The Audi S8 moved through the city streets with the quiet hum of German engineering, its blacked-out exterior drinking in the streetlights. Inside, the atmosphere had shifted from the tension of the parking lot to something lighter, easier. Serio kept his eyes on the road, his long fingers resting on the steering wheel with the casual confidence of someone who had learned to drive on these streets.
"I can't be compared with Nem the Right," Serio said, and for the first time that night, he laughed—a real, genuine laugh that filled the car and made Leona smile despite everything.
She looked over at him, this strange, impossible man who had just danced Rumba with her in a parking lot, and felt something settle in her chest. Not resolution, exactly. Not peace. Just a moment of being exactly where she was supposed to be.
"Where are we going?" she asked, though part of her didn't care. Part of her would have been content to just drive through the city forever, watching the lights blur past the windows.
Serio didn't answer immediately. He took a turn, heading away from the direction of her apartment, away from his house, toward a part of the city they hadn't visited in years. "You'll see."
They drove in comfortable silence, broken occasionally by Leona pointing out a new storefront or Serio making an offhand comment about the way the city changed when no one was looking. The conversation was easy, untethered from the weight of the earlier evening. They joked about Professor Nem, about the ridiculous price of coffee at the campus café, about nothing and everything.
Fifteen minutes later, the neighborhoods began to shift. The buildings became older, the brick weathered and honest. This wasn't the polished center of the city where Serio's house stood, nor the struggling poverty Leona's apartment bordered. This was something in between—a medium-class neighborhood that held onto its history with stubborn pride. The kind of place where old men still sat on stoops in the summer, where corner stores knew your name, where the past hadn't been entirely paved over by the future.
It looked like Brooklyn, or maybe Harlem in its quieter moments. The brick walls were old but maintained, the streets cleaner than they should be for a neighborhood that didn't have money to waste. There was a realness here that the rest of the city had traded for glass and steel.
Serio parked on the street, the S8 looking oddly out of place among the older sedans and practical family cars. He killed the engine and sat for a moment, looking through the windshield at a small storefront across the street.
The sign above the door read "Te Embla" in simple letters, no flourish, no pretension. The building was old brick, unpainted, kept in its original state like a point of pride. The windows were warm with light, and through them, Leona could see a few small tables, empty chairs, and the shadow of someone moving behind a counter.
"No way," Leona breathed.
"Yes," Serio said simply. "The path I followed brought us here. To a place forgotten but not erased from our memory."
They got out of the car. The September night had grown colder, the kind of cold that made you walk faster, made you appreciate warm spaces. It was after nine, and the street was quiet except for the distant sound of traffic and the occasional bark of a dog somewhere in the darkness.
Te Embla wasn't a restaurant in the traditional sense. It was more like a neighborhood bakery that had evolved into a gathering place—a mense, as Serio's family might have called it. Four tables inside, two outside (empty now in the cold), and a counter where people could order and take things to go. The smell that hit them as they pushed through the door was a mixture of sugar, butter, and something indefinably nostalgic—the scent of a place that had been making the same things the same way for so long that the walls themselves had absorbed the sweetness.
Reimond Lei was behind the counter, his back to the door as he worked on something in the kitchen beyond. He was in his sixties now, his white hair still thick despite the years, his body carrying the comfortable weight of a man who had spent his life around flour and butter and didn't apologize for it. He wore a white apron dusted with flour, the kind that wrapped around and tied in the back, the uniform of someone who took their craft seriously.
When he turned and saw them, his face split into a wide, genuine smile.
"I doesn't even need to take the order," he said, his accent heavy—Albanian mixed with decades of American English, creating something uniquely his own. "Two Nutella Brownies."
Leona felt tears prick at her eyes again, but these were different. These were the good kind. "Mr. Reimond, how have you been? It has been a long time."
"Well," Reimond said, wiping his hands on his apron as he came around the counter. "My two favorite customers haven't been here, so not so good. But it's good now."
Serio looked around the space, his dark eyes taking in every detail. "I see the place hasn't changed."
"Please don't start that now," Leona said, knowing exactly where this was going.
Reimond laughed, the sound deep and warm. It was the laugh of a man who had heard every joke, survived every hardship, and still chose joy.
"To be sincere," Serio continued, ignoring her protest, "I like that it hasn't changed. It brings back memories." He paused, then added with perfect timing, "I am going to the bathroom."
Reimond raised an eyebrow, his eyes twinkling. "Did the place give you so many memories that you're going to cry?"
"That would be the highest level of nostalgia," Serio replied, his tone completely serious. "But no, Mr. Reimond. It's not that far. Just washing my hands."
Reimond laughed again and went back to prepare their order. Leona watched Serio disappear down the narrow hallway toward the bathroom, then turned to see Reimond watching her with an expression that was difficult to read.
"He hasn't changed," Reimond said quietly. "Still the same. Not understood, Serio."
Leona didn't know what to say to that, so she just smiled and took a seat at their usual table—the one on the right side, nearest the window, where they could see the street outside. The same table they'd sat at throughout high school, when everything had seemed simpler, when the future had felt like something distant and negotiable.
The brownies arrived a few minutes later, presented on small white plates with an abundance of paper napkins and two glasses of water. They were perfect—crispy on the edges, gooey in the center, still warm from the oven. Reimond set them down with the care of someone serving something precious.
