"You quit your job?" Daniel said, bursting into your room uninvited, his eyes wide with surprise. You froze mid-step, glancing around your sanctuary—the soft glow of your bedside lamp casting shadows on the cream walls, the faint scent of lavender from your diffuser still hanging in the air. A week had passed since your dramatic exit from the bank, and now this? Barging into your space to ask that? Who'd spilled, anyway? And why did he care now?
"What?" you replied, staring him down, confusion knitting your brows as you set your book aside on the rumpled duvet.
"I said, you quit your job?" he repeated, his voice dropping low, threaded with a melancholy edge that tugged at something deep. That tone—smooth, almost vulnerable—nearly pulled you under, but you snapped back, shaking off the pull.
"I did. So?" You crossed your arms, holding his gaze steady. He wasn't his usual half-naked tease today; shorts and a simple tee covered him fully, the fabric clinging just enough to hint at the lines beneath, but his stance was casual, hands shoved in pockets.
"Nothing," he said, voice softening further. "Just... wanted to know why."
"Well, it's because..." You trailed off, the words sticking like thorns. Explain? To him? The one who was the cause of your anger? ...the one who got to you so bad that you had to loose it at the bank? No. Not now, not ever. You turned away, sinking back onto the bed and yanking the duvet up to your chin, cocooning yourself in its cool weight. His presence? Dust. Ignore it, and maybe it'd fade.
"If you don't want to explain, fine."
"Glad you get it," you shot back, muffled from under the covers. "I don't want to, and I don't have to. I owe you nothing."
"That's true," he conceded, a pause stretching the air taut. "But I'd like to say something." You tensed, intrigue prickling despite yourself—what now? Another dig? A plea?
"Now that you're free... wanna hang out? Frequently?" His words landed soft, but they wrapped around you like vines, squeezing out the breath. He was still wedging into your life, and you were on thin ice. Say yes, and risk the fall? No, and miss the rush? Or stall, let it simmer? Questions piled like storm clouds: possibilities endless, inconsistencies glaring. Days of company could bloom into something warm, real—love, even. Or betrayal's , an affair that will most likely/ surely expire . We only get one shot; love breaks every rule, so why fight the current?
You decided. "Yes."
"But you know where this might lead, right?" The words tumbled out, uncertainty lacing them— was this mutual, or just your heart playing fool?
He grinned, nodding with goofy vigor, head bobbing like a kid who'd won the last sweet at a function.
"Guess we'll see." He turned for the door, feet shuffling soft against the tiled floor, but paused abruptly, hand on the knob. Twisting back, eyes locking on yours with that familiar spark.
"Wanna go for dinner tonight?"
Heat rushed to your cheeks, a flush of amusement and something hotter blooming there. You bit your lip, the simple thrill of it all—normalcy, invitation—catching you off guard.
"Yes," you said, voice steady despite the flutter.
"Then meet me downstairs by eight." He flashed one last smile—genuine, disarming—and slipped out, the door clicking shut behind him with a soft finality.
Your first boyfriend in ages... and his name was Daniel. Bad omen, or just a red flag you'd learned to ignore? The dark memories lingered, a shadow at the edge of your mind: old betrayals, the laughter that had cut deepest. Trust no one—that mantra etched in scar tissue, pulling at you with whispers of dread. Suicidal thoughts flickered too like ghosts, but you shoved them down. This? You were playing the most dangerous game—love's roulette, where payback was promised, inevitable. It would scar, one way or another, but damn if you could resist the blaze. What would it yield? Ashes, or light? Eight o'clock loomed, and with it, the leap to hell or heaven, no in-between because there was nothing there.