The food court hums with life.
The ceiling arches high overhead, with flickering lighting that casts a glow over the crowd. The air is thick with aromas of sizzling soy from the station's deep fryer. The sharp tang of vinegar from a fish and chips stall and the sweet pull of cinnamon from a nearby bakery kiosk remain prominent in the air.
After leaving the food court, I turn to Dominic and mumble past my chewing, "We should get something to drink. I know a really good café."
"Okay."
His crumpled serviette arcs neatly into the bin with a faint thunk, like he's done it a hundred times. He doesn't break stride, his expression still carrying the faint trace of that apathy he's had all afternoon.
I swallow the last bite in my mouth, brushing stray crumbs from my palm. My trainers squeak faintly against the polished tiles as I fall in step beside him, weaving through the moving tide of shoppers.
"Trust me," I add, gesturing vaguely ahead. "It's tucked away by the bookshop. Best cocoa you'll ever have."
He glances sideways at me, his lips twitching like he might say something but choosing instead to let silence ride between us.
The escalator hums quietly as we step on, carrying us up toward the next level.
"Can I quickly borrow your phone?"
He keeps his eyes fixed ahead, not even sparing me a glance. "Why?"
"I just need to check something," I keep my tone deliberately casual, fishing in my pocket like that will somehow make the request sound less suspicious.
His gaze flicks over questioningly. "Check what?"
"Nothing illegal," I add quickly, though that probably makes it sound more suspicious.
His brow furrows. "You're being sketchy, which usually means you wanna snoop around."
I roll my eyes, slipping my other hand into my jacket pocket for balance. "Or maybe I just want to send a quick message to my friend cause my battery's dead. Ever think of that?"
He hums like he's weighing the odds of me telling the truth against the odds of me starting chaos within thirty seconds of unsupervised access to his phone. "I don't know if I buy that. Show me your phone."
My mouth drops open, blinking at him in mock horror. "Don't you trust me?"
Finally, he cuts me a sidelong, bone dry look. "Not even a little."
Then I let my voice drop into mock solemnity. "It's important, Dominic."
That earns me a longer glance this time, his steps slowing just slightly.
"Fine," he exhales through his nose, pulling the phone out of his pocket but not handing it over yet, holding it just out of reach. "But I'm watching you."
"You always are," I mutter, snatching it with a little more triumph than necessary. "I promise to stay away from all your nudes."
"My what?"
Sliding my finger across the screen, I make a beeline for his apps.
And freeze.
Instagram.
Dominic Lachowski on Instagram?
For a moment, my brain stalls.
His entire brand is brooding nihilism. I would've bet good money he considered social media a petty mortal indulgence, beneath his dignity. Yet here it is, proof that even loners have secret accounts.
And here I was, mentally preparing to make one for him myself.
Curiosity flares instantly, and I tap in, expecting a barren feed with maybe one blurry photo of a sunset. Instead, his posts are... oddly wholesome.
Nearly all of them are shots of his cousin, the one I met earlier, smiling candidly. The rest of his posts are of an impossibly photogenic grey kitten with eyes so blue they could start their own ocean. My heart betrays me by melting a little.
Then I keep scrolling, and at the bottom of the feed is the only picture of Dominic himself.
He has on a black jacket, head dipped forward just enough to be mysterious, but eyes tilted up toward the camera with that piercing look I've seen in person. Even obscured, there's no mistaking him.
More than fifteen thousand likes.
I almost choke.
The caption reads like it was plucked straight from the parts of the internet that should be avoided:
"When the light fades away, I know to never crave the embrace of day because the shadows whispering to me never coerce me to expose what lies within. Running from Landon, I have no problem embracing home. No matter how dark and lonely it may be."
I lean back slightly, letting the words settle.
Is he secretly a gothic poet?
Auditioning to be the next Edgar Allan Poe?
"What are you doing?" Dominic finally asks me, thinning his gaze onto me curiously.
"I'm going through your Instagram," I answer truthfully. "By the way, you spelt London wrong."
"Where?"
I turn the phone to him.
"No, I didn't."
My brow furrows. "Uh... unless 'Landon' is a new underground city I haven't heard of, I'm pretty sure—"
"It's not a place," he cuts in after a long, measured breath. "It's a person."
I look down at the caption again, and suddenly it feels like the shadows in his poetry aren't metaphorical anymore. They've got a name attached to them, a person.
