CHAPTER 8 #3
The color drained from her face, then rushed back in a slow flush that crept up her neck. Maybe even something that looked dangerously close to panic.
“It’s… it’s you!” she exclaimed, voice breathless, words tumbling over each other. “Of course it’s you,” she groaned, eyes widening as it clicked.
I raised an eyebrow. “You say that like you’re accusing me of something.”
Alex tilted her head, blinking a few times like her brain was trying to catch up.
“No! I—I just… can’t believe my mom didn’t bother to tell me this.
” She chewed her lip, cheeks warming. “So… you’re…
actually staying at our guest house?” The words came out uneven, stumbling over themselves like her brain was still buffering.
It was subtle, the slight hitch in her tone, the way her hand fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve, but for someone who’d built a reputation on being unreadable, it was so obvious.
“Yes, Amelia’s been hospitable. The guest house is amazing,” I said, stepping carefully into the room, trying to keep my grin in check. “So, you can thank your mom for putting me up.” I tilted my head toward the shelves. “Also, nice room. Very… you.”
It wasn’t at all what I’d imagined her space to look like.
A pool table sat in the center, and the walls were lined with books and DVDs, rows and rows of them, everything from film classics to obscure documentaries.
A soft lamp glowed in the corner, giving the whole place a warm, secret sort of charm.
She followed my gaze, a faint smile tugging at her mouth. “It’s my library-slash-comfort room,” she said. “Technically supposed to be a games room, but I never liked the word games.”
I raised a brow, scanning the shelves. “Right. Because nothing says comfort like six-hour French art films.” My eyes landed on a suspiciously large row of pastel DVD covers. “Though I must say, for someone who claims not to watch romcoms, you’ve got quite the collection.”
She snorted. “Those aren’t even mine. Archer’s the romcom addict. Every time he thinks he’s in love, he raids this shelf like it’s therapy.” She gave a helpless little shrug. “I just let him have his moment. I’ve never actually watched any of them.”
I smiled, trying not to look too amused. “Good to know the Cadiz household has decent taste, well, except for one of you.”
She gave me a look, amused. “Says the one haunting hallways at midnight like a Victorian ghost.”
That earned me a laugh. She was cute like this. Softer, almost shy beneath the dry humor. There was something disarming about her in this setting, surrounded by her quiet little world.
“I was looking for milk, actually,” I said, folding my arms.
“Milk? At nearly midnight? What are you, seven?”
I shot her a look. “It helps me sleep, alright?”
She opened her mouth, probably to fire back another quip, but something in my tone must’ve landed. Her face shifted and softened, just slightly. “You can’t sleep without it?”
I hesitated. “Not really.”
There was a pause. Then she placed the cue stick on the table with a quiet thunk and jerked her head toward the door. “Come on.”
I followed her through the darkened hallways, footsteps soft against the tile. In the kitchen, she moved with surprising ease, then opened a cupboard, pulled down a mug, poured the milk in the kettle, and set it on the stove to warm.
She didn’t say anything, and neither did I, not right away.
“So,” I said lightly, “is this your usual midnight routine? Playing billiards while the rest of the house sleeps?”
She shrugged, still facing the stove. “Sometimes. Helps me think.”
“Very mysterious of you,” I teased. “Most people journal. Or I don’t know... sleep.”
She turned around to look at me. “Sleep’s overrated.”
She pushed the mug toward me once it was ready, her voice low. “Don’t tell anyone I made you this.”
I almost smiled. “Would ruin your reputation?”
She gave me a flat look. “Completely.”
I took a sip of the milk. It was warm and a little sweet, surprisingly perfect. “Thanks for this, by the way. You didn’t have to.”
“Yeah, well,” she said, “You looked like you needed it.”
There was a pause, then she tilted her head toward the cupboard. “You want some cookies too? I think we’ve got chocolate chip or whatever weird flavors in here.”
“Chocolate chip sounds dangerously good right now.”
She pulled out a tin from the cupboard and slid it toward me. “Help yourself.”
I took one, still clutching the mug in my other hand. “Thanks. You’re surprisingly decent at midnight hospitality.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
She took one too, she grabbed the whole tin and poured herself a cup of milk like it was the most natural thing in the world.
There was something oddly domestic about it, the two of us standing there barefoot in the kitchen, sharing cookies and warm milk like it wasn’t the middle of the night in some sprawling estate.
A beat passed before she asked, casually, “You play billiards?”
I hesitated. “I mean... yeah. A bit. Here and there.” I honestly don’t.
She narrowed her eyes, clearly skeptical. “Right. ‘Here and there.’”
