Lunch break
Chapter 12
S O P H I A
After class, and a message from Maria telling me she won't make it to eat lunch with me, I put my phone in my jacket pocket and go outside, not thinking about stepping into the cafeteria.
The sun hits me the second the doors open.
Warm and welcoming, completely different than the inside of the Academy.
I stand on the steps for a second and just let it land.
I promise myself to forget everything and simply enjoy the nice day.
The school's garden stretches out to the left of the main building, old trees throwing uneven shade across the stone paths and wooden benches sitting between them.
I ignore the parking lot to my right and walk past all of it, find a bench under the widest tree, settle into the patch of sun that comes through the branches at exactly the right angle, and pull out my sandwich.
Then my sketchbook.
And grin.
This is a lunch break. The birds, the faint warm wind, the sun on my face. I flip through the old pages and smile at one of them for a moment.
Then I find a clean page and start.
The tree first, the specific way the light moves through the branches at this hour, the weight of the leaves in the warm air, the geometry of shade on pale stone.
The path. The bench across from me. The long diagonal shadows the afternoon throws across everything, sharper than you'd expect, and more interesting for it.
My hand moves without thinking too much.
That's the thing about drawing, it asks for just enough of you to turn everything else down. Not silence, not emptiness. Just a comfortable reduction.I am so completely somewhere else that I don't even notice a person approaching beside me.
I don't hear anything at all, not until my sketchbook leaves my hands.
I my head snaps up. "Hey!" I bark, irritated, but the next words die straight in my throat when my eyes meet Lorenzo. He is standing just a few inches away, looking down at me with cold indifference.
"Give that back," I hiss. My blood is already starting to simmer. I see absolutely no reason for him to personally bully me while I am simply trying to mind my own business.
"Didn't I make myself clear yesterday?" I glare at him, my voice tight. "I don't like you."
He looks up from my drawings, tilting his head down slightly to hold my gaze.
"I know."
"Then why the hell are you here?" I genuinely don't understand his angles. The exact second I feel his grip loosen, I rip the sketchbook out of his hands. Making him rais a single eyebrow, followed by a slow, wicked grin.
A beat.
"Give me your phone," he says.
Is this a joke? Am I supposed to laugh?
"No. And I'm not interested in giving you my number either, before you..."
He lets out a short, arrogant laugh.
"That's not why, sweetie."
I don't know whether to be relieved or deeply offended.
And I don't really car , I start gathering my things to leave, but his hand suddenly comes down on my arm.
It isn't hard, but it's firm and impossibly hot.
A sudden shockwave of heat shoots from his fingertips straight up my arm, making the tiny hairs on my skin stand on end.
I freeze in place, hating how acutely aware I am of his touch.
With his other hand, he holds something out in front of me. A piece of paper, folded and slightly creased.
My piece of paper. The measurement sheet.
"You should fill that in," I say, realizing it's still completely blank.
He pulls it back, his smile slow, entirely aware of the effect he has. "All in good time, Miller."
"Your phone," he demands again.
Before I've even finished deciding how to respond, his hand moves to my jacket pocket. He finds it and slides it out in a smooth, quick, and completely unbothered way. His knuckles brush against my side through the fabric, and a traitorous shiver ripples through me.
"Hey...what the..."
"Password."
"I am absolutely not giving you my..."
"Your aunt needs those measurements today?." He asks . It's just the raw truth of the situation, placed in the air between us like a heavy piece of furniture. He genuinely expects me to just hand it over.
The anger arrives clean and immediate. I force it down into the smallest possible space, clenching my fist beneath the table where he can't see it. I hold his gaze and smile.
"Password one," I grind out, watching him type it in with pure satisfaction.
"Very funny," he says flatly when he realizes it's the wrong password.
"Sorry."
I am not sorry at all.
"Password two."
The look he gives me next could strip paint. In any other situation, it would make a shiver run down my spine, but right now, I feel nothing but pure fury.
"Fine." I exhale. "Zero-eight-nine-five-one."
I only give him the real code because, first, I know there is absolutely nothing on my phone that could interest him, and second, I want to see what he's actually looking for.
I watch him open my recent chats and then my photos.
