13. 13
T he house is quiet, save for the low hum of the fridge and an occasional creak of timber beneath my bare feet as I walk through the kitchen.
I’m still trying to convince myself that today might feel less off-kilter than yesterday. The mug I’d half-filled with tea two hours ago sits forgotten on the bench.
By the front door, the kitten bats at the crumpled plastic bag that’s been sitting there since yesterday—the same one he’d brought with him when he stopped by. Its rustle fills the quiet, like it’s mocking me for leaving it untouched.
With a reluctant sigh, I cross the room and pick it up. It crinkles in my hand as I move to toss it in the bin, but something about the weight stops me. It isn’t heavy, exactly, but not light either—there’s something solid tucked down in the corner.
I frown and peer inside, pushing the plastic open just enough to see what it might be. My eyes blink rapidly, and my heart skips a beat. Of course, he left it here. He didn’t even step foot inside, yet somehow, a part of him is still in my house.
I fish out the black bi-fold wallet slowly, holding it in my hand like it might burn me if I’m not careful. The leather is warm, worn down on the edges, the stitching frayed in one corner.
I place it on the bench with a quiet exhale, just as the kitten appears like a summoned spirit. Her paws, which appear to be way too big for her body, pad softly across the floor before she leaps effortlessly onto the ottoman beside the kitchen bench. Why is that even there?
This place needs all new furniture. Well, more like a refurbishment, but alas, not my problem. It is a rental after all.
“Get down,” I mutter without much conviction. She meows in response, and it’s unapologetically loud. Her yellow eyes narrow slightly as her collar shifts, the small gold disc attached to it catching the light. I lean in slightly, and a deep, exasperated sigh escapes me.
His number. Engraved into the metal in small, neat lettering.
As if he knew she’d end up here. As if it were part of some unspoken plan. A dry laugh escapes me as I punch his number into my phone with dramatic flair—before I give myself the chance to overthink it.
Me : You left your wallet here. And how convenient that your number was also on the collar.
The response is almost immediate.
Unknown number : Who’s this?
Me : Oh, you know exactly who this is.
I rub the back of my neck, fingers catching against the knot that’s been building there since this morning.
My shoulders are drawn too tight from tension I haven’t yet figured out how to shake.
This isn’t how I imagined today unfolding—not that I imagined much.
I just wanted quiet. Maybe a clean kitchen.
A moment of calm. Instead, I’m standing here in the middle of my kitchen, holding a wallet that doesn’t belong to me, surrounded by the traces of someone I never invited in the first place.
His cologne still lingers, faintly, but nevertheless still present, woven into the plastic bag he left behind.
My phone buzzes in my hand, dragging me back.
Unknown number : Oh crap! That’s where it went. I’ve been looking for it everywhere.
Yeah, I’m sure you have. I let the silence hang between us for a few seconds, refusing to rush into another reply, even as I stare down at the wallet like it might explain itself.
As if it might tell me why a man like him—cocky and too charming for his own good—could carelessly misplace his wallet so easily.
Unknown number : I just know you’re rolling your eyes right now.
Me : You need to hurry up and collect your belongings now.
Unknown number : Jesus, if you wanted me back at your place, all you had to do was ask, love.
My jaw clenches, fingers tightening around the phone. I swear the man was born to test my limits—pressing on boundaries I’ve only just learned how to set.
Me : I do not! Come and get your wallet AND the cat while you’re at it.
I sink onto the couch with a breath I didn’t realise I was holding. Surely enough, the kitten soon follows, meowing with what sounds like protest before leaping onto the cushion. She flops onto her side in an exaggerated sprawl. I need coffee. Something stronger than tea.
It’s too early to be feeling this tense.
I walk to the kettle, pocketing my phone, silently willing it not to light up with more unwanted messages.
The kitten trails after me, head-butting my legs. Are all animals this clingy? The fuck?
I flick the switch harder than necessary. I’d only boiled it not long ago, so the steam rises almost instantly. I focus on the hiss, the small, simple ritual, because it’s easier than acknowledging that he—a stranger, mind you—has already started to get under my skin.
I feel the vibration before the sound. Pulling my phone out from my pocket, I’m met with the same unknown number.
No. No, no, no. Why the hell is he calling me?
