Captured Heart

6. Katelyn

I inhale the familiar scent of Café Al Mada. The smell of roasted coffee beans and cinnamon waft through the air. It’s virtually empty, as it usually is on a Sunday morning. We’ve claimed a small table by the window, and Karmani is currently sprawled in her chair, her denim jacket hanging off one shoulder, stirring her latte with more aggression than the task deserves.

“I’m stating this emphatically,” she huffs, “if one more professor assigns a group project, I’m going to gouge someone’s fucking eye out. What is the point of individual grades if we’re constantly forced to work with morons?”

Karmani continues to bitch about the new project that was given out on Friday. Zayn was assigned as her partner, and she is livid about it. Corey and I listen quietly while she commandeers the conversation like she’s hosting her own podcast.

“I’m just saying,” she continues, growing more irritable, “group projects were designed by sadists. They know they’re setting us up for failure. It’s like, ‘Hey, let’s put overachievers with literal Neanderthals and see what happens.’ ”

“He’s not that bad,” I say before sipping my iced coffee. “And let’s not pretend your work ethic is stellar, Kar. You procrastinate everything until the last minute.”

“I work well under pressure,” she counters, tossing her sleek black hair over her shoulder.

“You are the pressure,” Corey mutters, but she ignores him. “Anyway, I got Akbar, so—”

My mouth drops open. “You got Akbar? Oh, my God! I’m so jealous. I’ve been wanting to work with him since last semester. The guy’s a genius.”

“I’m a genius, too, and I’ve never seen you so excited to work with me.”

“Of course, I am. I just hide it better,” I tease, playfully nudging him with my elbow. “But for real. Let’s swap. You can have Yunis. You like Yunis, right?”

“As much as I like being constipated. Besides, we’re not allowed to swap. Professor Chayefsky said we’re stuck with whoever we got, whether we like it or not.”

“Ugh! Kill. Me. Now!” Karmani lets out an exaggerated groan as she rubs her temples. “Can we please talk about anything else? Just knowing that I’m stuck with that asshole is making me more depressed.”

“Okay, let’s talk about oxidative phosphorylation and ATP synthesis.”

She rolls her eyes and gives me a disinterested snort. “Let’s not.” And then her eyes light up. “I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t you spill the tea on that guy who had you swooning on the phone on Thursday?”

“I was not swooning.”

“Who is she talking about?” Corey asks.

“Alex...I mean John.” It feels so weird saying his real name because it just doesn’t suit him.

“Oh, he called? Did he finally ask you out for coffee?”

The question instantly gets all my emotions swirling in a vortex. “What? No! Why?” I clear my throat to get rid of that excited pitch. “I mean...why would he ask me out for coffee?”

“Because that’s what he said he wanted to do.”

“He did!” Again, I take a breath to tamper down the eagerness in my voice. “He did?”

“Yeah. I told him you weren’t interested, though.” He shrugs and takes another sip of coffee. “I know that after Jason, you basically swore off men, so I made it clear that you were solely focused on your studies.”

I know he told Alex that with the best of intentions, but I’m so annoyed right now. Not even with Corey. With myself. Because I did swear off men, and I am supposed to be solely focused on my studies. I guess I would’ve preferred it if he had said nothing at all. But I can’t even be mad at him. He was only looking out for me.

“So, when did he say this?” I ask. “After we met at the gym?”

A pang of guilt wrinkles his face, and he exhales a heavy breath. “Look, I’m gonna level with you. John and I aren’t friends. I met him the same day you did. He was in the library, and he saw us studying together. After you left, he came up to me and started asking about you. I told him you wouldn’t be interested, but he was so persistent that I agreed to arrange a little meet-up for the two of you at the gym.”

I’m not going to do it. I’m not going to draw parallels between Alex’s actions and a pre-2005 rom-com. Well, maybe just a little.

It’s not on the stop-a-taxi-in-the-middle-of-traffic level, but, wow, he sure went out of his way to meet me. That’s got to count for something, right?

And it also explains his eagerness on Thursday when he suggested we watch a movie together.

“I’m sorry,” Corey says. “I should’ve told you sooner. Please don’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

“I am,” Karmani chimes in. “Why did you tell him she wasn’t interested? Now, he probably won’t make a move because he’s scared of rejection.”

Before I can respond, the café door swings open, and Zayn strides in. His tall, lanky frame already makes him stand out, but he has the cutest face, which makes it impossible to miss him. Hazel eyes, light brown skin, a killer smile—he’d be very attractive if he wasn’t...well, if he wasn’t such a jerk.