Who's Landon?
I meet his gaze again curiously but he deliberately avoids it. Flicking my gaze back to the screen, my lips curve at yet another shot of that ridiculously photogenic kitten.
God, I want to steal it.
In my head, the plan is already laid out. I'll keep it hidden under the bed with my door locked and sleep easy. At least until Yang Jin decides to snoop again. And he does snoop. He has watched my vlogs. The only way he could've found them is by poking around my room.
I swipe to a new picture, and when I see the kitten curled up, fast asleep on the lap of someone wearing black tracksuit bottoms, the kind Dominic lives in, a question begins to bloom in my mind.
I glance sideways, just enough to study him.
He catches it immediately, turning his head with laser precision.
"What?" His voice is casual, but there's the faintest drag on the word.
I shake my head, maybe too fast.
"Tell me."
"Why do you post so many kitten pictures?"
"They get a lot of likes." He shrugs nonchalantly, but I notice the tension in his shoulders.
"Yeah, but you're not exactly chasing likes, are you?"
A flick of his eyes to mine briefly and then they snap back ahead.
"Are you?" I press.
"No. He's cute. Why wouldn't I post pictures of him?"
"Is he yours?"
The shake of his head comes too reflexively. "Just... some celebrity kitten I follow."
"Who?"
"I think his name is... Keenan? Or Keanu, I don't know." He looks past me as he says it, not quite meeting my gaze.
"Yeah? Never heard of him."
"Something like that."
"Okay, well," I say, locking eyes with him, "you need to post more pictures of yourself. Not Keenan or Keanu. Jodie is actually not a cat person."
"She likes dogs?"
"Nope."
"Then what is she?"
"An animal hater?" I shrug like it's the most obvious thing.
He lets out a long, resigned exhale.
"Also," I press on, "your posts from now on? No more moody lighting."
"Why?"
"Because we need her to see that you're not the dark, brooding, gothic gay she thinks you are."
His nose wrinkles irritably, but he doesn't respond.
"The plan is for you to follow her to initially pique her interest. Then we lure her into following you back with a couple of thirst traps. Once she has followed you, then you post more pictures of yourself shirtless and stuff, the works."
From the corner of his eye, he shoots me a look that lands somewhere between baffled and horrified. "What?"
"Yeah, and lose the funeral wardrobe. Jodie's not into the devil‑worshipping loner vibe. We need colour. And a lot of skin."
"This is really stupid," he mutters in that flat, monotone way of his.
"Yes, it is," I agree easily, "but the question is, how far are you willing to go to eventually get with her?"
Before he can reply, the sharp trill of his ringtone slices clean through the moment.
I glance down at the screen, the white glow illuminating my fingers, and freeze.
Landon.
"Landon's calling," I say carefully, the words landing between us like a dropped coin in a silent room.
For a split second, I think I catch an almost imperceptible flicker across his face. His eyes sharpen, jaw tightening just enough to betray something beneath the surface. Then, without a word, he moves forward decisively. His hand wraps around the phone in mine, warm fingers brushing briefly against my skin before he slides it from my grasp.
His gaze drops to the screen once, lingering for a heartbeat. "I have to take this. You can head in. I'll be right behind you."
Without receiving a response, he turns slightly away from me.
I blink, bewildered before turning around to head to the café.
The bell above the door jingles as I slip in, clutching my partially eaten Fan Tuan. The warmth of the room greets me with a soft whoosh of heated air, accompanied by the scent of roasted coffee beans and melted butter. It's almost enough to make me sigh audibly.
The place is modest, nestled between a bookstore and a beauty salon. Potted plants hang from ceiling beams. The walls are decorated with mismatched frames, cradling watercolour sketches of the city and quirky typography.
"Caffeine First, Obligations Later," I read and a laugh almost escapes my lips at "Espresso Yourself."
My gaze drifts and through the glass windowpane, blurred by the occasional fingerprint smear, I spot Dominic.
Standing outside, he paces ever so slightly with his phone pressed tightly to his ear. His brows are drawn together, mouth taut. One hand is shoved deep into his pocket, the other clutching the phone like tightly as if to anchor himself.
His clipped voice still echoes in my head before he turned away, essentially dismissing my presence. It felt like the call instantly sucked out all the warmth he had left.
Who even is this Landon person?