Serio returned and slid into the seat across from her. He picked up his fork and cut into the brownie, watching the Nutella ooze out. "Always tough on the outside," he said, gesturing with the fork at Reimond, who was back behind the counter. "Just like Reimond."
Leona laughed and took a bite of her own brownie. She ate quickly—she always did when she liked something, a childhood habit she'd never broken. The taste was exactly as she remembered: rich, sweet, with that specific texture that only came from someone who had been making the same recipe for decades.
"Leona," Serio said after a few moments. His tone had changed, become more thoughtful. "It's weird, isn't it? Such a simple dessert and still so much taste. It's like the night—just dark but so much, you know, lights."
She looked up at him, waiting for him to expand on the metaphor, to turn it into one of his abstract philosophical moments.
"Hmm. No," he said simply, and went back to eating.
Leona felt something deflate inside her. "Come on, why not? Tell me about your writer's opinion."
Serio set down his fork and looked at her directly. His black eyes were unreadable. "You wouldn't take it. It would be realistic and mean. So let's not break this nostalgic feeling and enjoy our time here."
"Right," Leona said, but the word came out wrong—too small, too hurt.
She started eating slower, the joy bleeding out of the moment. Serio noticed—of course he noticed—but he didn't comment. He just finished his brownie in silence, the comfortable atmosphere from the car dissipating like smoke.
When he was done, he stood abruptly. "Wait for me here. Just five minutes."
"What now?" Leona asked, but he was already walking toward the door.
"Wait here," he said again, and then he was gone, the door chiming behind him.
Leona sat alone at the table, staring at her half-eaten brownie. She could hear Reimond moving around in the kitchen, the sound of water running, the clatter of dishes. The clock on the wall ticked loudly in the silence.
Five minutes passed. Then ten.
She knew Serio. She knew that when he disappeared like this, there was no point in trying to understand it. He just... left. It was part of who he was, this ability to be completely present one moment and utterly absent the next. His bipolarity, his split personality—she didn't know the clinical terms for it, but she knew the patterns. She knew the sudden shifts, the way he could go from warm to cold without warning.
But knowing didn't make it hurt less.
Outside, Serio walked without direction. His mind was racing, thoughts colliding and fragmenting like a car accident happening in slow motion. He moved through the familiar streets of his old neighborhood, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his blazer, his breath visible in the cold air.
What am I doing? he thought. Why did I bring her here? What am I trying to prove?
He didn't have answers. He never had answers when he got like this—anxious, unmoored, his brain firing in directions he couldn't control. It wasn't the watch. It wasn't the Heir. It was just Serio, the Daily Serio, the one who couldn't sit still, who couldn't stay in moments that felt too real.
He crossed the street without looking, his mind elsewhere.
The SUV came out of nowhere.
Or rather, it had always been there, and Serio had walked into its path like a man sleepwalking. It was a blacked-out Chevy Tahoe, big and aggressive, and it was moving fast. The driver—a man in his thirties, visible for just a moment in the glow of the streetlights—slammed on the brakes.
The SUV stopped maybe thirty centimeters from Serio's body.
For a moment, time did that thing it does in near-death experiences—it stretched, became elastic, turned every detail sharp and unbearably clear. Serio could see the terror on the driver's face, could see that the man had been on his phone, could see the exact moment when the driver realized he had almost killed someone.
Serio's body reacted before his mind did—he jumped back, his heart suddenly hammering, adrenaline flooding his system. For a second, he was genuinely scared, genuinely shaken.
Then, as quickly as the fear came, it transmuted into something else. Not quite anger. Not quite acceptance. Something Serio-shaped, something that couldn't be named.
The driver rolled down his window, his face pale. "Sorry! Jesus Christ, I'm sorry!" He didn't wait for a response. He just rolled the window back up and drove away, fast, like he was fleeing a crime scene.
Serio stood in the middle of the street, his breath coming hard, his mind suddenly, brilliantly clear.
"I know what I should do," he said to the empty air.
He turned and walked back toward Te Embla, his stride purposeful now, the anxiety burned away by adrenaline and near-death clarity. But when he reached the street corner, he didn't turn toward the restaurant. He kept walking, away from Leona, away from the decision he'd just made, storing it somewhere in his mind for later.
Inside Te Embla, Leona had given up waiting.
She stood and walked to the counter, pulling out her wallet. Reimond came out from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel, and shook his head before she could say anything.
"No need to pay," he said. "The Nutella brownies are on me." He paused, then added in a lower voice, "And Leona, I always have talked to you like I talk to my daughter, so let me be honest."
Leona's throat tightened. She knew what was coming.
"I know how you feel about Serio," Reimond continued, his accent making the words somehow gentler. "But he might never accept your feelings because he might not know his feelings—if he wants you like a friend or more."
"Thanks, Mr. Reimond," Leona managed. "See you."
She walked out into the cold night, pulling her coat tighter around her body. The walk home was thirty minutes, mostly through quiet residential streets where the trees still held onto their leaves and the houses all looked the same. She didn't cry the whole way—just let a few tears fall, then wiped them away, then felt disappointment settle in her chest like a stone.
Disappointment in Serio, yes. But more than that, disappointment in herself for hoping.