He’s always been nice to me, but damn, the shots he swings at Karmani leave her winded sometimes.

“Oh, great,” Karmani mutters irritably, rolling her eyes when she sees him walking toward our table.

“Good morning,” he sings, and his chipper tone only annoys her more.

“Get lost, Zayn.”

“I’m doing great. Thanks so much for asking.” He slides into the empty chair beside her. “And how are you doing this morning... partner ?”

Her eyes narrow into a death stare. “Not great. I’m so stiff and sore. I just can’t seem to get this pain out of my ass.”

Zayn knows she’s talking about him, but still plays dumb. “Use lubricant next time.”

The smirk sets her off, but the wink pushes her over the edge. She’s seething now. “Eat a dick, Zayn,” she bites out.

“Aw! So, you do like to share. You have so many flying at you, and I was under the impression that you wanted them all , so it’s good to know that you’re not as selfish as I thought you were.”

These two will keep going at each other until someone intervenes. Corey did it last time, so it’s my turn. “Now, play nice, kids. There’s no need for that kind of animosity on a Sunday.”

Karmani gathers her stuff and stands up. “I just want the record to show that we were actually conversing like adults until this dickface showed up.” She doesn’t even spare Zayn a look before she storms out of the café.

“Now, was that necessary?” Corey scolds.

“It absolutely was,” he says, unfazed by how much he’s upset her.

I tsk. “When are you going to stop giving her a hard time?”

He shrugs. “When she stops pretending to be something she’s not. She’s one of the smartest people in our class, but God forbid any of those asshole jocks find out about it. She wants to guard that secret like it’s the fucking nuclear codes or something. I can’t deal with bullshit like that. So, if she wants to act like a dumb bimbo, that’s how I’m gonna treat her.”

“I give it three months,” Corey says.

I stare at him, confused. “For what?”

“They’re either gonna end up boning...or one of them is gonna end up dead.”

Zayn scoffs. “Well, if those are the options, you better start writing my eulogy. My money’s on her.”

We continue chatting, bitching about how none of us have time for a social life, let alone a love life. Somewhere along the way, Zayn also states (quite bluntly) that John has got it bad for you .

Honestly, I don’t want to read too much into it, but these things are starting to pile up. I suspected that Alex might sort of be interested in me on Thursday, but I brushed it aside because I had nothing concrete to work with. Then yesterday at the gym, I got the same feeling. The way he looked at me when he had me pinned down on the floor. I could’ve sworn he wanted to kiss me. Unfortunately, that kiss never happened because he abruptly pulled away and ended the session, so I thought I’d misread that, too.

But now, Corey and Zayn are telling me the same thing I suspected. Surely, I’m not deluding myself here, and Alex is interested in me. The question now is, what do I do with that? I don’t want to get into another relationship, but it wouldn’t hurt to just see where this goes, see if we’re compatible. No harm in testing the waters, right?

I leave the café half an hour later, and by the time I get home, I’m starving. I remove my sneakers as soon as I enter, carrying them with me as I walk to the kitchen. Placing them in the corner near the table, I make a mental note to take them upstairs after I’m done cooking.

The house is relatively small but cozy, filled with personal touches from my grandad’s obsessive tinkering. The living room has shelves stacked with old records and DVDs, little potted succulents on the windowsill, and a framed black-and-white photo of my grandparents on the mantle.

I wash my hands, then head to the fridge, grabbing all the ingredients I need. Today, I’m keeping it simple. Miso soup, grilled fish, and a small bowl of pickled vegetables. As the aroma of the broth fills the air, a sense of nostalgia wraps around me. When I was a kid, my parents and I would come up to Berkeley to visit my grandparents, and the house used to smell just like this. It’s comforting, a small way to conjure up their presence.

Just as I set the fish on the grill, my phone buzzes on the counter. A video call from my parents. They used to call at least once a week to make sure I was okay. My dad has gotten so paranoid lately that he’s upped these calls to three times a week now. I don’t mind, though. I love catching up with them.

I wipe my hands on a kitchen towel and answer, the screen filling with their smiling faces.

“Kate,” my mom greets, her voice warm and cheerful.

She’s wearing one of her colorful scarves, the kind that makes her stand out in any crowd. My dad stands behind her, looking as composed as always, though there’s a hint of mischievousness in his expression.

“Hi, Mom! Hi, Dad!” I greet, leaning against the counter. “What’s up?”

“Nothing much,” he replies with an exhausted breath. “Just another long day.”

“It’s Sunday, Dad. You need to take a break every once in a while.”

“Now, don’t you start. Your mother’s been nagging me to take it easy, and I promised I will...as soon as I’m done with this case.”

