Chapter 14: A Silent Argument
•⋅⊰∙∘☾✶☽∘∙⊱⋅•✾•⋅⊰∙∘☾✶☽∘∙⊱⋅•
Before I could respond, before I could even decide if I wanted to, he stepped forward, brushing past me with a deliberate shoulder bump that made me take a half-step back to keep my balance, like I was an obstacle in a hallway he was too important to navigate around.
The two guys followed right behind, glancing back just long enough to ensure their message stuck.
"You’re lucky," one of them muttered as he passed in a tone suggesting he didn’t think I was lucky at all.
And then they were gone.
Just like that. Like they had swooped in, made my entire afternoon significantly worse, and moved on without a second thought, already on to whatever came next.
The café noise slowly returned around me, conversations picking back up, cups clinking, the machine hissing like nothing had happened. Like the floor hadn’t just shifted under me a little. Like I hadn’t just been reminded, very efficiently and in front of witnesses, exactly where I stood.
I stood there for a second longer than necessary, staring at the floor where the coffee had spilled, my hands still tense at my sides.
Because the worst part was...he wasn’t even wrong, I definitely couldn’t afford that shirt! Not even close. Not even in the realm of close.
And I knew it.
That should have been the end of it. A bad shift, a lesson learned about wet floors and expensive company, something to file under "do not repeat" and move on from as quickly as possible.
Except it wasn’t, because for some reason, he kept coming back.
The first time was the following Saturday. I spotted him before he even reached the door, which should have been a sign that my brain had catalogued him more thoroughly than I should have.
He walked in the same way he did everything, like the space had already been notified of his arrival and had rearranged itself accordingly.
I noticed him right away.
Not because I was looking for him, absolutely not, but because it was hard not to notice someone like that walking into a place like this. He stood out in that specific, effortless way of someone who had never blended in anywhere and had long since stopped trying.
He was alone. No acknowledgment that anyone else in the café existed or had any relevance to his afternoon.
He walked straight to the same table, sat down like he owned the damn place which, considering what I knew now, he might have and ordered the same drink without looking at me for more than a second.
I handed it off to Maya before she could even ask.
I wasn’t about to risk a round two. I wasn’t that brave and I wasn’t being paid enough.
"Who is that?" she whispered the moment she got back, her eyes practically sparkling in a way that suggested she had already penned three Chapters of a story I wanted nothing to do with.
"No idea," I muttered, already turning away.
"That man’s looks should be illegal," she continued, completely ignoring my disinterest as she always did when she decided something was worth discussing. "He’s just too hot, like if he asked me to drop out and marry him, I would do it. I wouldn’t hesitate."
I snorted quietly despite myself.
"Please don’t. You’re a few semesters away from graduating."
"Worth it," she said seriously, going back to wiping down the counter like she had just made a major life decision.
And he kept coming back.
Every Saturday, same time, same table and same drink, which was nothing special, just a flat white, which seemed like a missed opportunity for someone who clearly had strong opinions about everything else in his life.
And every single time, without fail, his gaze found me, not Maya, who was actively trying to make eye contact. Me.
At first, it made me nervous in that way where you suddenly become hyper-aware of everything your hands are doing and whether your face looks weird. That same cold, unimpressed look from the coffee spill incident, like he still saw me exactly the same way he had the first day. Like the image had been filed away and not updated since.
Like I was something inconvenient, something beneath him.
I’d avoided it at first, looked away quickly, focused hard on whatever was right in front of me, became overly interested in the coffee machine. Told myself it didn’t matter, because it didn’t, because he didn’t, because I was a grown ass adult who wouldn’t be unsettled by some rich guy’s judgmental stare.
Then slowly and surely... it started to irritate me.
The kind of annoyance that builds gradually until one day you realize it’s just sitting there in your chest every time something specific happens. And then, without really noticing when the shift took place—
I started glaring back.