Something twists low in my stomach, and it’s not butterflies. Not even close. It’s that familiar, unwelcome flutter—born of dread, of years spent bracing for impact instead of blooming. Liam might have rewired my brain, but that doesn’t make this any less wrong.
I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t even be entertaining the idea of answering.
And this guy—this boy? God, how old is he, anyway?
The thought slides in uninvited, sticking like a burr.
The ringing goes on, each chime digging under my skin.
I think about letting it go to voicemail, about ignoring it until the silence wins.
I even set it down, pretending I’ve taken back some control.
I haven’t. If anything, the tension sharpens, coiling in my shoulders.
I hover over the screen, willing myself to leave it.
“Ugh, fine!” I snatch it up and press it to my ear. “Hello.”
“Jeez, that took a while. You didn’t need to give yourself a pep talk before answering, did you?”
“More like… deciding if you were worth my time.”
His sudden laugh bursts through the speaker. It’s low and warm with a rasp at the edges, and it’s strange… disorienting, almost, to hear another man’s laugh in my ear.
“You wound me, Freckles ,” he drawls. “You gotta give me some credit here.”
I close my eyes briefly, already regretting the decision to answer the phone. “I knew I shouldn’t have picked up. Are you coming to get your things or not?”
“Yes to the wallet. No to the kitten. She’s all yours.”
The kitten meows from across the bench, as if she heard his words through the phone. I fight the urge to roll my eyes as I shift my phone to my other ear. “There is nothing stopping me from taking this animal back to the animal hospital, or better yet, the shelter. Do not tempt me.”
“You wouldn’t,” he says, as if daring me.
He’s not wrong. Of course I wouldn’t. But it’s the only leverage I’ve got in this weird little exchange, and I’m not above pretending I’ve got more control than I really do. I could. But I won’t. I’m not that vile of a person. And the truth is, we both know I’m bluffing.
Even the cat probably knows it.
“That’s what I thought.” His voice crackles through. Oh, screw him. “I’ll be there in fifteen.” I hear a rattle of keys before the loud rumbling of an engine. “Oh, also, your name is officially going into my phone as Feisty Freckles.”
“What? No—” A groan escapes before I can stop it. I press the phone to my forehead, trying to compose myself before I lose my shit even more. The cold screen grounds me more than I care to admit. “Listen, I did not text you just so you could save my number.”
“Oh, I think you did. See ya soon—” I hang up before he can finish, slamming my thumb on the red button harder than necessary. Was it childish of me? Absolutely. Did it satisfy me? For all of five seconds.
God, he is so insufferable. Just the thought of him saving my number grates on me. Which begs the question—why do I care? Why am I even entertaining the thought when this is clearly what he wanted all along? My screen lights up again, and I’m so close to just powering it off at this point.
Unknown number : It’s not very nice to hang up on people mid-sentence.
Me : Well, I’m not nice.
Me : Please, delete my number.
Unknown number : Oh, so Miss “I’m not nice” does have manners. Sorry, but no. I won’t do that.
Me : Fine. I’ll just block you. Problem solved.
Unknown number : No, you won’t.
Me : Watch me.
I stare at the message thread for a long time, thumb hovering over the screen again.
I open his contact, finger poised over the block button, but I don’t press it.
I could. I should. I’ve done it before—cut people out with surgical precision the moment they started itching too close.
It’s a skill I mastered years ago. One that kept me sane and safe.
But this time… I don’t move. I set the phone down on the counter, screen still lit, conversation still open.
Exactly fifteen minutes later, the street outside growls to life. Not with a car engine.
No, of course not. I hear the roar before I even look out the window to see a red motorbike slicing through the quiet street like it owns the place.
It’s sleek. Loud. Flashy. The kind of thing that looks too fast, too dangerous, too expensive. I don’t know the make, but it’s clearly not a commuter’s choice. It’s a statement.
I shake my head, grab the wallet from the bench, and stalk toward the front door.
No part of me wants a repeat of yesterday.
I don’t want his infuriating scent seeping into this house.
The cat’s curled up in the hallway, half-asleep and entirely indifferent as I crack open the front door and step onto the verandah.
He’s just walking up, helmet under one arm, the other swinging loose at his side. No rush. No nerves. Completely at ease. I chuck the wallet without warning. He catches it mid-air, like he was expecting it.
“Nice throw,” he says, grinning. “You always this hospitable, or am I special?”