3. Zyran
ZYRAN
Sunlight slips through the blinds in thin, sharp lines when I crack an eye open.
My room is quiet and peaceful with just the buzz of a fan and the faint hum of the shower—the one that connects to Cyran’s room.
I could stay here—I want to.
But that want is short-lived when the bedroom door slams... so much for peace.
“Up,” Sybil’s voice cuts through the room.
I peek up at her, watching her march in without any hesitation, and rip my blinds open, as if the sun that’s already peeking through isn’t doing my eyes any damage. And she doesn’t stop there; she yanks my blanket off in one dramatic sweep, the thing landing on the floor with a heavy thump.
I blink up at her. “You’re lucky I don’t kill you.” It comes out rough, more like a growl. It’s how I’ve sounded ever since the bullet took my voice from me.
She crosses her arms, popping her hip out. “You were supposed to be up an hour ago.”
I frown, sitting up. “I never agreed to that.”
“And you didn’t disagree either.”
I roll my eyes, not remembering ever having a conversation about having a time to wake up.
Stretching my arms above my head, my shoulders pop, and then my back muscles pull; concrete floors flash across my mind like a camera shutter.
Cold beneath my cheek—wet and sticky, my own blood.
The pressure in my throat tightens as if it’s the bullet that’s still lodged there. My breath snags rough and gritty?—
I swallow, and it burns; of course it does, and then I blink, focusing on the far wall. Rolling my shoulders again, I force a breath through, hoping Sybil didn’t notice the slip. And she either didn’t or she pretends and is kind enough to glance away.
Then she’s jumping onto my bed, landing next to me. “You’ve been quiet too much; that means you’re thinking, and we both know that’s never good.”
I roll my eyes, nudging her shoulder with mine.
“I’m fine,” I smirk. “Just tired.” It’s not a lie.
“You’re always tired, which is boring; get up. We’re going out.”
I huff out a laugh. “Nope.” Kicking back, I lean against the headboard. “I’m quite liking my break from humanity.”
“Yeah, well, you’ve been on a break for a little while now,” she flops onto her back dramatically. “I’m rotting here, you’re rotting, maybe we can just go rot together, but ya know…outside.”
I lift a brow, not understanding what she’s trying to hint at. “I think we’ve bonded enough there, sunshine.”
“There’s no such thing,” she scuffs. “Now, stop hiding in here.”
It’s my turn to scoff, because I am not hiding. “I–I’m not.”
She pins me with an upside-down look, the ‘don’t lie to me, I know better’ look.
I sigh, hating that I’m lying to her. “Maybe I just need some quiet.”
“Zyran, you’ve had your quiet, and now it’s time to come back.” She sticks her tongue out, childish and annoying but somehow comforting because this is how we used to act.
Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, the scar at my throat pulls, and I rub at it. Of course Sybil notices, and her expression softens for a split second before she just rolls onto her stomach, facing me.
“Breakfast and then coffee.”
I pause at the mention of coffee, knowing she’d only bring it up for one reason.
A grin spreads across her face. “Coffee shop?” she pokes her bottom lip out.
Grunting, I move across my bedroom, grabbing a pair of socks from my dresser. "Maybe," I tell her, even though my heartbeat didn’t just kick up; it fucking jumped.
Her eyes sparkle with nothing but mischief. “Who is she again?”
I open my mouth to say nobody, but I can’t bring myself to say that, because she’s not just nobody.
She’s the girl I’ve been obsessive over for well over a fucking year now.
She’s the one I’ve driven an hour for just to see her at her place of work, hoping she’d smile once at me and draw on the coffee that I always drink but still hate.
“Sybil,” I say instead.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“And you didn’t need to.”
She bounces off the bed, landing on the floor. “You’re coming, so get yourself into some normal clothes, and I swear to God, if you try to fall back asleep, I will dump cold water on your face.”
I roll my eyes. “I’d drown you in return.”
“You’d miss me too much.”
“Unfortunately,” I mutter, grabbing a pair of jeans.
Sybil gives a curt nod and then skips out of the room, yelling something to Cyran as she goes.
I huff out a laugh, one that’s not forced, and it feels good—it’s rare.
Sybil hums along to some song she put on my phone to play through the truck speakers the entire drive, tapping her nails on the passenger door and vibrating with too much energy.
Meanwhile, I sit quietly with one hand on the wheel, the other leaning on the middle console, letting her noise fill the silence I might otherwise think too deeply about.