“There’s always something,” she grumbles. “And I keep telling him he needs to make more time for me, for us. How will a relationship flourish if it’s not nurtured?”

“Well, we managed to get through almost twenty-five years, but dedicating half my life to you is still not enough.” He plucks a quick kiss on her cheek, then focuses on me. “Apparently, I’m supposed to channel all that energy I put into work into being more romantic. But romance doesn’t pay...the water bill or the light bill, does it?”

I smile. I love how playful they are with each other, even after all these years. My dad is a workaholic, so they have little tiffs like this all the time. I find it adorable. They’re good role models because I want to have what they have one day.

My mom rolls her eyes, smirking. “Well, if you can make time to play golf, surely you can make more time for me.”

He tenses slightly. “But that was Victor, honey. I can’t say no to Victor.” Whatever weirdness he’s feeling, he brushes it off quickly and gives a wide smile. “But even though I didn’t want to go, it was good for me. Good for the mind, you know. The view was spectacular. Sunsets...over the green are hard to beat.”

“You say that about every course,” my mom teases.

“Not every course,” he says with a smirk. “But it’s hard to argue when you’re surrounded by...tall palm trees and fresh air. It’s peaceful.”

I narrow my eyes at him, something tugging at the back of my mind, but I can’t quite place it. My dad plays this odd game with me. It started when I was a kid because he wanted to develop my critical thinking skills, so he used to give me cryptic clues, and I had to decode a hidden message. He never tells me when he’s playing this game. I just have to pay special attention to the cadence of the conversation and figure it out.

There were three unusual pauses so far, which probably means the game is on. This was a hard one because he was so light and playful. I didn’t expect him to sneak it in like that.

After a few more minutes of chatting about the usual—work, weather, and if I’m eating enough vegetables—they say their goodbyes.

“Take care, Kate,” my mom says, waving at the camera.

“Bye, sweetheart,” my dad adds. “I love you. Call me soon.”

Oh, the game is definitely on. That call me soon means he’s going to time it to see how long it takes me to figure it out.

I set my phone down, replaying my dad’s words in my head. Okay, where were the pauses? Water bill and light bill. Spectacular view and...did he say sunsets? He did. And the last one was : Tall palm trees and fresh air.

What in the world does that even mean? I pace the kitchen, trying to recall every detail of the conversation. There was also that deliberate emphasis on the word almost when he said they were together for almost twenty-five years.

Then it clicks. He mentioned my mom nagging him about not being romantic, so he must be planning something for her.

I grab my phone and call him back. He answers on the second ring, this time without Mom.

He cuts straight to the chase. “That was six minutes. What do you have?”

“You’re planning something for your twenty-fifth wedding anniversary,” I blurt because it feels like the timer is still running.

“Good.”

“Um...water and light bill? Uh...that means water and light, obviously, so I’m guessing a sunny beach somewhere with spectacular sunsets.”

“Yes.” I can hear the excitement in his voice, and it pumps me up more. “But you have to be more specific than that.”

I feel like I’m on a game show now, and I only have ten seconds left on the clock. “Okay, palm trees...palm trees? This is just a wild guess, but I’m going with Miami because it’s on the flag.”

“You’re locking it in?”

I think about it one last time. “I’m locking it in.”

“Well...” He pauses for dramatic effect, as if it is indeed a game show. “You got it.”

“Yes!” I throw a fist in the air, doing an excited little happy dance in the kitchen. “I am undefeatable.”

I’ve won nothing, but if anyone had to see me, they’d probably think I won Who Wants to be a Millionaire.

“I honestly thought I had you with that one.” He sounds slightly disappointed in himself. “I didn’t think you’d figure it out. And in six minutes, no less.”

“Don’t underestimate me, old man. You’ve been training me since I could talk. Besides, give yourself some credit. I didn’t even know the game was on until the very end.”

“I’m going to get you next time,” he promises.

“Try your best.”

He chuckles. “Alright. I’ll call you in the week. I love you, Kate.”

“Love you, too, Dad.”

As I hang up, I shake my head, still grinning from my victorious high. I check on the fish, then do some light tidying up.

At exactly two p.m., there’s a knock at the door. The sound instantly kicks my heart rate up, and I take a few deep breaths to calm down. I smooth my hands over my hair, then my sweater before opening the door.

Alex stands there, his dark gray eyes sweeping over me briefly before settling on my face.

I’m noticing that he has a habit of getting better looking every time I see him. Even in his casual jeans and jacket, he exudes strength, a quiet confidence. There’s an energy about him, restrained but intense. He doesn’t say a word, just stares at me until the air crackles between us.