I bite into the rest of the rice roll, slowly chewing.
I wanted to ask why this person got him so tense. But I already know how that ends. Reinforced walls and tongue laced with barbed wire. I'd rather not waste my energy climbing another fortress today.
When my phone buzzes against my leg, drawing me out of my train of thought, I fish it out of my pocket and glance down. It's a message from Taylor, informing me that she and Edward just got to the cinema.
I stare at the message for a moment.
She didn't tell me they were going to the cinema.
I tap out a response.
Me: Which mall?
Taylor: The one with that Korean bakery you love. Aren't you always there?
As in this shopping centre?
I suddenly become hyperaware of my surroundings.
Shrinking slightly into my scarf, I pray it shields me like some kind of invisibility cloak. Being spotted with Dominic would be too much to explain right now. Taylor would ask questions. Questions I'm not ready to answer.
How the hell do you explain being with your former crush during the weekend?
My eyes dart toward the entrance.
I shift slightly in line, debating whether to just leave now before the universe plans to make our paths cross and force an awkward conversation.
But then the barista calls for the next customer.
Tuning back, I realise I'm next in line to order.
A barista in a pumpkin orange apron stands behind the counter, smiling warmly. "Welcome to Cuppa Cove. What can I get for you today?"
My eyes widen when I realise I recognise him.
He's the boy from the gym.
The one with eyes that don't match—one jade like murky waters, the other brown like a hazelnut. They mesmerisingly glow under the pendant lights. It's as startling now as it was when I was barely conscious on the floor, blinking up at him through a veil of pain.
"Kai?" The name escapes me before I can think, rolling off my tongue with disbelief.
His head snaps up at the sound, eyes narrowing in brief confusion. Then the crease between his brows vanishes, replaced by a slow, stretching grin that somehow manages to look both delighted and faintly smug.
"Tripod!"
The nickname lands like an unexpected slap.
"You still think that's funny," I mutter, mostly to myself, nursing the sting of old humiliation.
The corners of his lips pull into that same crooked grin I vaguely remember.
"Let's be honest," he says, amusement glittering in his gaze as he flicks a stray crumb from the till, "you earned that nickname."
My eyes narrow. "How?"
"'Cause you faceplanted into your reflection," he says dryly, "specifically while vlogging."
"So you're just gonna keep calling me that instead of my actual name?"
"Mm-hmm," he murmurs before clapping his hands softly, intertwining his fingers. "So what can I start you with today, Tripod?"
My glare is immediate, but it doesn't wipe the smirk off his face. I glance up at the blackboard behind him, chalked with items. "Any recommendations?"
"Are you looking for something warm?"
I nod.
"My personal favourites are either spiced chai or earl grey tea."
My nose wrinkles. "I hate tea."
"Well then, maybe hazelnut chocolate latté or even an almond milk one."
I settle on hazelnut chocolate.
He taps on the screen of his payment terminal. When he announces the price, I simply hand him my credit card.
While tapping on the screen again, he playfully muses, "By the way, you're not stalking me, are you?"
Blinking in shock, I ask slowly, "Why would I be stalking you?"
"I mean, first we meet at the gym and now here?" His fingers still over the terminal keys, the corners of his mouth curving into something just shy of a smirk.
I lift a brow, keeping calm.
"You've got to admit," he says, slipping the card into the reader, "it's a little suspicious."
I let out a faint huff, feigning offence. "Please, if I were stalking you, I'd be way better at it. You'd never even know."
That gets him to pause for a second, before his grin curves a little deeper. "Noted. I'll keep my curtains closed from now on."
"I wouldn't do that though," I insert quickly as he hands my card and receipt back.
He tilts his head, studying me like I'm a puzzle he's in no rush to solve. There's a flicker of contained amusement in his eyes. "I was hoping I'd run into you again."
I slip the card back into my wallet, letting the moment breathe before glancing up. "Really?"
He nods once, almost to himself.
"Why?" I ask. "Do you just enjoy torturing yourself or do you have questionable taste in company then?"
That draws out the faintest curl at the edge of his mouth. "No, people who just walk into mirrors tend to leave a lasting impression on you."
I shake my head with an eyeroll, but there's a reluctant smile tugging at my mouth.
The café around us recedes for a moment, soft music fading into distant static. All my attention sharpens on Kai and that ridiculous glint in his mismatched eyes. He casually leans on the counter, one elbow planted.
