Chapter 7
Excuse me? My brain short-circuits, trying to reconcile the six-foot-four wall of muscle in front of me calling me … kitten.
I blink up at him, still steadying myself in his grip. God, when did his hands get so big? “Did you just … call me a kitten?”
The corner of his mouth twitches, as if he’s daring me to notice. “Aye. You look like one, all small and away with the fairies. Nearly walked straight into traffic, or worse, into me.”
I huff, crossing my arms, though I can still feel the ghost of his hands on my skin. “You came out of nowhere. Maybe wear a bell if you’re going to sneak up on people.”
“Not sneakin’.” His voice is low, rough, vibrating straight through me, settling deep in my ribs.
He shifts his weight, hands sliding into his jogger pockets, his shirt pulling just enough to flash a strip of skin at his side.
Every line of him is coiled and controlled. “Just walkin’. Clearin’ my head.”
He smells of soap and something darker underneath. Clean, sharp, the kind of scent that makes you want to lean closer instead of pull away.
“Oh.” Brilliant, Cat. Truly stunning conversational skills.
He nods toward the ocean behind me, the last streaks of sunset glinting off the waves. “You run here?”
“Yeah.” I tuck a strand of hair into my ponytail, pretending my pulse isn’t sprinting. “Helps me reset after a long day.”
Rogue studies me, expression unreadable, like he’s deciding if I’m worth answering at all. Finally, he says flatly, “Good habit. Might keep you alive longer.”
I bite back a laugh. “Is that your version of encouragement?”
His eyes flick over me, quick and sharp. “Don’t ask for what you don’t want to hear, kitten.”
I should hate that nickname. I should tell him again it’s Cat. But the way it rolls off his brogue does something ridiculous to me. My stomach twists, remembering the heat of his hands on my arms steadying me.
The warmth coming off him is ridiculous, like standing too close to a fire. No wonder my pulse won’t calm down.
I shift, searching for air. “You just had dinner?” My voice is embarrassingly high. “Do you … live around here?”
“Aye,” he says simply. “Ocean Avenue. Down the street.”
My stomach dips. “Oh, great.” I force a smile that feels like a grimace. “We’re neighbors.”
His head tilts, gray eyes glinting with something unreadable. “You sayin’ that like it’s a problem, lass.”
“No,” I blurt, too fast. “No problem at all …”
The silence stretches, weighted. I rock on my heels, desperate to break it. “Well. Enjoy your … walk, I guess.”
“Aye.” He hesitates, gaze cutting over me once more. His mouth curves, barely, like it pains him. Then he turns toward the beach path. “Try not to fall on anyone else, kitten.”
I stand rooted in the cooling air, pulse stumbling, watching until he’s nothing but a shadow against the last light. Only then do I let out the breath I’ve been holding and mutter, “What the hell is wrong with me?”
By the time I make it up the stairs and to the apartment, my pulse has finally started to settle. I unlock the door and step inside, immediately greeted by the mouthwatering smell of roasted garlic and something lemony.
Bri, my best friend, roommate and partner in all things chaos, is in full swing in the kitchen, her dark hair twisted into a messy bun and her scrubs swapped for an oversized sweatshirt.
She’s got three Tupperware containers lined up like soldiers, and she’s portioning roasted veggies like she’s competing in some high stakes–cooking show.
“Wow, it must be so great to be a responsible adult.”
“It isn’t,” Bri says deadpan, shoving a lid onto a container. “But I’m done eating crap at the hospital cafeteria. I bought a rotisserie chicken if you want some, it’s in the fridge.”
I open the fridge, and sure enough, there it is, golden and glorious. “Wait … you bought groceries for meal prepping and something already prepared for dinner?” I tear off a piece of chicken and pop it in my mouth. “That’s actually genius.”
“Efficiency,” she says, wagging a finger. “I needed to make sure I was done cooking before the new Love Island episode drops.”
“Smart,” I mumble around my bite, grabbing another piece before shutting the fridge. Love Island waits for no one.