Her apartment building was twenty floors of old brick and broken promises. The elevator, as expected, wasn't working. She looked at the OUT OF ORDER sign taped to the doors and laughed without humor. "What a surprise," she muttered. "The elevator not working. How ironic."
She climbed the four flights to her apartment—12th door on the fourth floor—and let herself into the small one-bedroom space that was hers. It was minimal in the way cheap apartments were minimal: not by design, but by necessity. The bedroom was a mess of clothes that hadn't made it to the hamper. The kitchen had dishes in the sink waiting to be washed. But the walls—the walls were covered in art.
Her paintings hung in a strange order, starting low near the floor and rising in a ladder formation. Each new painting was hung one centimeter higher than the last, creating a visual timeline of her work, a physical representation of time passing.
She collapsed on her bed without turning on music, without changing clothes, without doing any of the things she normally did. She just lay there, staring at the ceiling, and thought the same thought over and over: What am I doing?
Eventually, hours later, she fell into a thin, restless sleep. Two hours, maybe. Not enough. Never enough.
The next morning arrived grey and cold. Serio woke in his own bed, showered, dressed in dark grey instead of black—pleated trousers, Chelsea boots, a polo shirt, and a light suede jacket that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent but looked understated enough to pass unnoticed.
He looked fresh. Put together. Like a man who had slept a full eight hours and woken without regrets.
By 9:45, he was back at Tetori, sitting in the same booth where he and Leona had sat the morning before. But instead of coffee, he ordered wine—something less expensive than the Malbec, just a mid-range red that the barista poured with only the faintest lift of an eyebrow.
The barista had seen worse from Serio. They were accustomed to his behavior at this point, annoyed in the way service workers were annoyed by regulars who made their jobs slightly harder but tipped well enough to make it bearable.
Serio sat with his wine and his notebook and his pen, the analog watch on his left wrist, the morning light falling through the windows in pale, dusty beams. He looked calm. Contemplative. Serio-like, which was to say, impossible to read.
He was on his second glass when she walked in.
Laria Neva moved through the café with the confidence of someone who had made a decision and was no longer second-guessing it. She was striking—not in the conventional way that Mia was striking, but in a way that made people look twice. Her brunette hair was very long, falling in loose waves that weren't quite curls, the kind of hair that looked effortless but probably required maintenance. Her eyes were green, the kind that shifted shades depending on the season or the light, and she had full lips, thick eyebrows, and lashes that didn't need mascara.
She wore ripped jeans, nice sneakers that might have been Bally, a red jacket that added a pop of color against the grey morning, and bracelets in brown and grey on her wrists. She carried a brown leather purse—something expensive but not ostentatious, maybe Loewe—and had a laptop bag slung over her shoulder.
She walked directly to Serio's booth. He had taken up the entire bench, his long legs stretched out, his body language screaming that the space was occupied. She bent down slightly, lowering herself to be at his eye level, and met his gaze.
Other customers glanced over, then minded their own business. This was Tetori. Weird things happened here.
Serio looked up from his notebook. Recognition flickered across his face—not immediate understanding of why she was there, but awareness of who she was. Another writer. Laria. LIT. They'd met before, briefly, at some gala for authors where people who wrote for a living pretended to enjoy small talk.
"Who permitted you to sit with me, Laria?" Serio said, his voice carrying that particular Serio mix of playfulness and something sharper. "Did your mind think, 'Yo, today I will sit with Serio,' because mine is saying get the fuck out of here, Laria." He paused, then added with a small smile, "But to not be that type of boy, you can go and get a coffee from me and take your leave with kindness."
Laria didn't flinch. She stood her ground, still bent slightly, meeting his eyes. "I need to talk with you. And I will tell you what I want to tell."
Her voice was steady. Confident. Serio liked confidence.
He leaned back, studying her. His pen was already on the table, his notebook open to a page of scattered thoughts and half-formed metaphors. "You know," he said slowly, "to gain someone's attention—a boy, practically—you need to make a good impression. Which you failed." He held up one finger. "One."
Laria's jaw tightened, but she stayed silent.
"Two," Serio continued, holding up a second finger. "You need to be unique. Which, I don't know about others, because I don't think beauty makes people unique."
"Can you stop the drama and let me say what I need to say?" Laria interrupted.
"Do not interrupt me, lady," Serio said, and though his voice stayed calm, there was an edge to it now. "Three: Do not act desperate. Which you are—a state where you need my attention. If Mia was here, she would say, 'He doesn't give a shit about anyone.' A sentence like a double-edged knife." He paused, watching her face. "Four: You need to find the best timing. Which, again, you failed, my lady."
He spread his hands in a gesture of mock-regret. "It was an honor for me, Sir Serio, to meet with you on this beautiful but fateful day. Beautiful for me, and fateful for you."
Laria took a breath, centering herself. She hadn't come this far to be dismissed. "I need your help with my book, and I will do everything for you to help me. I mean, it is everything you want."
"So you said it two times," Serio observed, "showing your willpower to do everything if I help you?"
"Yes."
Serio let the silence stretch. A full minute passed. Laria stood there, bent at an awkward angle, waiting. Other customers looked over occasionally, then away. The barista refilled someone's coffee. A car honked outside. The clock on the wall ticked.
Finally, Serio smiled—a genuine smile, not a smirk. "Okay. I will help you, my Lady Laria."
"Don't call me your lady," Laria said immediately.