His presence is oddly disarming. It seems so easy for him to exist confidently and unapologetically in moments like this, entirely himself.
"So you work here?" I ask, gesturing vaguely to the café around us.
"Part-time," he shrugs. "The pay is dogshit but don't tell my boss I said that to you."
"How old are you?" The question slips out before I give it too much thought.
He pushes a few serviettes aside after returning my credit card and rests both forearms on the counter, his posture loose but not aimless.
"Seventeen," he says, then adds with a flicker of anticipation, "turning eighteen."
I furrow my brow, the gears turning. "Why aren't you in school?"
There's a beat of hesitation, long enough for me to notice the way his fingers curl slightly, the edge of his grin faltering before recovering.
"I'm saving up for uni," he says, voice quieter now, toned down into something sincere. "I'm kind of in between jobs actually."
Something between us shifts. The air feels thinner around that admission. It's enough to make me pause.
Between jobs at seventeen?
"Do you also work at the gym then?"
A smile reappears like clockwork, back in full force.
"Nope," he says, cocking his head. "But I do work at a pottery class, if you want to stalk me over there too."
I laugh, letting it slip out unexpectedly.
His eyes linger on my face for a moment, grin softening. Then he tilts his head slightly, and before I can preempt it, he reaches forward with two fingers and lightly taps the bridge of my nose.
I freeze, surprised.
His touch is barely there.
"How's your nose, by the way?" he asks, voice low enough that only I hear it beneath the ambient murmur.
His fingertips linger for a fraction too long before he pulls back, tucking his hands behind the counter again.
My breath hitches slightly, heat rising to my cheeks not from embarrassment but from the sudden, unnerving awareness of how close he'd gotten.
"It's... still functioning," I say, rubbing the bridge defensively.
Kai grins but doesn't press. Then he leans on the counter again, resting his chin on the back of his hand.
"Glad it didn't put a dent on your pretty face," he says, eyes glinting. "Cause that would've been tragic."
I scoff, but the warmth doesn't leave my face.
He chuckles.
This conversation is starting to feel less like a casual chat and more like a scene teetering between banter and something unspoken. His fingertips trace lazy patterns across the counter, and I notice his nails are short and stained with clay at the edges.
The image of him elbow deep in clay is almost too vivid—mismatched apron, flourishes of dried ceramic dust, probably still cracking jokes to himself in the middle of a spin.
"So pottery?" I echo, brows arching with surprise.
"Yeah, it's like therapy with mud," he says. "You ever try it?"
"No," I reply, resting my elbow on the table. "It seems a bit too messy for my liking. All that shaping and kneading and hoping something doesn't collapse in the kiln."
Kai grins, teeth catching the light. "You know what a kiln is?"
Before I can respond, the swinging kitchen door slaps open, and a voice slices clean through the tension. "Kai."
I glance over his shoulder and catch a middle aged woman, clutching a clipboard. Her expression carries the weariness of someone who has already cleaned up three spilled drinks.
Kai straightens instinctively. "Yup?"
"We have six orders backed up and your station looks like it hasn't moved an inch. Less flirting, more frothing, please." Then she walks off.
Kai clears his throat.
"I multitask terribly," he says under his breath.
Slipping back toward the espresso machine, his apron swings as he moves. My latté arrives in a coffee cup. I wrap both hands around it, finally letting some tension bleed out of my shoulders. The steam curls around my face, mingling with the faint smell of cinnamon and burnt espresso in the air.
Taking a sip, I taste the hazelnut sweetness.
Satisfied with the drink, I look up to smile at Kai. Just as I'm about to compliment his coffee-making skills, the café door swings open.
Dominic scans the room, eyes landing on me before anyone else. He strides over urgently.
"We need to go," he says insistently.
I blink. "What—"
"I just saw your friends near the theatre. We're leaving."
I turn back around to face Kai who's watching with detached curiosity, towel slung casually over his shoulder. "Well, thanks for the coffee."
A polite grin breaks out over his face.
Dominic notices him then, eyes sharpening.
Without waiting for my response, he firmly curls his hand around my arm and forcefully ushers me toward the door. I glance back over my shoulder, catching Kai still behind the counter, watching with a flicker of confusion.
I lift my hand in a small wave apologetically.
He waves back.