Chapter 15 #3
He’s completely focused. His eyes narrowed, and posture relaxed. His thumb adjusting the pressure just enough to keep the thing moving without crashing. And every now and then, he makes a small correction.
“What even is that thing?” I ask, watching it skitter over the rug.
“A prototype,” he says without looking up. “It’s a mapping algorithm. It learns the room as it moves.”
“So, basically, a creepy little spy bug.”
He lifts a shoulder, not disagreeing. The thing halts mid-step, as if listening, then adjusts course.
He sets the controller down and picks up a slim notebook, jotting something quickly.
I frown. “Wait, are you writing in… Latin?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
I make a face. “Because it’s dead?”
Kai finally turns, one brow slightly lifted. “I thought you liked things that were dark and dead,” he says smoothly, and there’s no judgement in it. Just observation. Just fact.
I scoff, more out of habit than anything else. “Says the one writing code in a corpse of a language.”
He smiles at that, and without another word, he looks back down at the controller, adjusting the spider-thing’s trajectory.
Meanwhile, I watch him. Like I always do.
There’s something about Kai, always has been. He’s one of the most brilliant people I’ve ever met, and I think he knows it too. He’s good at absolutely everything, and he always knows exactly what to say. I can’t help but admire him. Can’t help but feel drawn to him.
I always wondered why that was. Initially, I assumed it was something about his face.
He’s always been very pretty to look at; perfectly proportioned.
I noticed that from the moment I first laid eyes on him.
I had been itching to take a photo. To capture that look in his eye through my lens, for me to keep.
But then I started thinking that maybe it’s something else. Maybe it’s because his darkness calls to mine.
Practically singing, so that I come crawling.
He must feel me staring, because I catch the twitch at the corner of his mouth. Just barely there. Amused, maybe. Or something else.
I finally look away.
My eyes drop to my arms as I shove my sleeves up, revealing the marks. Some are faded, some not. Some are fresh.
I roll my eyes at them. They always bother me. Or more specifically, the reason for them does. The reason I always keep a weapon on me, no matter the occasion.
If only my father could just get his shit together…
Actually, no. He never had it together. He’s just angry and loud and so damn bipolar. He’s two different men stuffed into the same skin. It’s like flipping a coin every day, except you already know it’s going to land on the wrong side every single time.
But he’s your father, people would always tell me. Find it in your heart to forgive him.
The thought in itself is hilarious to me. Why should I forgive him? Forgiveness doesn’t remove the knife in your back; it just makes the one holding it feel better.
I will never forgive him because he doesn’t deserve it.
I scratch one of the older scars near my wrist. Looking at it now, I feel… nothing. I suppose I should feel some kind of shame, or disgust. Fear, maybe? That would make me normal.
But there’s nothing.
Just skin. Just lines.
I tell myself it’s because I’m just used to it. But the truth is, pain is all I’ve ever known, it’s etched into me, woven into my very being. To let it go would be to lose the only thing that ever made me feel real. The damage has been done, and joy is too distant. Too fragile.
And every time I ever touched it, I bled.
When I look up again, he’s already watching me. His gaze is still, thoughtful.
I can never be sure what goes through his head. I’m not sure anyone can.
He has his own way of telling the truth, I guess.
Then, without asking, he reaches out and takes my wrist, pulling it toward him. “Again?” he asks, his thumb brushing lightly over one of the fresher lines.
I sigh, dramatic and half-bored. “Nothing I can do about it.”
A strange look flashes across his face, but it’s brief. Practically unreadable. And then his grip tightens suddenly. If I had any sense of self-preservation, I might have flinched at the pain.
Instead, I raise an eyebrow at him.
“You’re really going to let him win?” he asks. “You’re not, are
you?”
“No,” I say finally, the word coming out quieter than I meant it to.
His hand softens again, gliding along my forearm with a kind of care that borders on reverence. “You’re better than that. I’d hate to see you pretend otherwise,” he says after a pause.
I glance at him, and he’s still not looking at me, just my arm, his fingers tracing absent patterns across the skin. There’s a charm in his voice even now.
Then he says, with that same idle softness, “Remember when we used to draw over these?”
His thumb pauses over one of the faded marks, and he laughs under his breath, but it’s quiet. Almost fond.
“We were so ridiculous,” he murmurs, glancing up at me, eyes bright with something I can’t name. “And yet I wouldn’t mind doing it again. If you only asked.”
I lean into the palm of my hand, cheek resting on my knuckles. “Whose idea was that again?”
He finally lets go of my wrist. “I’m not sure,” he says, and it looks like he means it. Like he’s genuinely trying to remember, eyes squinting slightly, mouth drawn in that particular way he has when he’s actually thinking. And for some reason, that makes me watch him even more closely.
I’m not sure what kind of face I’m making right now, but whatever it is, it makes him pause.
“What is it?” he asks, gaze flicking to mine.
“Nothing,” I say quickly, shaking my head.
He tilts his head slightly. “Aspice me iterum sic.”
I blink. “What?”
He leans back slightly, but his eyes stay fixed on me. “Te devorare possem sine te tangere,” Kai says in a language I’m guessing is Latin.
“What does that mean?” I peer sceptically at him, convinced he’s making some kind of joke without my knowing.
Kai’s only response is a slow smile.