There are a lot of things I could've done when I saw someone standing on my third-floor balcony in the dead of night.
Scream. Run. Call security.
Instead, I just stand there.
Because, of course, it's him.
Neil Varian.
The guy I punched in the face earlier today.
The guy I met less than 24 hours ago.
And now he's here.
Standing outside my fucking window.
I don't move. He doesn't move.
The wind ruffles his dark hair, his tie loose around his neck like he wasn't just climbing a goddamn building. His expression is unreadable, eyes sharp in the dim light.
Then—he smiles.
Like this is normal.
Like he belongs here.
My stomach twists.
I tighten my grip on the balcony door. My body still aches—my father's voice is still in my skull, my wrist still burns, my cheek still stings.
And now this asshole.
I clear my throat. "You lost?"
Neil tilts his head. "No."
…Right.
We just stare at each other. The night air is thick, charged with something I don't have the energy to name.
I should walk away. I should shut the door.
Instead, my fingers twitch.
And I unlock it.
Stupid.
Neil steps inside without hesitation. No questions. No words. Just a slow, unbothered stroll into my fucking bedroom.
His gaze sweeps over the space—expensive furniture I hate, paintings leaning unfinished against the walls, crumpled sketches littering my desk. He moves like he's been here before, like nothing about this surprises him.
Then—
His eyes land on my sketchbook.
Before I can stop him, he picks it up. Flips through the pages.
My chest tightens.
"Don't—"
Too late. His expression shifts. His eyes linger on a particular drawing.
I snatch it back. Shove it onto my desk. Too hard.
Neil doesn't argue. Just watches me. "You draw me a lot."
I scowl. "It's called coincidence, dumbass."
His lips twitch like he's very amused.
"I didn't say it wasn't."
Oh, I hate him.
I fold my arms, keeping as much distance as possible. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Neil tilts his head. "You couldn't breathe."
My pulse stutters.
What.
I force a laugh. "What, you psychic now?"
Neil doesn't blink. "No. But I didn't want you to be alone."
Something sharp lodges in my throat.
I don't trust him. I don't know him.
But something about this feels—
Familiar.
Like a déjà vu I can't place.
Like he's said this before.
Like he's stood in this room before.
---
Footsteps.
My breath snags. My body reacts before my brain catches up— spine straightening, muscles locking.
Neil notices. His eyes flick to the door. "Who—"
I shove a hand over his mouth. "Shh."
His breath hitches against my palm, but he doesn't pull away.
The footsteps pause.
The handle shifts.
My stomach fucking drops.
I grab Neil's wrist and yank him toward the closet.
"You need to go."
He doesn't budge. "Charssein—"
"Now." My voice is sharp. Desperate. "You can't be here when he comes in. Trust me."
Neil stares at me. Like he wants to argue. Like he knows something I don't.
But then, finally—
He moves.
The second the closet door clicks shut, my bedroom door swings open.
And there he is.
The Man Who Calls Himself My Father.
His gaze sweeps across the room.
"You were talking to someone."
Not a question. A statement.
My throat is dry. "No one."
Silence.
Then—
"I have a business trip tomorrow. You will come with me."
No.
The word doesn't come out.
"You will."
I find my voice. "No."
His jaw tightens. "You're wasting your life."
"I'm breathing, aren't I?"
Wrong thing to say.
Crack.
The slap knocks my head to the side.
Pain blooms across my cheek.
I don't flinch.
He exhales, slow. Composed. Like I'm exhausting him.
"You think you can survive without me?" His voice is quiet. Deadly. "You think you can live off your pathetic little paintings?"
I say nothing.
"Fine," he says, stepping back. "Rot here."
Then, before walking out, his gaze flicks to my wrist—the bandages peeking from my sleeve.
A pause.
For a second, I think—
I hope—
But then he scoffs.
"Pathetic."
And he walks away.
The door slams shut.
---
I don't move.
The silence rings loud.
My cheek burns. My wrist aches. My chest feels fucking hollow.
I inhale sharply, swallowing against the tightness in my throat.
Then, without thinking, I slam myself onto the bed.
The mattress creaks under my weight, and I just lie there— spread out, staring at the ceiling, feeling every bruise and ache like they're the only things keeping me tethered to this miserable fucking world.
Pain. It's the only thing that ever feels real. If I can feel it, I know I'm still alive.
Lucky me.
I close my eyes, exhaling slow. I should sleep. I should let unconsciousness take over so I can get a few hours of peace before waking up to the same miserable reality.
But then—
"Move."
My eye twitches.
I turn my head just enough to glare at Neil, who's standing next to my bed, arms crossed, looking like he actually has the fucking audacity.
"...Excuse me?" I croak.
Neil tilts his head. "Move over."
What the actual fuck.
I stare at him. Waiting for him to explain why the hell he thinks he belongs anywhere near my bed.
He doesn't.
Instead, he just nudges my leg.
Like I'm in his way.
Like this is his bed.
Like I didn't just get my ass beat today, and he isn't a complete fucking stranger.
I groan, dragging a hand down my face. "You are so fucking weird."
And then—Neil does the unthinkable.
He slams his entire body onto my bed.
Right next to me.
I jolt from the impact, eyes snapping open as the mattress dips under his weight.
What the fuck.
He doesn't say anything. Doesn't make himself comfortable. Just lies there, staring at the ceiling, arms behind his head—like he does this every night.
I blink at him. "Are you serious?"
Neil hums. "You won't sleep if you're alone."
I snort, rolling my eyes. "That's a bold assumption, asshole."
"Is it?"
I open my mouth to argue. To tell him to get the fuck off my bed.
But I don't.
Instead—I just stare at him.
At the way he looks completely unbothered. At how this feels normal to him.
At how I should definitely be shoving him off.
But I don't.
Because maybe—just for tonight—I don't want to be alone.
Eventually, my eyelids grow heavy.
Just before sleep drags me under, I hear Neil murmur—
"I won't leave."
It sounds like a promise.
And, for once—
I want to believe it.
---
TO BE CONTINUED...