Kael's POV
I didn't mean to snap like that.
I stood in the kitchen, staring at the empty space where she had just been. Her footsteps had faded, her bedroom door slammed shut, and now the apartment was too quiet.
I leaned against the counter and let out a breath.
It wasn't like I cared. Not really. We'd only known each other for two days. She was just a stranger I had to share a roof with for a while. Nothing more. But still... something about the way she looked at me before she walked away made me pause.
She looked confused. Maybe even hurt.
Whatever.
She was the one who kept pushing buttons. Acting like we were friends. Making stupid jokes. Getting too comfortable, too fast.
I ran a hand through my hair and grabbed a glass from the shelf. My fingers drummed against the counter as I poured water. I wasn't even thirsty—I just needed something to do.
I hated how unsettled I felt.
Not because I felt guilty—at least not in the way people usually do. I didn't care enough for that. But maybe I'd come off a little too harsh. My tone, the words I chose—it wasn't just firm, it was mean. Cold. I sounded like a complete asshole.
And yeah, maybe I was one.
But there was a difference between setting boundaries and going too far. And I think I crossed that line.
She had just made a stupid comment about me being antisocial. Most people did that. It wasn't deep. But for some reason, I took that small spark and lit the whole damn house on fire.
Why?
Maybe it was because I'd been reading her file right before that. And seeing her history—foster care, depression, all that—it messed with my head a little. I thought I could handle it. Treat her like anyone else. But it was like something crawled under my skin, and when she spoke, it all came out in one ugly wave.
I didn't say anything that wasn't true. But maybe the way I said it—that sharp edge in my voice—was unnecessary. A little too personal for someone I barely knew.
I sipped the water and leaned on the counter.
What the hell did I expect? That she'd laugh it off? Throw some snark back at me like usual?
Instead, she shut down. Eyes all wide and silent, like I'd just slapped her.
I pressed my lips together and looked toward the hallway. Her room was closed. Lights off. Not a sound.
Good. Maybe it's better like that. She needed to learn we're not here to play house. I didn't invite her in to be my friend. We were just stuck here under the same roof. That's it.
Still...
I glanced at my laptop, still open on the dining table. The file glowed back at me. Part of me wanted to shut it and forget it ever existed. But another part… I don't know.
I walked over, sat down, and scrolled back up.
The stuff in there—it was heavy. Too heavy for someone who walked around pretending like nothing ever touched her. She joked too much. Talked too much. Like she was trying to fill the silence with noise.
I didn't feel bad for her. Not really. Life was rough for a lot of people. That didn't mean I had to tiptoe around her.
But maybe next time, I could keep my mouth in check. At least until she gives me a real reason to bite back.
I shut the laptop and stood up.
I wasn't going to apologize. She'd get over it. Or she wouldn't. Either way, it wasn't my problem.
But damn…
I did sound like a jerk.
And now the whole apartment felt like it was holding its breath.
I told myself it didn't matter. Her past wasn't my concern. I wasn't her friend. I wasn't her therapist. We were strangers sharing the same space because of a decision I didn't even want to make. So why did her file sit in my mind like a bad aftertaste? Maybe it was the way she looked at me, like I'd ripped open something she worked hard to keep shut. Maybe it was guilt—though I hated the word and hated feeling it more. Or maybe it was just that I realized I'd said too much. Not because I cared, but because I didn't like losing control of my words. I didn't like the sound of my own voice when it was that sharp. I didn't like how I looked when I let someone get under my skin, even if it was just a little. I wasn't sorry. But I was annoyed. At her, for being so difficult. And at myself, for reacting like I did.
I wasn't used to things feeling out of my hands. I liked order. I liked silence. I liked when people kept their distance and didn't try to make small talk in my kitchen like we were in some quirky sitcom. But ever since she moved in, it was like the air itself shifted—too loud, too alive. And it wasn't just the noise or the clutter she dragged in with her bags. It was her—Aria. Her presence had weight, like she filled the corners of the room without even trying. And the worst part? She acted like it was normal. Like she belonged here. Like she could joke with me, tease me, talk to me like I was human. I didn't ask for that. I didn't want that. But for a split second, when she looked at me with those wide, stunned eyes, I felt like the bad guy in a story I didn't agree to be part of. And I hated that. I hated that I let my control slip. That I let her get to me, even if it was just enough to snap.