“Hi,” I greet.

“Hi.”

His voice is low and gravelly, and something about it sends a small shiver down my spine. He doesn’t smile, so I can’t tell if he’s as excited to see me as I am to see him. I step aside and allow him to enter.

“Right on time,” I say, trying to keep my voice light to mask my nerves.

He quirks a brow. “I’m always on time.”

He steps in, and as he brushes past me, his shoulder lightly grazes mine. The heat of the contact lingers longer than it should, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from overanalyzing it. His presence feels bigger than the small hallway should hold.

“Nice place,” he says, looking around.

Maybe it’s because of our conversation on Thursday, but I see how he operates now. His eyes scan the room, taking in every detail. It’s so subtle, though. I wouldn’t have even noticed if I didn’t know this interesting fact about him.

“Cool vase,” he comments idly. He turns the vase on the hallway table a few degrees to study the details of the design. “I like this color.”

I make a mental note to turn it back once he’s gone. There’s a hidden camera on it to monitor whoever comes through the front door, and he’s now turned it to face the wall. There’s also a camera facing the back door, and another strategically placed near the staircase to have an overview of the entire downstairs area.

My dad’s office got broken into a few weeks ago, and he went into a paranoid frenzy. He installed cameras all over this house and at their house in Oakland. I know he’s overprotective, but this was a little overboard. I’ve been living here since I started studying at UC Berkeley and have never had a single incident.

The cops tried to assure him that the break-in at his office was completely random, just thieves looking to make a quick buck from reselling stolen electronics. Yes, they took his laptop and his iPad, but they stole two printers and a coffee machine, for goodness’ sake. It seemed pretty mediocre to me, but my dad still insisted he was targeted and upped the security here.

I wasn’t keen on the idea because he and the security company have access to all the footage, and my privacy is important to me. But then he suggested a bodyguard to watch over me twenty-four-seven, and that’s where I drew the line. We compromised on the three cameras downstairs and twelve outside, but nothing upstairs. I don’t want my dad or anyone else catching glimpses of me half-naked when I go in and out of the shower. It’s just too weird.

Alex continues moving through the house, his sharp eyes scanning every detail of the living room. He’s drawn to the shelf filled with family photos, the frames polished to a shine despite their vintage design.

“This is nice,” he says, nodding toward the collection.

“Those are my grandparents. This was their house.”

“I know.”

Of course, he knows. That one is easy to guess. The drapes, the carpets, and the furniture all scream 1960s. It’s like the entire room is a time capsule, lovingly preserved down to the smallest detail.

He steps closer to the shelf, leaning in to inspect the pictures, and zooms in on the one of my gran holding me as a baby. “You look like your gran.”

“Thanks. That’s the best compliment anyone’s ever given me.”

His gaze shifts, settling on a small brass object nestled between two photo frames. He picks it up, turning it over in his hand. “A compass?”

“Yeah.”

He flicks it open, inspecting the needle as he turns it from side to side. “Doesn’t work.”

I giggle. “It’s not supposed to.”

His brow furrows, and he doesn’t say anything, but I know he’s waiting for an explanation.

“When I was thirteen, I stole lipstick from a department store because my mom wouldn’t let me wear makeup. I got caught, and my parents were furious. My dad was disappointed, my mom was mortified, and I thought I was never going to hear the end of it.” I smile. Even though I was upset and embarrassed at the time, it ended up being one of my fondest memories. “But my grandad handled the situation a little differently. He didn’t judge or yell, but he gave me that compass as a symbol of sorts. He said it wasn’t for direction because the onus was on me to know the difference between right and wrong. I still remember how he placed it in my hand and told me that the right path isn’t always the easy path, and I needed to be strong enough to make the hard choices.”

Alex is silent for a moment, studying the compass again. His thumb brushes over its surface, the brass worn smooth from years of me rubbing it the same way. “I wish I’d had someone like that in my life. Things would’ve been very different.”

There’s something raw in his tone, a vulnerability I wasn’t expecting. The urge to ask about his mother wells up in my throat, but I swallow it down. It’s too soon, and I doubt he’d answer, anyway.

Instead, I clear my throat and point my thumb toward the kitchen. “Are you hungry? I made some lunch.”

He glances up at me, his usual expressionless mask slipping back into place. “I could eat.”

“Great. Come on, the kitchen’s this way.”

Alex lingers just long enough to set the compass back on the shelf, his fingers brushing it one last time before he follows me.

I lead him to the kitchen, take out two bowls from the overhead cupboard, then carry them to the stove to dish up a helping for both of us. He pauses, looking at the meal.