“Exactly. Now hurry up and shower,” Bri calls over her shoulder. “The drama is about to bless our screens, and I refuse to pause it for you.”
I laugh, already heading to the bathroom. A quick rinse and then my evening will be complete. Chicken, cozy clothes, and reality TV with my best friend. Honestly, it doesn’t get much better.
By the end of the episode, Bri and I are an absolute mess, sprawled on the couch under a blanket, clutching the almost empty popcorn bowl like it can somehow console us.
“Fuck Casa Amor, man.” Bri sniffles, swiping at her eyes with the cuff of her sweatshirt.
“You’re not blaming Casa for what a man was perfectly capable of doing on his own,” I counter, dragging the sleeve of my hoodie across my wet cheeks. “I truly believed in them. Like, believed. And now what do we have? The other two who are clearly just there for clout?”
“Right?” Bri sits up, indignant. “Those TikTok videos were clear as day—they already knew each other from outside. They’re faking it just to win.”
“And the worst part is, it’s working!” I groan, flopping back against the couch. “They’ll probably ride that fake fairytale all the way to the finale.”
Bri shakes her head, disgusted. “Snake behavior.”
“Snake,” I echo, nodding.
We are fully horizontal, picking at the last popcorn crumbs when Bri exhales, softer this time.
“Crap day at work too. Literally every patient was terminal. It was just … heavy. I try to keep a brave face, but by the end of the day, it’s like, what’s even the point?
” She laughs bitterly. “You know how much I hate grocery shopping, but I went straight there after work. I needed … something to make the day feel less bleak.”
I nudge her knee with mine. “Hey, things will get better, and honestly, I don’t know how you do it. It takes a special person to be strong for people who are suffering like that. You’re amazing, Bri. Seriously.”
She smiles faintly. “Thanks, Cat, how was your day?”
“My day was … fine. Busy. I did a lot of filming, took about a million photos, and took care of all last-minute details for tomorrow’s big event. Of course I also spent the day watching the dreamboat that is Rogue Gallagher. Which was … distracting, to say the least.”
Bri perks up. “Ooooh. Tell me everything.”
I groan, covering my face with my hands. “I feel so awkward around him. His scowl could cut diamonds, and he’s just … ridiculously attractive. It’s hard not to stare.”
“And?” She presses.
“And … get this. On my way home tonight, I ran right into him. Literally. Headfirst into his chest. He lives here, on Ocean Ave, so we’re basically neighbors, which probably means I’m going to see him even when I’m not at work. As if staring at his billboards all over the city wasn’t enough.”
Bri’s eyes go wide. “Wait, go back. The muscles, how are they?”
I throw my head back dramatically. “Magical. Like carved-by-Archangel-Michael-himself magical.”
She wheezes out a laugh. “God, I hate you. Okay, but he was walking alone? No security?”
“Yep. I guess people haven’t figured out where he’s staying yet.” I shrug. “But when they do, brace yourself, paparazzi are going to be all over the place. The Strikers are gonna be trending every other day.”
Bri yawns, stretching her arms over her head. “Well, speaking of trending disasters, I have an early shift tomorrow. I need sleep if I’m going to survive another day in the trenches.”
“Fair, will you be coming over to the welcome event though.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the end of the world, of course I will be there.”
We clean up our popcorn disaster, and I head toward my room, phone in hand. I shut the door, toss my hoodie on the chair, and finally unlock my screen, heart already fluttering in anticipation.
A new Veil notification is waiting for me.
@HalfWritten:
Did you have dinner?
A smile tugs at my lips. I crawl onto the bed, my legs curling under me as I type back.
@OneLastLine:
Yes! Chicken, rice, veggies, and my daily dose of Love Island. How about you? Did you find something sweet?
The typing dots appear almost immediately.
@HalfWritten:
I did find something sweet that I really wanted to eat … but I couldn’t. So I settled for a spoonful of ice cream.
Another pause.
@HalfWritten:
But it wasn’t my favorite flavor, so … here I am. Still craving something I can’t have.
I study the screen, chewing the inside of my cheek.