The second he's about to scroll through them, I snatch the phone back out of his hand.
"Can I ask what exactly you're looking for?" I demand.
But get now answer. Instead, he reaches past me, grabs my bag, and upends it over the table.
Everything tumbles out at once: my notebook, pencils, wallet, keys, my copy of Jane Eyre, loose receipts, a hair tie, and the small photograph I keep hidden in the front pocket,the one I never take out in public.
"What the hell"
"Where's the camera?" he demands, a sharp bitterness cutting through his voice.
"At home, you dickhead"
For a fraction of a second, the air between us turns to heavy glass. Then, he moves. Faster than I ever thought a person could.
One placing one hand my shoulder, his heavy fingers digging into my jacket, anchoring me. His other hand goes flat on the table right beside my hip, the wood groaning under his sudden weight.
Suddenly, I am pressed back against the edge of the table. The sharp wood bites into my lower back, but I barely feel it because he is there. Right there.
The space between us hasn't just shrunk; it has completely vanished.
The dizzying scent of rain, cedarwood, and clean leather rolls off him, filling my lungs until I can barely think.
The raw heat radiating from his chest hits me like a physical blow, seeping through my clothes.
His expression is completely stripped of everything performative.
No smirk. No studied boredom. Just a raw, unfiltered, dangerous focus.
My breath hitches, trapped at the back of my throat. My heart slams violently against my ribs, so loud I'm terrified he can feel the vibration through my shoulder.
Don't look at his lips, I tell myself desperately. Do not look.
"Where did you take them?" he asks. His voice is no longer a taunt, it's a dark, low growl that vibrates straight through my own chest, making my skin prickle with an electric tension I can't control.
I look at him. My heart is hammering much faster than I would like, but I refuse to let him see that.
"What photos?" I say, keeping my voice flat and steady. "Lorenzo. What photos are you talking about?"
The silence stretches between us, thick, suffocating, and heavy with a strange, dark intimacy. He leans in a fraction of an inch closer. His dark eyes scan mine, searching for a twitch, a lie, anything. He is so close I can feel the warmth of his breath against my lips.
Something flickers in his expression. "Don't..."
"I genuinely don't know what you're talking about." I hold his gaze without flinching, forcing my breathing to stay even despite how dangerously close his mouth is to mine.
What is it with him and other peoples personal space.
"What photos? From where? Of what? If you would get out of my face for three seconds and explain it like a human being, I might actually be able to help you."
The grip on my shoulder doesn't release immediately.
He holds me pinned, his chest rising and falling against mine in ragged bursts. He searches my face for something .But doesn't find it.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, his fingers slide off my shoulder, leaving behind a lingering brand of heat. And steps back.
The sudden rush of cold air where his body used to be makes me want to gasp. I straighten up, pulling my jacket back into place, trying to mask the tremble in my hands.
Neither of us speaks for a moment. Then I pick my things up from the table. One by one. Without rushing.
"Explain," I say, without looking at him. "Or don't. But either way" I hold up the pen that had snapped when he grabbed my bag, "you owe me a new pen."
Silence.
Then barely, almost nothing something moves at the very edge of his expression. Not an apology. Something different.
"Photos appeared this morning," he says. Quieter now. "Someone at the warehouse last night took them. Someone sold them to the press."
"And you thought it was me ?!"
He says nothing. Which is its own answer.
"I didn't take any photos," I say. Simply. "I didn't know anyone there. I barely had my phone out all night. And I have been in this city for less than a month." I hold his gaze. "If someone sold those photos, it was someone with a reason. I didn't have one."
Something crosses his face one unguarded moment, and then gone. For just a second he looks almost like he doesn't know what to do with me.
"The measurements," I say. "Are you going to fill in that paper or not."I ask angrily.
"Tomorrow," he says.
"Today," I say immediately.
His jaw tightens. He smiles slow, challenging, testing every last nerve I have.
"Tomorrow, Stalker "He picks up his jacket, and walks away hands in his pockets, moving back to the main building.
"Asshole," I shout back at him.Pointing the finger in his direction hoping he turns around to see it.
I hate him.I hate him .I hate him!!!