Not openly, not in a way anyone watching would notice, just a small, steady refusal to be the one who looked away first. A very mature and professional response that I totally stand by.
Eventually, once glaring back felt like too much effort for something I claimed not to care about—
I stopped caring altogether, or at least I got very good at pretending I didn’t.
I ignored him completely, the way you ignore something that’s decided to be annoying on a regular basis, and you’ve just decided it’s not worth the energy.
I made sure Maya handled his orders, she always way too excited about it anyway, coming back with commentary I hadn’t asked for but received anyway.
"He said thank you today," she announced once, setting down the tray like it was breaking news. "Oh my gosh...he’s so hot, ahhh!"
"Incredible," I replied flatly. "Truly a miracle."
"He has a really nice voice," she continued, undeterred. "I’m literally wet right now."
I cringed at the information. "You need to go home."
"I’m just saying."
"I know what you’re saying, Maya."
She sighed dreamily and returned to her work, and I shook my head before diving back into mine, which was the correct thing to do.
To me, he wasn’t mysterious. He was just annoying. Consistently, reliably, punctually annoying. Every Saturday at the same time.
That was it, that was our entire dynamic, contained, complete, and entirely one-sided in its significance.
Once a week, a glance.
A silent, dumb, insignificant argument neither of us acknowledged out loud.
Nothing more, nothing that should have mattered past each shift’s end.
And now—now I was living with him.
Lucky me...
The thought lingered as the memory of all that faded, dissolving into something softer as sleep gave way to morning, the edges blurring like memories do when you’ve held on to them long enough.
I woke up with a quiet yawn, stretching against the mattress beneath me in that long, involuntary way that felt like my limbs were introducing themselves to the new day, one at a time. For a brief moment, I didn’t move, just lay there, blinking at the ceiling through the bed curtains...existing softly.
Because the bed...the bed was ridiculous.
There was no other way to put it. It felt like lying on something engineered specifically to dissolve every problem I had ever experienced, the sort of comfort that didn’t just support you but actively argued against the idea of getting up.
I’d slept in questionable places before. This was the opposite. This was the mattress equivalent of someone telling you everything would be fine and actually meaning it.
I stared at the ceiling for a moment, blinking slowly as reality filtered back in at its own pace.
Right, I now lived in Preston Hall with the weird guy who would glare at me across the cafe...Damien.
The rules. The invisible line. The shoulder bump I was still embarrassingly thinking about.
Everything.
I exhaled quietly, dragging a hand over my face in a way that didn’t actually help but felt necessary anyway, before propping myself up into a sitting position and letting my muscles catch up.
"Okay," I muttered under my breath, to no one, to the room, to mornings in general. "Back to reality."
I had work, done classes and I had to go to the hospital.
A full, non-negotiable day waiting, whether I was ready or not, which I wasn’t, but that had never stopped anything.
I swung my legs over the bed, standing slowly as I stretched again, my gaze drifting instinctively toward the other side of the room the way it now did.
It was empty, I blinked once. Then again, just to be sure.
His bed was perfectly made.
Not just neat like someone rushing or going through the motions. Perfect. The kind of perfect that suggested either military school or a deeply personal relationship with a spirit level.
The sheets were smooth, free of creases, and the pillows aligned with such precision that it felt more like a philosophical stance than a habit.
I glanced over at the desk.
Same thing. Everything was arranged, everything in its place, just as it had been when I fell asleep. Not a pen out of position. Not a book at a weird angle.
Like he had woken up, existed briefly and efficiently, and removed all evidence before leaving.
I checked the time, too early.
Way, genuinely, offensively early. The kind that didn’t even seem real. The type that only happened to people who had extremely important things to do or simply decided sleep wasn’t for the ambitious.
A small, helpless chuckle slipped out as I shook my head and freshened up for the day, running a hand through my hair and glancing one more time at that immaculate, untouched, aggressively tidy side of the room.
"Yeah," I murmured to myself as I grabbed my things and headed for the door. "He’s definitely not human."