15. Esperr #2
It’s almost like it’s too good to be true—that’s exactly what this feels like, and I don’t entirely want to admit that to myself. He showed up and didn’t hesitate; he didn’t panic, he didn’t lecture me or threaten to call the police or look at me like I’d suddenly turned into something monstrous.
He just helped, and that kind of loyalty, that kind of calm competence, doesn’t usually come without a price tag attached somewhere down the line.
And yet, I’m still crushing on him.
Which is probably the worst possible timing for that realization, because there’s that voice in the back of my head that’s already thinking ahead, already planning damage control in case everything about this implodes later.
I’m going to have to tell Oliver.
It’s unavoidable. He’ll ask questions, and a lot of them, questions that I’m not entirely sure how to answer without sounding completely unhinged. I can already see his face, the way he’ll be quiet at first, then cautious, then furious in that controlled way he has when he’s trying not to scare me.
I push the thought aside for now. That’s a later problem, one that will come back to bite me. But right now, I’m sitting here, with a man who helped me get rid of a body, and somehow I don’t feel afraid of him. Cautions, yes. Curious, definitely. But not afraid.
Which might be the most concerning part of it all.
“So, I think we can call ourselves friends now,” I finally say.
One corner of his mouth shifts, not quite a smile, not quite disbelief, but something else. “Friends,” he repeats, his voice rough.
I huff out a small breath, glancing down at the table for a second before looking back up. “I mean, you did help me with… a situation,” I say, tapping my finger once against the mug. “That feels like it should qualify for something.”
This time he does let a faint hint of amusement show before he shuts it down, raising a brow.
I lean forward just a little, lowering my voice even though no one is close enough to listen. “So,” I continue, tilting my head again as I watch him more closely now, “do friends tell the truth when it comes to mysterious work accidents?”
He stills, just for a fraction; anyone who’s not trained to see the small details might miss it. But I see the way his shoulders go more rigid and his fingers pause halfway to his glass before continuing like nothing happened.
“Because that doesn’t look like a slip on a wet floor,” I smirk, “and you don’t exactly strike me as the kind of guy who gets hurt while filing paperwork.”
He doesn’t say anything, just stares at me with a million words written over his face.
“I’m not asking for a full confession,” I add, lifting a shoulder.
“I just… the way you reach for your neck as if…” My eyes flicker to the scar on his left side; it hides just beneath the edge of his collar, it’s not exactly jagged or sloppy.
It’s not the kind that came from an accident in a kitchen or a fall, but something held with intent.
It disappears into the fabric of his shirt, but I’ve seen it since he came back and have memorized the shape of it.
The way it pulls just a little when swallowed, and the way his fingers unconsciously find that exact spot, pressing there like he’s checking that it’s still closed, that it’s healed.
My gaze lingers for half a second longer before I force it back up to his face, heat creeping into my cheeks like I’ve crossed some invisible line.
“I’m not trying to pry… I just noticed,” I say, shrugging and sitting back, taking a long sip from the mug. “And considering tonight, I feel like we’re well past small talk and polite lies.”
He doesn’t answer immediately, letting the diner hum softly, a coffee machine hissing somewhere behind me. Across the table he watches me, eyes steady, like he’s measuring something he hasn’t decided how to say out loud just yet.
Then he leans forward, the movement slow as he rests his forearms on the edge of the table, hands collapsed loosely together. It closes the space between us just enough that I notice the faint roughness of his knuckles, multiple scars that disappear beneath the sleeves of his coat.
“I’m not sure,” he says, voice quieter, as if it's only meant for me, “if being friends is all I want with you.”
If anyone else said those words, I’d throw this coffee in their face and run for the hills. My bags would be packed, and I’d choose another town in a completely different state.
I feel my cheeks heating from his words alone.
“That sounds ominous,” I mutter, taking a sip of my coffee.
Zyran’s mouth almost curves and then flattens just as quickly. “It’s hard to explain.”
I wait, hoping that he’ll elaborate, but he doesn’t; his gaze drops for a moment, tracking a bead of condensation sliding down his water glass.
“Why don’t you draw on the cups anymore?”
I blink, thrown so completely off track that it takes me a second to even process the question.
“W–what?”
“You used to draw, like little doodles on the cups, smiley faces, weird tree-looking monsters. One time you drew a cat hanging from a branch with a coffee mug next to it.”
My stomach dips, and for a moment all I can do is stare at him.
It’s not because I don’t remember doing it; I do.
I remember that exact shift, down to what marker I used, the way I’d leaned over the counter half-asleep and bored, trying to make myself laugh so I didn’t think too hard about anything else.
But no one had ever said anything about them—not a customer, not Eli or Taylor, no one. Customers took their drinks and moved on with their lives like the little pieces of me I’d scribbled on the cups had never existed.
“This is…” I blink, shaking my head once like it might reset my brain. “This is the first time anyone’s ever mentioned them.”
Zyran doesn’t look surprised, but he does look slightly mad about that, like he’d expected that answer and hates it.
“I don’t know when you stopped,” he shrugs, clearing his throat. “Maybe when you started working at the bar. Or?—”
“When you stopped coming in,” I blurt, the words literally falling out of my mouth before I even have time to think.
His eyes snap to mine, and I don’t have to debate whether he heard me or not.
Heat rushes up my neck as I realize what I’ve admitted, and I look down quickly, focusing way too hard on the thin crack in the laminate tabletop, wishing the ground would swallow me up.
“I mean,” I rush, fumbling for something that sounds less incriminating than me crushing on him and noticing that he left. “It was notable; you used to come in all the time, mornings, same order, same seat.”
What the fuck? That doesn’t sound any better.
I swallow, the metallic taste mixing with coffee at the back of my tongue, flaring briefly.
“And then you just didn’t…” I trail off, not adding the fact that it hurt that he stopped.
That he told me he’d see me tomorrow, and he didn’t show up.
Even more so recently, he tells me he’ll see me tomorrow and then just disappears for a few days.
I risk a glance back up at him. “I guess what I’m trying to say is, you don’t exactly blend into the background as well as you might think you do,” I mumble, forcing a small, crooked smile.