The change in Serio was instant. His hand moved—fast, deliberate—and he grabbed the wine glass and brought it down hard on the table. The glass broke into three or four large pieces that fell inward, not shattering but cracking with a sound that made everyone in the café freeze.
The waiter came rushing over, his face a mix of fear and professional annoyance. "Sir, are you okay?"
"Serio is totally fine," Serio said, his voice calm and cold. "But the agreement is not. I will pay for the glass, but for the moment, leave us alone."
The waiter backed away slowly, nodding, accepting the reality of the situation without argument.
Serio turned back to Laria, who hadn't moved, hadn't screamed, hadn't done anything but watch. "And what is your side saying for the agreement, my Lady? Will they try a desperate attack, or desperate prayers so everything goes as it was going?"
"Call me whatever you want," Laria said, her voice steady. "What do you want to change?"
"No," Serio said. "I will tell you when I finish my work. And it isn't money. But you agreed to do everything."
"Of course."
"Then let's leave," Serio said, standing in one smooth motion, "and go to my college and sit on the benches in the yard."
"Why there?"
"Because there," Serio said, his tone shifting back to something lighter, more philosophical, "you can tell me your problem, the ideas of the book, in a place with fresh air, with a lot of positivity, with students everywhere who think that going to a good college is going to make them be someone."
They walked the fifteen minutes to Le Firhi College side by side, not talking, just moving through the morning city. The campus was relatively crowded but not overwhelming—students between classes, some sitting on benches, others walking in clusters. The courtyard was surrounded by trees that were just beginning to turn, their leaves still mostly green but touched with amber at the edges.
Serio led her to a bench near the trees, on the sideways of the main path, where they could see the flow of student life but were slightly removed from it. They sat close together on a single bench, their shoulders almost touching.
"So," Serio said, pulling out his notebook again. "How was the walk?"
Laria blinked. "What walk?"
"The walk around the city I haven't told you to take yet."
She laughed despite herself. "I don't understand."
"You will," Serio said. "But for now, tell me your problem."
She launched into it immediately, no small talk, no preamble. She explained that she needed to write a drama book—not her usual fantasy genre, but something with dramatic acts and romantic elements. Her manager had given her a six-month deadline. She wanted to write about strong men and strong women, but she didn't know how to show strength. She thought maybe it was a technical issue, a skill she hadn't developed.
Serio listened, his dark eyes fixed on her face. When she finished, he said simply, "Too easy. WRITE!"
The word came out loud, dramatic, his arms spreading wide like a medieval king addressing a court. Students nearby looked over, some laughing, some smiling, some just giving side-eyes and moving on. A few people had their phones out, recording, probably thinking this was some kind of performance art.
Laria laughed. She couldn't help it. "No, I am not in writer's block."
"Are you sure?" Serio asked. "And you write about fiction. Why drama now? More like a dramatic story, or a romantic one?"
"My manager said I need to write a drama story including dramatic acts and romantic ones too, so I can get a chance for an award. So my name gets bigger. I want to write about a strong man and a strong woman, and how they fulfill each other. Now you help me."
"One," Serio said, holding up a finger again. "A strong woman doesn't need a man to fulfill her. Two: Why would a strong man look for a strong woman? To get rejected?"
"You are not helping me, you know."
Serio stood abruptly. He looked at the sky—clouds moving slowly across the grey expanse—and then he screamed, "LOVE!"
The word echoed across the courtyard. Students stopped talking. People turned to stare. The three people who were already recording focused their cameras. Laria froze for a moment, then realized she had to commit to whatever this was. She stood too, her body language shifting from ashamed to defiant.
"How can you write for a strong woman when you are a shy one and not strong?" Serio asked, turning to face her.
"That wasn't some strong thing to be proud of," Laria said, confused. "You just straight-up screamed LOVE. What should I do?"
"Look, Laria," Serio said, his voice dropping back to normal volume. "A strong man would do anything for his LOVE. And screaming in the name of LOVE is kid's play for him. Yes, you are right—why should a strong man scream LOVE? Oh, easy. What do you define as strong?"
"I am a girl, so isn't it me who needs to tell you that?" Laria said. "But I mean he needs to be independent, not afraid of others, proud of himself, powerful, and able to destroy anyone who opposes him."
"No and yeah," Serio said. He was pacing now, a small circle around Laria. "But if he isn't able to do what he wants from his heart's core, why in the first place does he need power? Just for a show? Try and understand by yourself. If he can't do stupid things that people get ashamed of but want to do for someone—but the wall of shame stops them—they aren't strong men."
Laria was listening now, really listening. The laughter had faded from her face, replaced by concentration.
"Okay," she said slowly. "But why am I weak and not strong? And a shy girl?"
"You can't just run away from a man who confessed his LOVE to you," Serio said. "So what do you do? In my point of view, you hear him and decide for yourself. You are not ashamed of him or his love, because strong people don't care about other people's opinions. After all, that is their strong point—being themselves anywhere, with anyone, and not being afraid to show it to anyone."
"You are right," Laria said. A smile was forming on her lips now, genuine understanding breaking through. "Help me with this, please. Now I am starting to understand."
"For the start," Serio said, "call me Sir Serio, and I will call you my Lady."
"Sure, why not?" Laria said, laughing. "Become little kids now?"
