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Chapter 18 - Chapter Eighteen - Postbox

The letter felt heavier than it should have as Harper folded it carefully, tucking it inside her bag. The afternoon sun was beginning to dip, casting long, slanting shadows across the cracked pavement. She walked steadily toward the old postbox at the end of the street, each step weighted with the lingering exhaustion she hadn't been able to shake for days.

Her eyes flicked up, catching sight of the diner across the road. The neon sign buzzed faintly, its warm glow spilling over the sidewalk. Harper froze for a moment, her heart catching in her throat. It was the same place she'd been just days ago—when she'd snuck back to the camp, dirty, bruised, and utterly drained, searching for Riley. That night was still raw in her mind. She remembered sinking into a booth here, trying to hide the grime and fatigue from the world.

Now, cleaner but no less tired, Harper hesitated, the urge to turn away warring with a strange pull to go inside again.

Without fully realizing it, she crossed the street and stepped into the diner's warm, familiar scent of fried food and coffee. The chatter was low, the clatter of dishes soft against the background hum of the old jukebox. Her eyes immediately found the blazer draped over a chair nearby — dark navy, crisp, and adorned with the unmistakable crest of Westerleigh Prep.

A flicker of recognition crossed her face. The blazer was Kim's.

Her breath hitched. She took a step toward the exit, the weight of the letter suddenly heavier in her hand. She didn't want to stay. Didn't want to get drawn into whatever this was between them — a connection too new, too uncertain.

"Well well, look who it is." 

Kim leaned casually against the diner's faded wallpaper, the corner of his mouth quirking up with a mischievous grin after returning from the restroom. His eyes gleamed with that confident, teasing spark that made it clear he was enjoying this more than he should.

"So… what, Harper? Stalking me now?" His voice dropped into that smooth, almost conspiratorial tone. "Should I start watching my back?

Harper scowled, crossing her arms stubbornly, but the hint of a smirk betrayed her amusement. "I literally wasn't stalking you." she said firmly, though she didn't deny she'd come back here. "I was just walking past and needed to post a letter."

Kim raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. He took a slow step closer, like he was letting her in on some secret. "Uh-huh. Because everyone's out posting letters at this time, and definitely not because they want to check if I'm around."

Kim's gaze dropped to her palms with mock seriousness. "It nice to see you clean. Not a speck of dirt, no signs of whatever mess you were dragging around the last time you showed up here." He tilted his head, giving her a sly once-over. "Hands like that? Clean heart too, maybe?"

Caught off guard by how the words settled between them, Harper looked down again at her palms. Her fingers flexed slowly, almost nervously, and for a moment the playful atmosphere felt like it shifted—like Kim was seeing more than just a girl dropping in at a diner.

Kim's smile softened just a touch, the teasing edge fading.

Their eyes met, and something unspoken hovered in the space between them—curiosity, maybe something more, tangled up with the familiarity of strangers who'd suddenly become part of each other's story

Kim shifted his weight casually against the chipped counter, the soft scrape of his sneakers against the diner's linoleum barely audible over the low murmur of conversation and the occasional hiss from the espresso machine. His eyes never left Harper as he extended a hand toward the booth opposite him. "Come on, sit. Don't just stand there looking like you're waiting for an apocalypse."

Harper blinked, caught off guard by the invitation. She glanced down at the letter tucked safely inside her bag—the one she'd meant to post and leave behind—and then back at Kim. Despite herself, she felt a flicker of something she didn't want to name: curiosity, maybe even a faint hope that this conversation could be something more than awkward.

With a quiet sigh, she slid into the vinyl seat. The booth creaked slightly beneath her weight, the faded red leather warm from the day's sun. The diner's familiar smells—fresh coffee, grilled onions, and something sweet from the pie case—wrapped around her, soothing and oddly grounding.

Kim leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, fingers laced loosely. His dark eyes gleamed with amusement, but there was a lightness there that made Harper's chest tighten—not with anxiety, but something unexpectedly tender. "So.." he said, voice low and teasing, "who's the lucky recipient of your letter?"

Harper's gaze flickered down to the envelope again. The smooth paper felt too plain, too honest for the weight of what was really inside. She hesitated, then offered a small, guarded shrug. "A penpal."

Kim's laugh was rich and easy, shaking his head as if he couldn't quite believe what he'd just heard. "You? A penpal?" He shook his head again, smiling wider now. "No offense, but you don't strike me as the letter-writing, penpal-sorting type. More like the 'text-you-a-sarcastic-comment-and-then-ghost-you' type."

Harper pulled a sarcastic smile, leaning back against the seat. "Well, some of us like a little mystery. Plus, penpals never interrupt your day with pointless notifications.

Kim's smirk lingered as Harper carefully slipped the letter back into her bag. The diner's quiet chatter and the clink of cutlery seemed to fade into the background, leaving only the charged space between them. For a heartbeat, neither said a word—just two people caught in a moment neither quite expected.

Then Kim pushed himself up from the booth with effortless ease, his movements smooth, confident. The soft leather of his blazer shifted on the chair behind him as he stood, the crisp Westerleigh crest catching the dim light.

"You know.." he said, voice low and casual, eyes flicking toward the window. "I could walk you to that postbox. Make sure your penpal actually gets the letter."

He added with a teasing grin, "Or, you know, just because I don't want you wandering the streets alone. I'm nice like that."

Harper's breath caught, caught off guard by the offer. For a split second, she debated brushing him off, retreating into the safety of her usual walls. But there was something in the way Kim looked at her—no pressure, just genuine ease—that made the idea less unbearable.

She shrugged, a small, reluctant smile tugging at her lips. "Sure. I guess I could use a bodyguard."

They rose almost simultaneously. The scrape of their shoes against the scuffed diner floor sounded louder than it should in the quiet space. Harper felt a flicker of nerves, a strange mixture of anticipation and wariness tightening in her chest as they stepped outside.

The afternoon sun was waning, casting long, soft shadows over the cracked pavement. The air smelled faintly of autumn—dry leaves, distant rain, and the lingering tang of street food from nearby stalls.

Kim matched her pace easily, his steps steady and unhurried beside hers. His presence was calming but also charged with a subtle energy Harper couldn't quite place. She kept her gaze fixed on the uneven sidewalk, trying not to dwell on how close he walked, or how his hand brushed lightly against hers as they passed.

They reached the postbox—an old, weathered metal box smeared with peeling stickers and faded graffiti, its red paint chipped from years of rain and sun. Harper hesitated for a moment, fingers lingering over the envelope in her bag as if the words inside were heavier than just ink on paper.

Kim's voice softened almost imperceptibly. "You sure you're not just using this as an excuse to come back here?"

Harper laughed, a quiet, genuine sound that surprised her as much as it did him. "Maybe I am? What's it to you?"

Kim's grin deepened, his dark eyes sparkling with something between amusement and something softer—something like hope. "Good. Because I was hoping you would."

They stood side by side in the cooling air, the world around them fading to a dull hum. For a moment, there was nothing but the simple connection of two strangers who'd somehow found a shared thread in the middle of an ordinary afternoon.

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