“You didn’t have to go all out.”

I hand him a bowl and a set of chopsticks, but he opts for a spoon instead. “I didn’t go all out . It’s just lunch. You eat, don’t you?”

“Not like this. Not in years.”

We sit at the small dining table in the corner of the kitchen. The table isn’t large enough to keep our knees from bumping, and every accidental touch makes my pulse skitter.

“Years?” I ask, making an active effort to focus on the conversation instead of the heat of his thighs against mine. “What have you been eating?”

He shrugs, picking up his spoon with a casualness that doesn’t quite match the way he looks at the food, like it’s some kind of luxury. “Slop, mostly. Mystery meat. Overcooked peas. Instant ramen on a good day.”

I giggle. “Sounds like prison food.”

Amusement twinkles in his eyes, but he still doesn’t smile. “It’s exactly like prison food.”

“Well, I guess most young bachelors live on slop because it’s easier than learning how to cook.” After the way he ran off on Thursday, I’m cautious about asking my next question. “Did...did your mom never teach you?”

“Nah, she never got the chance.” His jaw clenches, and I see a brief moment of pain before he shakes his head. “She was working all the time until she got sick...and then I had to start working to pay the bills. It was just never a priority.”

That was more well-received than I expected. He didn’t stand up and bolt for the door, so that must be a good sign. But he says nothing further, and I take that as my cue to drop the conversation. For a few moments, he’s silent, not even looking up at me.

Instead, he remains fixated on his bowl, and his expression changes, becoming more appreciative. So appreciative, in fact, that I feel compelled to watch him take his first bite. The way his shoulders relax and his eyes close briefly tells me everything.

“This is... really good,” he says.

“Thank you.” Warmth spreads through me, and I silently pray that it doesn’t show on my cheeks. “I’m glad you like it.”

We chat as we eat, and I realize Alex is very easy company. The conversation flows effortlessly. Yes, I do most of the talking, but he asks questions and listens to every word I say. I’ve never spoken to anyone who was so engaged in the conversation. We finished eating a while ago, and we’re still not showing any signs of slowing down.

He’s still resistant to answering questions, though. Every time I ask about his childhood or anything too personal, he gives a short, curt answer, then swiftly changes the subject back to me. I’ve accepted that he’s a very private person, so I don’t push for too much and just keep my questions at surface level.

“So, what’s your most prized possession?”

He shrugs. “I don’t have one.”

“Really? Not even a comic book or a baseball card you had when you were growing up?”

“No. Nothing. Things are just things, and they can be taken away at any time, so I don’t get attached to them.”

“That’s such a cold, disjointed way of looking at the world. It’s sad that you don’t—”

He leans back in his chair, propping his ankle up on his thigh. “You wouldn’t understand because you’re sentimental about every goddamn thing.”

I’m slightly offended by his crass tone. It’s almost like he thinks I’m stupid for thinking that way. “And you think that’s foolish?”

“The term sentimental fool exists for a reason.”

“Well, that’s just a difference of opinion. Things are not just things. When someone puts their love into something, then that thing carries that love forever. It somehow immortalizes that person. Like this house...” I wave my hand around the kitchen. “My grandparents put so much love into this house. They built the bookshelves in the living room and the cupboards in this kitchen. My dad and aunt’s heights are still etched in the doorframes of their rooms. This house still carries that love, and I feel it every time I walk in the door.”

He’s silent for a good few minutes, studying me intently. “You know, you’re not what I was expecting,” he says softly. “There’s something so...wholesome about you...like a warmth I haven’t felt in a long time. I’ve never met someone like you, and I don’t...I don’t know how...” He runs a heavy hand down his face, visibly uncomfortable. “Fuck, it’s so disarming.”

I giggle because I’ve never met anyone like him, either. He’s so defensive all the time. “And you need to be...armed?”

“Yeah, I do.” He shifts, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his thighs. “Every second of every day. And you’re...sort of messing that up.”

His expression has not changed one iota, and despite his rough tone, I detect sincerity, even a hint of tenderness. It’s so hard to read because I don’t know if he’s upset or if that’s his way of flirting with me. Maybe I should test the waters a little bit.

“Sounds like you’re going soft,” I tease, feigning disappointment.

“I’m not.”

“Before you know it, you’re gonna be a sentimental old fool like me, holding onto the little things.”

He gives me a disinterested eye roll. “Yeah, I doubt that.”

“Hm?” I catch my locket between my thumb and forefinger, moving it from right to left. “Let’s test that theory, shall we?”