“I’m athletic,” I said, feigning confidence. “How hard could it be?”
She raised an eyebrow, her mouth twitching. “Dangerous words, Smythe.”
Something was teasing in her tone, but edged with a challenge that sent a spark down my spine.
“Come on, guest speaker,” she said, voice low and amused. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
I stared at her. “...Now?”
She was already walking out of the kitchen, cookie tin in hand, her hips swaying just enough to make it unfair. “Unless you’re scared.”
I sighed, picked up my mug, and followed. “I’m not scared. I’m just conserving energy.”
She glanced over her shoulder, that maddening smirk curving her lips. “Sure,” she said. “Let’s call it that.”
Her eyes met mine for a split second, something playful flickering there, and suddenly, I wasn’t sure if we were still talking about pool.
In the room, Alex racked up a fresh game with an annoying sort of confidence, twirling her cue like she was born holding it. I stood there, trying to remember anything useful from the one time I played at a pub years ago, and promptly forgot everything the moment she looked at me.
“Right,” I said, squinting at the table. “So I just... hit it in?”
“You lied to me,” she said, grinning. “Just straight to my face.”
I feigned innocence. “I bent the truth. For hospitality.”
“You said you played billiards.”
“I didn’t say I was good at it.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Right. So what you meant was, you once stood near a pool table and watched someone else play.”
“Wow,” I said, folding my arms. “Is this how you welcome all your guests? Public shaming with a side of warm milk?”
She laughed, a real laugh. It softened something in her face I hadn’t seen before.
“No,” she said, still smiling, “Just the ones who sneak around at midnight.”
“I wasn’t sneaking, I was wandering. Respectfully.”
“To beg for milk.”
I held up my mug. “And look where that got me. Free drinks and a pool lesson from a Cadiz. Pretty decent perks, if you ask me. Now, how do I do this?”
She snorted and walked over, gently grabbing my hand again to fix my grip. “You’re holding this like it’s a baguette.”
Her touch was light, clinical, and focused, but the sudden closeness made something buzz at the back of my neck. Her scent was clean and sharp, like mint and something woodsy, maybe her shampoo. It was unfair, really, how good she smelled.
Something about her was different tonight. Lighter.
“I don’t exactly come from a long line of pool experts,” I mumbled.
“Well, clearly,” she teased, her voice low, a smile tugging at her lips. “But I can work with this.”
Her hand didn’t move. Neither did mine. I could feel her warmth through my hoodie, the slow, steady press of her arm against mine.
“You’re very close,” I whispered, not quite able to stop myself.
“You’re the one who asked for a lesson.”
“Didn’t know it came with personal space violations.” I joked.
Truthfully, I wasn’t really bothered. And that was the problem. If anything, I found myself leaning in without realizing it.
She cleared her throat and stepped back, brushing her hair behind her ear like she hadn’t noticed anything at all, except I saw the faintest pink creeping up her neck.
“Right,” she said. “Try again. Hit whatever ball you want.”
I leaned forward, trying not to grin. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“Obviously.” She crossed her arms, hip resting against the edge of the table, eyes glinting in that way that made her look both smug and unfairly attractive. “Now don’t miss. I have a reputation to uphold.”
I lined up the shot, heart still beating faster than it should’ve. “No pressure then.”
“None at all,” she said, smiling.
To my own surprise, I started to get the hang of it. Nothing fancy, but I was making clean shots, and Alex was… patient. And every time I glanced up, she was already watching me with that same quiet, unreadable expression that somehow still felt warm.
I let out a slow breath and rested the cue stick against the table. “I think that’s me done. I can barely keep my eyes open.”
She glanced at the clock and gave a soft, almost fond smile. “Guess I wore you out.”
“You did,” I said, smiling back. “In the kindest way.”
She racked the cue stick back in its place, fingers brushing the polished wood with the same easy precision she had on court, and gently gathered the scattered balls into the pockets, letting them drop with soft, muted thuds.
“Thanks... really. For the milk, the cookies, and the whole lesson,” I said, lingering by the doorway.
“You’re welcome.”
It wasn’t teasing or cool or distant; it was soft. Real. Like something she didn’t say often, but meant when she did.
For a moment, neither of us moved. The air felt heavier than before, like the quiet itself was charged with something unspoken.
I nodded, my throat tightening unexpectedly. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” she echoed, quieter than before. Her eyes lingered on mine just a second longer than necessary, enough to make my stomach twist in ways I couldn’t name.
As I turned the corner, all I could feel was this strange, stubborn warmth blooming in my chest, the kind that didn’t come from milk or midnight cookies, but from her.
And I wasn’t sure what to do with it.