What did he want that he couldn’t have? My fingers hover over the keyboard, itching to ask, but I stop myself. If he wanted me to know, he’d say it. Maybe he’s diabetic. Maybe sugar is a dangerous temptation for him, or maybe it’s something else entirely.
Either way, my chest is warm and fluttery, a mess of curiosity and something softer I don’t want to name.
I stare at his last message. Something sweet he wanted but couldn’t have. God, I want to ask. I want to know what he meant, if he’s talking about dessert or … something else. But I don’t. I decide to take the safer route.
@OneLastLine:
Ice cream that isn’t your favorite flavor should be a crime.
A little bubble pops up almost instantly, and it makes me smile in the dim light of my room.
@HalfWritten:
A crime, huh? I’ll report myself to the Dessert Police.
But you’re right … I’m still craving the real thing.
I hesitate, heart fluttering in the stupidest way possible.
@OneLastLine:
Well, I hope you get it eventually. Everyone deserves something sweet once in a while.
There’s a pause this time. I roll onto my side, staring at the screen like I can will it to light up again. When it does, my heart jumps.
@HalfWritten:
Do you ever feel like … it’s hard to find someone to share that sweetness with?
Like your standards are too high, or maybe life just doesn’t line up the way you want it to.
I exhale slowly, the honesty of it hitting me square in the chest.
@OneLastLine:
…All the time.
I think I’ve always had these high expectations, of life, of love, of the kind of person I’d want next to me, and then when it doesn’t happen, I wonder if I’m the problem.
His response takes a little longer, and when it comes, it’s like he’s peeling back a layer he doesn’t show anyone.
@HalfWritten:
I get that.
I want to be a dad one day. More than anything, I think. But my own dad … he wasn’t exactly the best example. Some days I wonder if I’d just repeat the same mistakes.
I press a hand over my heart. God. That is … heartbreakingly sweet. Vulnerable in a way most men I’ve ever dated would never admit, especially to someone they barely know.
@OneLastLine:
I don’t think that makes you weak.
I think it makes you aware, and that’s already half the battle.
Another pause.
@HalfWritten:
Maybe.
I just don’t want to give someone I love a reason to look at me the way I used to look at him.
My throat tightens, and I blink up at the ceiling, fighting the ridiculous wave of emotion for a man whose real name I don’t even know.
@OneLastLine:
…Then you won’t.
The fact that you care this much tells me you won’t.
For a long moment, there’s no reply, and I imagine him somewhere, wherever he is, reading my words and maybe feeling a little less alone tonight.
When the bubble finally pops up again, I smile through the ache in my chest.
@HalfWritten:
You’re easy to talk to, you know that?
I feel like I could tell you anything, and you’d get it.
I hug my pillow and whisper, “Me too” to the empty room.
I stare at his last message. My thumbs hover over the keyboard for a second before I give in to the truth.
@OneLastLine:
That’s not weird at all.
…Or maybe it is, but I feel the same.
I don’t know why, but I’m extremely comfortable with you.
The three dots appear almost immediately, and my pulse picks up.
@HalfWritten:
Comfortable, huh?
That’s a dangerous thing to say to a man you barely know.
I laugh softly into my pillow.
@OneLastLine:
Why?
@HalfWritten:
Because it makes me want to push that comfort.
See how far it goes.
I pause, heat curling low in my stomach even though he hasn’t said anything explicitly inappropriate. God, he could probably recite the phone book and my heart would still trip over itself right now.
@OneLastLine:
…I think I’d let you.
There’s a long pause, and I imagine him reading that, maybe leaning back somewhere in the dark, smiling to himself the way I am right now.
@HalfWritten:
Careful, baby girl.
I might hold you to that.
Baby girl. The words settle low in my stomach, heavy and warm, like he reached straight through the phone and pressed them there.
A shiver runs down my spine, and I bury my face in my pillow to muffle the ridiculous squeak that escapes me.
Who is this man, and how is he already in my head like this? How is he already under my skin?
For a second, I think about sending something bolder, pushing back with my own brand of flirtation, but instead, I hug my pillow and let the butterflies have me.