Serio smiled—that rare, genuine smile that transformed his face. "Now, to undo the spell of your writer's block, you should go for a walk around the city and observe life as it flows. See the people and how they are doing. See how different men and women are. Then come here, and I will get you somewhere."
"Okay," Laria said. She stood and extended her hand. They shook—formal, but with warmth underneath. "Thanks for helping me, Sir Serio."
Serio looked at her, his eyes intense. She added quickly, with a laugh, "Sir Serio."
"Goodbye for now, my Lady," he said. "Your presence will not be forgotten."
She left, walking back through the courtyard with purpose in her stride. Serio watched her go, then turned his attention to the trees. He started collecting leaves—different colors, different shapes, moving from tree to tree with a focused, almost proud intensity. He filled his pockets with them, counting silently. Fifty-four leaves. It felt like the right number.
Students saw him doing this and mostly ignored it. This was typical Serio. The weird boy who didn't give a shit about anything.
In Leona's studio, the same one where she'd been working on the lion painting, Mia and Leona stood at the window. They could see Serio clearly, moving between trees, collecting leaves like a child gathering treasures.
Leona was painting—or trying to paint. She kept glancing outside, her brush moving slowly across the canvas.
Mia barged in without knocking, her high heels clicking on the tile floor. She was dressed in her usual style: short skirt, tight shirt, heels that added inches and attention. She carried her notebook—the prop she always had but never used.
"Leona," Mia said, her voice dripping with fake concern. "What are you doing?"
Leona didn't turn from the window. "Painting."
"You're watching him," Mia said. "Again."
"I'm working."
Mia came to stand beside her, looking out at Serio. "Are you seeing him and what he does? He goes and calls some girl his Lady, thinks he did the right thing for you yesterday, and ends the conversation like that."
Leona laughed—a bitter, tired sound. "Typically Serio. Don't worry, Mia. Now I am looking just for myself and doing what's only good for me. And he is practically not anymore my friend."
"Now you are talking," Mia said, her voice triumphant. "I know we are grown now and can't talk like 'my friend' and 'not my friend,' but he is playing with you. He touches the line, then he overcomes the line, but then he steps back and comes again. Like he doesn't understand a girl."
"No," Leona said quietly. "He understands well enough and can make any girl fall for him. But that's it. Now that I think about it, he sees me only as a best friend. And I don't think any of his relationships with girls lasted more than a week. To be honest, the only one that lasted that much was only because he needed to be with her for some kind of reason."
"So he wants only a one-night stand with girls?" Mia asked, though she already knew the answer.
"Yeah," Leona said. "He is Serio for you."
The door opened. Serio walked in, his pockets bulging with leaves, his expression calm and purposeful. He looked at Leona, then at Mia, then back to Leona.
"Giving her leaves," Serio said, walking forward and presenting them formally, like a knight presenting a gift to a queen. "Different types of leaves to inspire her to do a magnificent painting. What were you thinking?"
Mia looked annoyed, her face tight with barely controlled anger. "You and I are really on a highway, Serio. Just switching lanes but never crashing and never stopping. Just going forward until one of us loses sight of the other."
Serio's face lit up with genuine appreciation. "That was poetic. Good use of words. And I have to say, 'Amazing Line.'"
"Yeah," Leona said, her voice suddenly hard. "The last line. Don't talk anymore to me, Serio. I don't need you near me, understood?"
Serio looked at her for a long moment. His expression was unreadable. "Serio doesn't understand the choice, but I will agree with what you want. But hear only one thing from me: WHEN YOU ARE IN BAD TIMES I WILL COME IN WITHOUT ASKING. Goodbye."
He gathered the leaves back to himself and left. The door closed behind him with a soft click.
Leona started to tremble. Not visibly—just a shaking deep inside, something only she could feel. "Don't say anything, Mia, please. You go out and leave me alone."
Mia left, her heels clicking, her face satisfied.
Serio went to the canteen. It was moderately populated—students eating lunch, working on laptops, having conversations that filled the space with white noise. He got a salad and some soup and sat by himself at a corner table.
He looked hurt. Not on his face—his face was its usual mask of calm indifference. But something in the way he held himself, the way he pushed the salad around his plate without eating, suggested an internal wound.
Mia found him there. She stood above him, triumphant, her voice cutting through the ambient noise. "Do you see how it feels to be rejected, Serio? Because I am sure many feel like this because of your fault."
Serio looked up at her. "Mia, stop. I have no time to waste with you. Please stop."
"Oh," Mia said, her voice dripping with cruel pleasure. "Now the popular, the handsome, the one that does only one-night stands is hurt."
She laughed.
"You are happy," Serio said, his voice flat. "Finally made Leona not stay with me. Congratulations on your achievement. I seek other doings by you. Now leave."
"I should leave? No. I have to make myself proud of this moment. My friend stopped being with... I don't know what you are."
Jon appeared then, walking quickly across the canteen. His brown hair was slightly disheveled, his blue eyes concerned. "What are you saying to Mia, Serio?"
"Slow down there, boy," Serio said. "It was her who was talking to me. And you know what? I would be the happiest if you took that hater away from me, because to be honest, she has been hating me since the first day of seeing me."
"Be careful with words, Serio," Jon said. His voice carried the weight of protection, of a boyfriend defending his girl.
"Come, Mia," Jon said. "Leave him alone."