I look down, scanning myself for something to use. I think about using an earring, then spot something better. Reaching over, I grab a sneaker I’d left in the corner earlier and drop it on the table, the cutlery rattling on the dirty plates when it lands.

“What poise,” Alex quips. “What grace. What table etiquette.”

I chuckle because he can be quite funny when he wants to be. I undo the brown lace on my sneakers and pull it out. “Here.”

I remove my leg and take hold of his wrist. He stiffens at the contact, the muscles on his forearms tensing beneath my fingers.

“Are you uncomfortable with me touching you?” I ask meekly.

“Very.”

“Should I stop?”

Those stormy gray eyes lock on mine, holding my gaze until his muscles eventually relax. “No.”

I nod, then proceed to tie the lace around his wrist. It’s roundish, not flat, more like a thin rope than normal laces. I knot it in two places to make it more like an adjustable strap, so he can easily take it off when he wants.

“There you go,” I say. “I’ve now given you something that has no real value, but let’s see if it’ll end up meaning anything to you. Will this thing remain just a thing? Or will you grow some kind of attachment to it? Which one will it be?” I smile, leaning closer. “I don’t know about you, but the suspense is killing me.”

“You know what I can’t wait to see?” He shifts back to reinstate the distance between us. “I wanna see how the control freak in you is going to survive with one shoe having laces while the other sits there bare.”

“Ah, shit.” I look down at the one in front of me, then the one still in the corner. The mismatch already bothers me. “I didn’t think about that.”

“Clearly. And if you want this silly thing to mean anything to me, then you can’t replace the lace. If you wear those sneakers again, you have to wear them exactly as they are now.”

My eyes stay focused on my sneaker, and I wonder if I’m even capable of committing such an egregious crime. Walking around with only one shoe laced up. It’s unthinkable. “What you’re asking of me is utterly diabolical.”

“C’mon, Rebel. You can do it.”

“Fine,” I relent, standing up. “And I just want to point out that I have now proven that I am persuadable because you have successfully pushed me out of my comfort zone.”

“Yeah, that wasn’t the comfort zone I wanted to push you out of.”

That sentence drops like an anvil. Something happens, a shift in the atmosphere. The temperature goes up a few degrees. An unknown force extracts all the oxygen out of the room, and we get sucked into a vacuum. We both go still, not even breathing for a few beats. My mouth opens, but I struggle to find the words to get my question out.

He immediately stands up, looking everywhere but at me. “Uh...I didn’t mean that...the way it came out.”

This is a pattern I’m noticing. He does it quite a lot. He’ll say something, instantly regret it, then try to remove himself from the situation or change the topic of conversation to make it less awkward. Usually, I handle the awkwardness better than him, but this time, my cheeks are aflame, burning with a mixture of embarrassment and...desire.

That discussion we had last night was far more candid than I would’ve liked. It was probably more information than I have ever given Karmani. He knows such personal things about me, and I’ve only known him for a few days. It’s a little weird that a virtual stranger knows such intimate details about my sex life. Weirder still is that he’s brought it up so casually in a conversation that wasn’t sexual at all. So, was he thinking about that?

And now he adds another layer of weirdness because...what does that even mean? If I’m not supposed to take that the way it came out, how else could I possibly take it?

I notice that I’m toying with my locket and drop it before he sees me. It’s a dead giveaway that I’m overthinking something, and I’m trying to play it cool.

Alex breaks the uncomfortable silence. “Hey, aren’t we supposed to be watching a movie?”

“Yes!” I’m grateful for the excuse. The tension cracks, and I release a slow breath as I collect the dirty plates. “We are.” I glance at the clock on the kitchen wall. “Wow, we’ve been talking for three hours.”

“Really? I can’t believe I lost track of time like that.” He seems disoriented for a few seconds, shaking his head as if he’s upset with himself. “That seems to be a regular occurrence around you. Listen, is there a bathroom I could use?”

“Yeah. Upstairs. First door on the right.”

He leaves, and I continue cleaning, washing the dishes, wiping down the counters, and then sweeping and mopping the floor. When I’m done, Alex still hasn’t come down. I make some popcorn for us, and he still hasn’t made an appearance by the time it’s ready.

That’s a long time, and I start to wonder if maybe his stomach didn’t agree with my food. “Hey, Alex?” I call. “Everything okay up there?”

When he doesn’t respond, I walk upstairs. The bathroom door is open, and Alex isn’t in it. I find him across the hall in the guest bedroom that my dad converted into a study. He’s in front of the filing cabinet, but he has his back to me, so I can’t see what he’s so engrossed in.

“What are you doing in here?” I ask.

