15. Esperr #3
And when I feel a strange pressure building behind my ribs, tight and warm all at once, I do what I do best and deflect. “And you know what, that’s kind of creepy. Like, objectively speaking, that’s very stalker behavior.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, a real smile this time; the edges of his face that are usually hardened now soften.
“Probably,” he admits.
I huff out a breath, shaking my head, but I can’t quite stop the way my fingers curl tighter around my mug, but it’s not warm enough to ground me anymore—not that I would need any more heat; my cheeks are doing just enough of that.
It’s ridiculous how much this is affecting me. We literally got rid of a body together, but this is what throws me off balance. Not the blood, not the alley, and not the fact that he knows knots and dumping spots like it’s second nature.
No.
It’s the fact that he noticed the stupid little drawings I did when I thought no one was looking.
“I just…” I trail off, searching for the right words and coming up empty.
This is probably the first time I’ve been at a loss for words.
“I didn’t think anyone cared enough to pay attention to that stuff.
” My voice sounds smaller than I like, so I clear my throat and smile, forcing myself to sound lighter than I feel. “They were dumb anyway.”
“No, they weren’t,” Zyran says immediately. The certainty in his voice makes me look up again. “They were you,” he adds, pinning me with this look that dares me to argue with him. And the stupid part of me wants to, wants to pick a fight and see him wiggle in his seat.
I blow out a breath, trying to brush off the sentimental feeling that’s happening between us. “Well, now that it’s awkward, we can move on,” I say, rolling my eyes.
The corner of his mouth lifts, just barely, like he appreciates the escape hatch but isn't going to be the first to take it.
Before either of us can say anything else, the waitress reappears, balancing two plates along her arm with practiced ease.
The smell hits me before the plates even touch the table—butter, syrup, and fried potatoes.
My favorite.
She sets the breakfast skillet down in front of him first, the cast-iron dish still sizzling faintly, eggs, peppers and breakfast sausage Then she slides my plate in front of me, a stack of pancakes so fluffy they look almost fake, a square of butter already melting down the sides, with an extra side of butter and hash browns that are ready to spill over the edge.
“Anything else I can get you?” she asks, already backing away.
I shake my head quickly, “nope, this is perfect. Thank you.”
Zyran gives a small nod of his own, and then she’s gone again, leaving us alone.
For about two seconds neither of us moves until my stomach betrays me with a quiet growl, and I let out a small, embarrassed huff before grabbing my fork.
“Don’t judge me,” I mutter, cutting into the pancakes with a little too much enthusiasm. “I’ve had a long night.”
“You don’t say,” he says dryly.
I glance up at him, catching the faint hint of amusement in his eyes and a slight tilt in his lips, as he picks up his own fork. The normalcy of it all feels surreal, like we’re not two strangers sharing breakfast.
Plopping the extra butter onto the center, I grab the syrup and drown the pancakes until the golden liquid soaks into the edges.
When it’s just enough, I set the syrup to the side and finally take a bite.
I close my eyes briefly at the taste, and a small involuntary moan slips out of me.
“Oh my god,” I mumble around the fork. “Okay, this…this was so worth it. Completely worth it.”
Zyran lets out a quiet breath that might be a laugh, shaking his head as he digs into his skillet.
We eat in a strange, almost comfortable silence for a few minutes; it’s not tense or heavy, neither of us trying to fill it with words. It’s just quiet and nice.
Every now and then, my gaze drifts up to him unintentionally, from the way he eats to how methodical and controlled he is, as if he is aware of everything around him while eating.
It’s oddly nice and grounding, in a way that lets me relax.
I chase a bite of pancake with a forkful of hash browns, and then lean back into the booth, exhaling through my nose. The edge of exhaustion starts to creep in now that the adrenaline has somewhere to go, settling heavy behind my eyes.
The sky outside the diner windows has shifted from black to that soft gray that means morning isn’t far off, and my shift at Wicked Co starts soon.
“So,” I say quietly, pushing my plate a few inches away even though I’m not actually full, just aware that this night has to end eventually.
“You going to sleep after this? Or do you have more… mysterious work accidents scheduled for the day?” I wrap my hands back around the coffee mug, hating the ice-cold feeling that it sends down my spine, and hold his gaze.
When he doesn’t say anything, I bite my cheek and sigh. “I should probably get going; I have to be at the coffee shop soon. And should probably try to pretend this was all just a really weird dream.”
And I need to call Oliver so I can figure out who Zyran really is.