"No," Mia said. "I will stay here and make fun of him."
Students were starting to gather now. Not a huge crowd, but enough—maybe ten or twelve people forming a loose circle, sensing drama, sensing a fight.
Serio laughed. It wasn't a happy sound. "You desperately want me to make me feel worse than I am. I take the challenging girl, but why? Is it because even if you were there advising Leona to stay away from me, and she still keeps staying with me, it made you hate me? Was it because you could never do anything against me, even when I never wanted to do anything against you? Or let me say it—"
"Don't say it," Mia said, her voice suddenly fearful.
"You see," Serio said, standing now, his 190cm frame making everyone else look smaller. "You think my secret can destroy me. How, girl? How can being me destroy me, while you know pretty well what a word from me can do to you now?"
Jon stepped closer to Serio, getting in his face. "What did she say, Serio?"
"You see, Jon," Serio said, his voice cold and calm, "I don't give a shit about you. So who the hell do you think you are to make me say something? I think no one can."
Jon's punch came fast—a thing of the moment, fueled by anger and protection and confusion. But Serio avoided it with the smooth efficiency of someone who had done this many times before. He slid to the side, grabbed Jon's extended arm, and used a judo-like motion to redirect Jon's momentum. Jon went down hard on his back, his head hitting the ground with a thud that made people gasp.
The canteen went silent.
Jon tried to stand, but Serio offered his hand. Jon, proud and hurt, refused it and got up on his own.
"You see now, Mia," Serio said, his voice calm, almost philosophical. "I am not a coward and can face anyone who tries to do me badly—in a kindly way or fighting way. Because a man should hold his horses when provoked and show his manhood when needed. Jon, never try to fight me, okay? And Mia, stop putting others in bad situations they shouldn't be in."
Laria appeared then, pushing through the small crowd. She'd witnessed the whole thing—the confrontation, the attempted punch, the takedown. "Did you fight?" she asked, her voice curious but with an edge of disappointment.
"No, my Lady," Serio said, taking her hand. "It was an idea to make me feel bad where some people aren't even good with themselves. Let's get out of this negative energy of negative people."
They walked away, Serio leading, his hand still holding Laria's. Behind them, Mia stood frozen, and Jon stood hurt and proud and alone.
An hour later, Jon found them in the campus gardens. Serio was showing Laria around—this is the library, this is where the art students work, this is the best coffee on campus. Basic tour-guide stuff, casual wandering.
Jon approached slowly. His back was fine—no serious injury—but he'd learned his lesson. He knew that if Serio had wanted to really hurt him, he could have.
"Sorry for that," Jon said. "Maybe it wasn't the right thing to do."
"No hard feelings, Jon," Serio said genuinely. "I have nothing with you nor with Mia. Trust me, she just keeps trying to get Leona away from me as a friend."
"What were you about to say?" Jon asked. "As a man to another?"
Serio looked at him for a long moment. Then, with the matter-of-fact tone of someone reciting a grocery list, he said, "She was right. We are on a highway, just switching lanes. Mia has liked me since the first time she saw me and thought that separating me from Leona was going to make me like her. And if you ask me how do I know that—because we once did it together, and I did it only to prove to her I don't like the way relationships are built. I seek only for my pleasure, and that's all. So she would understand trying those things was pointless, since I never take a woman seriously for a relationship."
Jon's face went through several emotions—hurt, confusion, relief, anger. He settled on something like broken acceptance.
"Sorry for you to hear that," Serio continued, "but as you said, as a man to another. Don't stay with Mia. Not because of me, but because she has been with you while wanting me, and being with Leona while trying to make her hate me because I stay with Leona but am not in a relationship with her. I love Leona, but as my only best friend. That is it. Mia is one of those girls who sees only her interest."
"That was a lot to take in," Jon said quietly.
"Thanks, man," Serio said. "As a man to another, thanks."
They shook hands—a firm grip, an understanding passed between them. Jon walked away slowly, his pride intact but his heart somewhere else, processing the relief of knowing the truth even if the truth hurt.
Laria watched him go. "So, how was the walk, my Lady?" Serio asked.
"You are on a highway and just switching lanes," Laria said.
Serio's expression went cold for just a moment. "Helping you doesn't mean you can talk with me like you are a friend, a critic, or above me in life. Try not to judge me, my Lady. I am just a lost Sir in this new wild world, where everything can go as the flow or can be destroyed by a simple branch."
"Sorry," Laria said quickly. "So I went for a walk and tried to understand the strong and weak men and women. But it's hard. No one is like another. They have their similarities, and some are different. I think you were right, Sir Serio, when you said, 'What do you understand with strong?' I have an idea for the book story, but I just can't show the strong side of the genders."
"So that's why I am here, my Lady," Serio said, his tone warming again. "To brighten your view. Let's go to a place I like a lot when I want to brighten my view."
"Let's go," Laria said. "But do you have any work to do now? I don't want to interrupt you."
Serio laughed. "Well, I have college, which I don't care about."
They both laughed, and the tension broke.
They walked back to where the Audi S8 was parked. The drive took twenty-seven minutes through the city, heading downtown toward the midtown Manhattan-like district where glass and steel reached toward the sky. They were mostly quiet during the drive, Serio occasionally commenting on some upcoming writers' gala, Laria nodding but not really engaging.