I see the muscles on his back tense. A few seconds pass and then a few more. A heavy, audible breath is released before he turns around, and he’s holding a photo frame in his hand. “Sorry. I was walking past, and I saw this picture.”

My eyebrows furrow together. “Was the door open? I don’t remember leaving it open.”

He must be preoccupied because he ignores the question and walks to me with the frame still in his hand. “Do you know what car this is?”

I look at the picture and see my grandad holding my dad as a toddler in front of a gray, boxy-looking car. “An old one.”

He glares at me, unimpressed at my response, and I have to stifle a giggle. “Katie, this is a 1982 Buick Regal. Your grandad had impeccable taste. I love this car. My uncle used to have one.” His face remains expressionless, but I can hear the child-like excitement in his voice. “He used to own this small auto repair shop. The first car I ever fixed was that Buick. When the engine roared to life, man, I was—” He stops himself short. “But that’s no excuse. I shouldn’t have come in here without your permission. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. There’s nothing much in there, anyway. Just some documents and my grandad’s old medical records. I use it to study when I’m too lazy to go to the library.” I smile because, oddly enough, I like that he revealed another sliver of his past to me. “You seem to know a lot about cars.”

“I do. Mostly the older models, though.” He walks back, returning the frame to its rightful spot on the filing cabinet. “We should go watch that movie?”

And just like all the other times, that’s the end of delving into his past. “Yep.”

We go back downstairs, and I grab the popcorn from the kitchen before walking to the living room. Alex is already seated, taking up most of the space on my two-seater couch. With his arm stretched along the backrest and his left ankle propped up on his right thigh, he’s definitely made himself comfortable in my house.

I sit on the opposite end of the couch, trying to keep a respectable distance, but the space between us is so small it’s impossible not to feel the heat radiating from his body.

The movie starts, and I try to focus, but my eyes keep drifting to him. He’s completely absorbed in the screen, unmoving, barely blinking. It’s a Clint Eastwood classic, Unforgiven , one he said was his mom’s favorite, yet he shows no emotion. I thought maybe the sentimentality of it may crack his exterior, but he’s a steel wall. It’s like it holds no meaning for him at all.

A shootout erupts on the screen, the crack of gunfire booming in the quiet room. Alex doesn’t flinch, his expression still stiff and unchanging. Even when one of the characters delivers a dry, sarcastic line that should at least warrant a chuckle, there’s absolutely no reaction.

“Hey, Alex,” I say.

“Yeah,” he responds without looking at me.

“Do you ever smile?”

He glances at me. “What do you mean?”

“I still haven’t seen you smile once. Not during dinner, not when we were talking, not even during this movie. And don’t tell me it’s because of the movie. There were about three moments worth at least a smirk.”

He shrugs, turning back to the screen. “I have no reason to smile, I guess.”

“Really? Not even one?”

“Not even one.”

That answer feels heavier than it should, but I’m not about to let him sit there like a statue all night. Without thinking, I grab a piece of popcorn and toss it at him. It hits his cheek and bounces onto the couch.

He doesn’t even blink.

“Really?” I say, smirking as I toss another piece. This time, it lands squarely on his shoulder.

He finally looks at me, one brow raised. “Are you done?”

“Not even close,” I say, grabbing a small handful.

Before I can throw more, his hand shoots out and snatches my wrist. His grip is firm but not painful, and his eyes narrow slightly. “Quit it.”

“Make me,” I retort.

I twist my wrist out of his grip the way he showed me yesterday, and he’s pleasantly surprised that I freed myself so fast.

“Good job,” he says.

“The student has surpassed the master.”

“I wouldn’t go that f—”

He’s silenced when another handful is flung his way. Some hit his forehead, one lands in his mouth. He’s not impressed.

That’s the last straw. He lunges for the bowl, scooping up a handful and tossing it right back at me. I squeal, scrambling to shield myself with a couch cushion, but it’s no use. The next few minutes are pure chaos—popcorn flying everywhere, my laughter ringing out in the small room.

Alex is surprisingly fast, dodging my throws with ease, but I’m relentless. “Are you ready to surrender?” I tease, launching another handful his way.

“I don’t even know what this fight is over,” he fires back, a hint of amusement in his voice. “What exactly am I surrendering?”

“Your stoicism.”

“Yeah, that’s not a thing I can surrender.”

“Of course, it is. And I, as the legendary Droll Troll, will get a smile out of you come hell or high water.”

I grab another handful, but he tackles me to the ground, his strong hands gripping my wrists to stop me from tossing the last few pieces. He hovers over me, his solid weight pressing into me just enough to hold me still without crushing me.