When we pull into a parking spot across the street from the coffee shop an hour later, the bell over the door rings faintly every time someone enters. My brain notes the sound, having heard that sound too many times in my lifetime.
It doesn’t take long for me to spot her—moving behind the counter, her hair tied back in a long blonde ponytail with strands framing her face.
A black apron is tied loosely around her waist while she wears a long-sleeved dark gray shirt.
She looks pale, like she hasn’t been sleeping.
Her movements were slow, and her shoulders were rounded with exhaustion.
But she still smiles at the customer, soft and polite even when it looks like she could crumble with one wrong word.
Something in my chest knots tight, wanting nothing more than to march across the street and demand she tell me what’s wrong.
I kill the engine, keeping the keys in their place, and barely glance over at Sybil, who’s already unbuckled and ripping the door open. “Come on,” she says, slamming it shut.
My hand stays on the door handle, but I can’t bring myself to open it. A strange heaviness anchors me, something in my gut telling me not yet.
Sybil taps on the glass, and I twist the key so I can roll the window down.
“You coming?” She asks, frowning.
“Not yet.”
She studies me for a minute, brow raised, but there’s no judgment, only curiosity. My eyes move from Sybil back to Esperr, the blonde standing behind the counter. She follows my gaze, piecing what I refuse to say out loud together.
“Alright, I’ll just grab a muffin and a coffee, quick.” And then she’s gone, jogging across the street and heading inside, the bell chiming above her.
Esperr hands a customer their change, her fingers giving a slight tremble—the kind of shake that only someone paying very close attention would catch.
Every time the door opens, she peers up, a quick flicker of her eyes toward the entryway like she’s expecting something to walk through, and when it’s not them, disappointment clouds her gaze.
She laughs at something Sybil says, but it never reaches the muscles near her eyes, and once Sybil moves, Esperr's expression collapses back into exhaustion so fast I know that laugh wasn’t real.
Nobody else sees it, but I do.
My heart does something ugly and dark, like want and anger that’s tangled together.
Sybil reappears, grabbing the cup from Esperr who tries to smile, but her eyes look wet like she’s going to cry, but she licks her bottom lip and mutters something to Sybil before moving to the next customer.
My stomach pulls as my hand forms into a fist in my lap.
Where’s the girl that drew a tiny ghost on my cup around Halloween, or a flower with teeth, or a christmas tree during December?
Even if it started as nothing, a stop for coffee on the way home from a job Rhys botched, he wanted coffee, so I stopped.
And she was all smiles and warmth, something that matched me.
Something about her art felt familiar in a way that I couldn’t name, and I found myself coming back the next day…
and then the next, all until it became a habit—one that I only admitted once to Sybil when she was sad.
She never looked at me differently than the other customers, not that I ever gave her a reason, but she remembered me—always drawing on my cup even when I didn’t say anything.
And for some reason that was enough to hook me. Seeing her eyes shine like she’s seconds from crying and seeing her hold herself together with trembling fingers sparks something ugly and possessive right behind my ribs.
Heat quickly rolls through me, not gentle or soft; it’s like a snap just beneath the surface.
Esperr moves to the next customer, a guy around my age who leans against the counter with two fingers, demanding her attention.
She tries to keep a smile on her face while he orders and slides his card through the machine, but the moment he reaches over to grab his coffee from her, he touches her wrist. It’s light and quick, even friendly if you could say that, but her smile falters, eyes dimming, and shoulders inch up like she wants to fold inward.
The guy doesn’t notice, nor does he care.
The heat inside me ignites, and I have to force a breath out slowly before I act, because I could be across that floor in seconds.
And if he touches her again, I know exactly how his hand would break, where the bone would snap first. How fast I could make him regret ever thinking it’s okay to put his fingers on her.
Esperr rips her hand back, the guy barely catching his coffee before it dumps all over the counter.
She takes a step back from the register, rubbing her wrist once like she’s trying to wipe away the feeling he left behind.
Her eyes peer up, searching the room, almost like she can feel someone watching; they brush over me, but I doubt she can see me.
My Chevrolet Silverado High Country 1500, is completely blacked out with bulletproof windows; there’s no way she can see inside.
Sybil pushes back through the door with a muffin in one hand and her iced coffee in the other, the bell above the door ringing once more, making Esperr glance up, only to be disappointed.