The mistake

Eli woke earlier than usual the next morning, determined not to give Damian any reason to think less of him. The house was quiet, the kind of heavy stillness that comes before coffee brews and footsteps sound. He slipped out of Lily’s room, careful not to wake her, and padded down the stairs.

The kitchen glowed faintly with the soft amber light of dawn through the windows. Eli rolled up his sleeves and decided he’d make breakfast. He wanted Damian to come down and see that he could be useful—that he was willing to put in effort.

Eggs. Toast. Coffee. Easy enough.

But somewhere between scrambling the eggs and buttering the toast, he lost focus. He left the butter knife streaked across the counter. He forgot to put his shoes away by the door after slipping them on to grab the paper from the porch. And when he poured coffee, he set the pot down a little too hard, a faint splash marking the pristine surface of the counter.

He didn’t notice any of it.

Not until Damian’s voice cut through the silence like a blade.

“Eli.”

The boy startled, nearly dropping the spatula. Damian was in the doorway, hair damp from the shower, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow. He wasn’t shouting, but the low timbre of his voice carried more weight than a yell ever could.

“You left your shoes out.”

Eli’s eyes flicked to the door. Sure enough—there they were, sneakers half-kicked off, one tipped on its side. He opened his mouth to apologize, but Damian wasn’t finished.

“And this counter,” Damian continued, stepping forward, fingertips brushing the streak of butter, the faint splash of coffee. “You plan on leaving it like this?”

Eli’s stomach dropped. “No, I—I was going to clean it after breakfast.”

Damian’s gaze pinned him, cool and sharp. “That’s not how I run this house.”

The words hit Eli harder than they should have. His pulse spiked, his throat tight. He nodded quickly, fumbling for a towel. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Stop.”

Damian didn’t raise his voice, but Eli froze mid-motion anyway. The towel hung limp in his hands.

“You want to help? Fine. But helping means doing it properly. Not halfway. Not when you feel like it.” Damian stepped closer, his presence filling the space. He smelled faintly of soap and cedar, and it was dizzying at this distance. “Understand?”

Eli swallowed hard. “Yes… sir.”

The word slipped out before he could catch it. His cheeks burned.

Damian’s eyes flickered, just for a moment. He’d heard it. Felt it. The weight of it hung heavy between them.

Then Damian stepped back, giving Eli the smallest space to breathe. “Good. Now, clean it up. And next time, pay attention.”

Eli moved quickly, scrubbing the counter, shoving his shoes neatly by the door. His hands trembled, though not entirely from nerves. There was something else coursing through him—something he couldn’t name.

---

The rest of the morning passed in fragments. Lily bounded downstairs, kissed him on the cheek, and stole a piece of toast. She laughed about how “domestic” he looked at the stove, completely unaware of the tension thrumming just beneath the surface.

Damian sat at the table with his coffee, silent but watchful. Every time Eli glanced his way, he caught those eyes on him—steady, unflinching.

Eli forced himself to focus on Lily, on her chatter about plans for the day. But Damian’s voice replayed in his head with every bite of breakfast. That’s not how I run this house.

---

Later that afternoon, Lily left to meet a friend. Eli found himself in the living room, pretending to scroll on his phone, though his thoughts were far away. He didn’t notice Damian until he was already there, leaning against the doorway like he had that first night.

“You’re quiet,” Damian said.

Eli glanced up. “Just tired, I guess.”

“That’s not it.” Damian’s tone wasn’t questioning—it was knowing. He crossed the room slowly, each step deliberate. “You’re thinking about this morning.”

Heat climbed Eli’s neck. “I—maybe.”

Damian stopped in front of him. Not too close, but close enough that Eli felt cornered. “Do you make mistakes like that often?”

Eli shook his head quickly. “No. I just wasn’t paying attention.”

“Not paying attention,” Damian repeated, voice low. “That’s worse than making a mistake. Mistakes you learn from. Carelessness?” He leaned in slightly. “That’s a choice.”

Eli’s chest tightened. He couldn’t look away. “I didn’t mean—”

Damian cut him off with a quiet command. “Look at me.”

Eli’s eyes snapped up, meeting his. The room felt suddenly too small, the air too heavy.

“You liked it,” Damian said evenly. Not a question—an observation. “When I corrected you.”

Eli’s breath caught. “No, I…” His denial faltered. His voice came out weaker than he wanted. “…I don’t know.”

Damian studied him in silence for a long moment. Then he straightened, stepping back, giving Eli air he hadn’t realized he was desperate for.

“Think about it,” Damian said finally. His tone was calm, almost casual, but his eyes were sharp as glass. “Next time, decide if you want to do better because it’s right—or because I told you to.”

And with that, he left the room, leaving Eli trembling in his seat, his pulse hammering.

---

That night, Eli lay awake in Lily’s bed long after she’d drifted off. The house was quiet again, shadows long across the ceiling. But his mind was loud.

You liked it.

Damian’s words replayed over and over, winding tighter each time. He hated how true they felt. Hated the warmth that spread through him at the thought of being corrected, of Damian’s steady gaze holding him in place.

His girlfriend was right beside him, asleep, trusting. And all Eli could think about was her father’s voice, her father’s rules, her father’s hands brushing the counter with quiet authority.

It scared him.

It thrilled him.

And worst of all, it made him want more.