“You never taught me how to get out of this one,” I say, sounding breathless.

His heated gaze skims over my face, moving lower to settle on my lips. And then it just stays there. “Do you want to get out?”

The barely audible whisper vibrates against my lips, the same lips he’s still staring at. The playful atmosphere evaporates in an instant, replaced by something heavier, something electric. His dark eyes lock on mine, and my breath hitches.

I’m acutely aware of every point of contact. His hands on my wrists, my breasts rubbing against him with each rise and fall of my chest. His face is so close I can see the faint stubble along his jaw, the tension in his clenched teeth.

“No.”

All the things my friends said earlier ring in my head.

Corey saying that Alex was so persistent.

Zayn saying that Alex has got it bad for me.

Karmani saying that Alex probably won’t make a move because he’s scared of rejection.

And it’s not just them, it’s him. We spoke for over an hour at the gym yesterday, and he followed it up with a long phone call last night. We spoke for three hours today. That must mean something, right? People don’t create connections like that out of thin air.

Despite the nervousness fluttering in my stomach, I take the leap...and make the first move.

My heart pounds as I lift my head to press my lips against his. He freezes, his eyes widening as his entire body stiffens above me. For a second—a fleeting, solitary second—I feel his tongue skim my lower lip, but then he abruptly pulls away.

“Katie...uh...” His voice is rough, and he quickly releases my wrists, shifting back to move off me. “We shouldn’t.”

Embarrassment causes my throat to clog, and my next words come out as a choked whisper. “Why not?”

He runs a heavy hand over his head, then down his face. “Because it’ll complicate things. Look, your life is going along just fine. It’s structured. It’s stable. It’s...predictable. And you don’t need someone like me coming in and fucking all that up. Trust me, you don’t want to get involved with a guy like me. I’m no good for you. It’s better if...if we stay friends.”

That stings more than I want to admit, and I nod, sitting up and brushing popcorn off my sweater. “Friends. Yes. Sure. Of course.”

“If this is because of what I said in the kitchen, I’m sorry you took that the wrong way...but I told you I didn’t mean that the way it came out.”

He’s just making it worse, rubbing more salt in my already wounded ego.

His movements are stiff as he stands up and grabs the almost empty popcorn bowl. “I’ll clean this up.”

As he walks into the kitchen, I let out a shaky breath, my heart still pounding. I don’t know what just happened. I shut my eyes and take a second to regroup and recalibrate all the information floating in my mind.

Let me get this straight. On Wednesday, Alex asked Corey to introduce him to me. He was interested on Wednesday. On Thursday, he purposely sought me out, and we spent about an hour talking to each other. He then invited himself to my house to watch a movie. So, he was still interested on Thursday.

And now it’s Sunday, and this man has lost all interest. This must be a new record for me. Five days! Even the life cycle of a fruit fly is longer than that. Jason was right. I must be the most boring person on the planet. And probably the worst kisser as well, because he told me this directly after I kissed him.

Even if he was on the fence about me, if my kiss ignited some sort of spark, I’m sure he would’ve kissed me back. But no. There’s nothing. His reaction is very similar to someone who just kissed a cold dead fish.

And instead of being upfront and honest about it, he gives me that cliché oh, it’s not you, it’s me bullshit.

God, all men are the same.

I’m still gathering the kernels on the floor when Alex returns to the living room.

“Let me help you with that,” he says from the doorway, actively trying to maintain an ample distance.

“Don’t worry about it. I got it.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, it’s fine.” I stand up, and I want to look him in the eye, but I just can’t. I feel stupid and embarrassed, and now it’s so awkward between us. It’s obvious that he wants to get out of here, so I give him the out he’s silently begging for. “I’m sure you probably have somewhere to be. You don’t have to stay to clean up. I made this mess, anyway.”

He jumps on that without hesitation. “Alright. I’ll see you...around.” Non-committal. Non-specific. Yep. Whatever interest he may have had in me has fizzled and died...like that fish. “Uh...thanks for dinner. I had a really great time tonight.”

The former is sincere. The latter is just another obligatory bullshit line to make me feel better. And yet, shockingly, I feel ten times worse.

I fake a smile. “Me, too.”

He nods and then leaves my house without saying another word. My heart sinks into my stomach as I watch the door close behind him. I know it shouldn’t be hurting this much. I’ve only known him for five days, so I’m pretty sure the heavy weight in my chest has more to do with my bruised ego than actual feelings for him.

Either way, I’m just going to brush it aside, pull myself up by my bootstraps, and move along.

Screw John Alexander! If I have to convince a guy to be attracted to me, then he isn’t worth my time, anyway.