Skyview was in a modern glass skyscraper, all clean lines and expensive materials. Serio pulled up to the valet, handed over his keys without a word, and led Laria inside.
The elevator ride was silent. They went up, up, up—past the offices, past the luxury apartments, to the very top where the rooftop bar spread out like a promise. The elevator doors opened, and they stepped into a different world.
The space was open—all glass walls and strategic greenery, with air heaters keeping the temperature comfortable despite the early evening chill. There were tall lounge chairs scattered around, small tables in the middle where people could stand and mingle, and along one edge, a balcony area where you could stand and look out at the city.
A host greeted them immediately. He recognized Serio, smiled professionally, and led them to one of Serio's usual spots—a pair of lounge chairs near the edge, where they could see both the interior of the bar and the view beyond.
The place was almost full. The crowd was well-dressed but not formally so—people in their late twenties to mid-forties, the kind who had money but weren't ostentatious about it. Background jazz played low, just loud enough to create atmosphere without drowning conversation. The lighting was dim and romantic, and through the glass, they could see the river and the major buildings of the downtown skyline.
"I want an AMF," Serio said. "And for you, my Lady?"
"The same," Laria said.
Skyview was self-service in the best way—you went to the bar, ordered, paid, and carried your drinks wherever you wanted. Serio went up, chatted briefly with the bartender ("How are you?" "Good, good, ciao"), paid, and returned with two drinks in simple, elegant glasses.
AMFs—Adios Motherfucker—were bright blue and deceptively strong, a cocktail that tasted like candy and hit like a truck. Laria had never had one before, though she'd struggled with alcohol in the past. Wine was usually her poison of choice when things got bad. But this was different. This was an experience, not an escape.
They sipped normally, no reaction to the strength.
"Drink slowly," Serio said, standing and gesturing toward the balcony. "Observe and lose yourself in these lights of the city at night. And think about your strong point while this view can make you dream about romance or have a good time."
"Why so?" Laria asked, playful.
They moved to the balcony—the edge of the rooftop where tall lounge chairs were positioned for exactly this purpose. They sat side by side, close enough that their shoulders almost touched, and looked out at the city.
"That is what I do sometimes," Serio said, "to get away from this sad reality we call day-to-day life, which doesn't make any sense. And here we are, drinking AMF and talking about your next dramatic, romantic, and epic book, which isn't your genre. Does any of this make sense, my Lady? Girl, I am calling you my Lady—any meaning in that?" He laughed, genuine and a little manic. "And you know what? You call me Sir Serio."
"What are you talking about?" Laria asked. "Speak it out."
Serio pointed at the city, then turned to look at her. "Dramatic moments are created. They are felt. Epic moments with a little bit of diamond powder called romance are again felt. Now, what's your take on this? Are you feeling the romance?" He moved closer. "Are you feeling the drama?" Closer still. "Or, my Lady, are you feeling the epicness coming from a Sir like me?"
"Are you saying you can't help me?" Laria asked.
"Serio can guide you," he said, "but a book is more than that. It is a true thing that I strangely like and admire to work on. I can get lazy. I can go blind of view and come here. But my genre is fiction, and yours is too."
"But I need to do this book," Laria said. Her eyes were filling with tears now, not from sadness but from frustration, from the weight of six months and a deadline and the knowledge that she didn't know how to do this. "And you said you would help me. You're not keeping your word now, Sir Serio."
"Please don't cry, my Lady," Serio said. "But I am helping you. I just spoke the truth. I am going to take two more AMFs because we need them."
He left her there on the balcony, went back to the bar, paid again, and returned with two more blue drinks. When he got back, Laria had wiped her tears and was staring out at the view, her expression unreadable.
Ten minutes passed in comfortable silence. Then Laria stood and walked over to where Serio was standing, leaning against the balcony rail.
"Thanks for the AMFs," she said. "I will repay you when I finish my book."
"If this view doesn't help you," Serio said, joking but not really joking, "and the second shot of AMF doesn't work too, I will need to focus more on what type of thing you need for inspiration."
"I have a six-month deadline for this book," Laria said. The words came out in a rush, like she'd been holding them in. "Can I stay at your place? Because I think you are a strong man I need to observe and analyze for inspiration and my story. And you know why? You do what you want to. You be who you are. No mask, no lies, and no pointless drama in your life. I want to make you my strong man character, and by doing that, who knows—I can find a strong woman too."
"Okay," Serio said.
Laria stared at him. "That easy? I asked to stay at your place, and I can stay for up to six months."
"I said I will help you," Serio replied. "Did you forget that in front of you is a Sir?"
"Never doubted, Sir Serio."
They left their drinks half-full on the balcony and walked out together, Serio leading but holding her hand. The valet brought the S8 around, and Serio drove her home first—back to her building with the broken elevator and the art-covered walls.
"Come in the morning," Serio said as she got out of the car. "We'll figure it out."
"Okay," Laria said. "See you."
She went upstairs, her mind racing. She didn't sleep much—maybe got an hour or two before she woke at 4 AM and started packing. Just the important stuff: clothes for a week, toiletries, her laptop, chargers. She packed like a tourist, efficient and minimal.
At 5:30 AM, she called a taxi.
