips, no instance of the layout of his room being changed comes up.

Left with no choice, he opens his eyes. He gives his vision a minute to adjust, taking in the sight of a teal carpet that definitely proves he's nowhere in his room. Once it doesn't hurt as much to keep his eyes open, he realizes that he almost rolled under the bed.

With the space beneath the bed large enough to fit a person, he sees right through the other side. Seeing the familiar beige walls and the foot of a closet finally forces him to recall his current whereabouts.

He's still in the Lin Manor, no doubt about that, but he's in a room that he's only been to twice—thrice, if he includes today.

Did he sleep here last night? How did he even end up in that Omega's room?

He groans, louder, berating his drunk self for the reckless actions he doesn't remember. With unsteady arms, he pushes himself off the ground. However, before his head is lifted, he catches sight of something near the leg of the bed.

He grabs it before his mind catches up to what he's doing. Taking the object out of its hidden corner, Damon stares in wonder at the wooden box. It's not small, but it's not large either. The box is about 10 inches long, 6 inches wide, and 4 inches high—no design or pattern adorning it.

Damon knows it doesn't belong to him, but curiosity is a beast that is never satiated. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, he doesn't feel a drop of guilt when he opens the box.

He doesn't know what to expect, but it's definitely not the two objects that welcome him.

The first is a black, plain choker. It's not often seen nowadays but it doesn't take a genius to recognize the metallic device for what it is. Using two fingers, he turns the inhibitor here and there, taking a close look at it for the first time. The weight is heavy on his fingers, and he briefly wonders how that Omega managed to wear this for months without breaking his neck.

Dropping the inhibitor back inside the box, he takes the second object into his hand. It's a spiral notebook, a cheap one he has seen maybe once during his school days but something he personally never used before.

He opens the cover, once more being surprised despite holding no expectations.

"Kaiden's Secret Notebook," it says at the front. The handwriting is nowhere near elegant, somewhat plain, but the cursive is neat enough to be legible.

Flipping the pages of the notebook, Damon tries to see how much is written inside. The notebook is almost full save for several pages at the end. He randomly opens the notebook in the middle, seeing that same penmanship spilling over the pages.

"I did a good job today as well," the first line reads. "Damon ate every bite of the spicy tofu and cabbage soup I made for dinner. He didn't say anything but he didn't complain as well. I don't know how or why but I just felt like he needed something spicy today. Weird, right?"

Then, in a messier print, the next line follows with, "Maybe tomorrow, he'll compliment me. But I'm not hoping. I'm just saying it will be nice if he does. Again, I'm not hoping."

Damon remembers that day. He was stressed over a huge mistake made by his subordinates. On the way home, he was planning to work out to release some steam, but the urge disappeared after dinner. If he tries hard, Damon can still taste the meal in his mouth.

He turns the pages backward, stopping a few pages near the front. His eyes land on dates and times written next to a short description. Glancing from top to bottom, it doesn't take him long to figure out that it's a schedule. The schedule, however, doesn't seem like it belongs to the Omega. When he sees the 'usually arrives at this hour' next to a time close to midnight, only then does Damon realize that it's /his/ schedule.

He flips a few pages forward, not noticing how fast his heartbeat has gotten. He skims through the rest, reading about the things Damon never noticed about himself. There's a list of his likes and dislikes, his food and drink preference, and there's even a record of which suit to clean first according to which color scheme he wears depending on the day of the week.

Honestly, it's impressive. This type of meticulousness is something Damon hasn't seen in the average executive assistant, and even between the pages, he feels how much care has been put into every detail.

He doesn't know what to anticipate when he sees the big, capital letters, saying, "AVOID AT ALL COSTS."

"Number one," the first line says, "don't appear in his sight unless summoned."

Damon feels a dull ache in his chest when he reads that the second to fifth lines are almost the same, all about how the Omega should avoid making his presence known around him.

"Don't make a lot of noise."

"Don't leave pheromones anywhere."

"Don't eat at the dining table."

"Don't oversleep in his bed."

The last one, however, intensifies the ache, blooming from his chest and dropping his guts to the floor. "When the time comes," it says in smaller letters, "disappear."

Dread—his inner alpha howls at him that what he feels is dread.