The city at 6 AM was a different creature. Quiet streets, the occasional jogger, garbage trucks making their rounds. The taxi driver didn't ask questions, just drove to the address she gave and dropped her off in front of a two-story industrial brick house that looked like Brooklyn transplanted into the heart of the city.
Laria stood on the sidewalk for a moment, her suitcase beside her, her backpack over her shoulder. She looked at the house—solid, unpretentious, the kind of place that whispered money without shouting it—and felt her determination solidify.
She walked up to the door and knocked. Hard. Loud enough to wake someone who might still be sleeping.
Serio opened the door maybe thirty seconds later. He was wearing swimming shorts, a long-sleeved hoodie, and holding a wooden spoon in one hand. His black hair was messy, unfixed, sticking up in ways that made him look younger, more approachable. His expression was surprised.
"You're early," he said.
"I know," Laria said. She bent down, grabbed her suitcase, and carried it inside without waiting for an invitation.
The hallway opened into a space that was exactly what she'd expected: minimal, clean, expensive in the way good materials were expensive. She dropped her bags right there in the hall.
"What's for breakfast?" she asked.
Serio laughed. "So you come now in the morning without a gift. You are staying as a guest, and no, I am not good at cooking. And I mostly eat outside. But the first rule when you stay at someone's house—you get them something."
"Ahhh, I am sorry," Laria said, laughing too. "What do you like most? It's like an interview for the good of my book."
"My Lady," Serio said, his tone shifting into something theatrical, "getting my liking in things isn't going to be easy. And you know why? It is changing like this damn weather. Yesterday was bright, warm, and yeah, all types of good weather. And today just with grey clouds? Where's the storm, oh mighty Zeus?"
He gestured dramatically at the window, at the grey morning outside.
"I think that staying here might be the most bizarre thing I have done," Laria said sincerely. "And man, I have a list of it."
"Anyone who can acknowledge her shame," Serio said, "is welcomed here at my bizarre temple."
"Sir Serio, you look like a kid sometimes. And when you are serious, you scare me."
"Nothing to fear, my Lady," Serio said. He gave a mock military salute. "I am here to serve you with a great drama book which, to be honest, happens only in drama books. So I hope you have chosen the right one, or you will waste a lot of time in my company."
"I look forward to it."
"If you say only one more time that sentence," Serio said, "it's like we are doing business here and I am employing you. Boom, you're fired."
Laria laughed. "Okay. If you want, I can make you something."
"My Lady is cooking a home meal for me?" Serio said. "What a wonderful act of romance. The kitchen is on the right."
She found the kitchen—modern, filled with high-end appliances that looked barely used. A $30,000 range that Serio probably didn't know how to properly operate. She made toast, simple and efficient, and coffee with the manual espresso machine that did get regular use.
They ate at the kitchen island, talking about random things. How was the taxi ride? Why so quiet in the morning? Just small talk, the kind that filled space while two people figured out how to be around each other.
When they were done, Serio went upstairs to get dressed. He came down fifteen minutes later in his black suit—a two-piece, slim-fit, casual enough for day wear but formal enough to be taken seriously. No tie. Never a tie.
Laria had changed too, but not much. She was still in jeans and her athletic windbreaker jacket, casual and comfortable.
"Let's go," Serio said.
They walked to campus together. Serio was a keen person on walking—he liked the rhythm of it, the way it cleared his mind. They talked lightly, Serio pointing out buildings and streets, cracking the occasional joke. It was comfortable.
At Le Firhi, students barely noticed them arriving together. This wasn't a small school where everyone knew everyone's business. People had their own lives, their own concerns.
They stayed together most of the day. Serio went to a few classes, and Laria came with him when there was space. When there wasn't, she went to the canteen, worked on her laptop, observed student life the way Serio had told her to.
At lunch, they ate together—something with fish that the campus café was serving. It was mediocre, but they didn't care. They were building something, a rhythm, a understanding.
In her studio, Leona was organizing her brushes, getting ready for an afternoon class. She glanced out the window and saw them—Serio and some woman she didn't recognize, walking across the courtyard, talking, comfortable with each other.
She stared for a moment, felt something twist in her chest, then turned away and left for her class.
Serio didn't see her. He was focused on Laria, on the strange experiment they'd agreed to, on whatever this was becoming.
They returned to Serio's house in the early evening. The light was fading, the city settling into its nighttime rhythm. They ordered food—Chinese, probably, or Thai—and ate in the living room while half-watching something on TV.
The conversation shifted, slowly, from casual to something more. They talked about writing, about what made characters feel real, about the difference between strength and stubbornness. Serio was relaxed, more open than he'd been all day, and Laria found herself drawn into his orbit.
It was Serio who moved first. Not dramatically, not with grand gestures. Just a shift in proximity, a hand on her arm, a look that lasted a beat too long.
They were in the kitchen when he kissed her.
It wasn't tentative. It wasn't a question. It was a statement, a decision made and executed with the same confidence Serio brought to everything else in his life.
When they broke apart, Laria looked at him and asked, without words, if this was real.
"Serio will," he said simply.
And then he kissed her again, and whatever boundaries had existed between them dissolved into something else entirely. They spent the night together—not just sleeping in the same house, but together in the way that meant something had fundamentally shifted.
The chapter ended there, in that moment of decision, in that kiss that changed the trajectory of everything that would come after.
END OF CHAPTER 2: HIGHWAY