The car moved through the sunset in heavy silence, streetlights flashing rhythmically across Slavvy's face, highlighting the sharp planes of his jaw. His grip on the steering wheel was relaxed but firm — the kind of calm that made you forget it could break into command at any second.
"Jealous," I scoffed, breaking the stillness. My voice sounded smaller than I meant it to. "She was jealous; I was just looking at her, wondering why she was looking at me," I defended.
"Mmmmm," he said, amused, not believing me. The sound rolled low in his throat, like a quiet warning wrapped in a tease.
Jealous, me? I wasn't jealous at all. Or was I... no, no, I wasn't jealous. She was not me.
"You can say no, but your facial expression doesn't lie," he teased, eyes flicking to me for a second before focusing back on the road. Even that brief glance carried weight, enough to make my pulse jump.
I felt a twinge of annoyance — not because of what he said, but because he was right. He handed me his phone, camera already on. The light from the screen cast a soft glow over my face. I saw it — my tensed jaw, the furrow in my brows. I barely recognized the girl looking back.
"Jelly," he added, and I shoved the phone back at him, my cheeks warming.
"Not funny," I said flatly.
"Okay, okay, I'm sorry; forgive me, please," he said, his voice breaking into a low chuckle he was clearly trying to hold back. He looked so effortlessly calm, so sure of himself and somehow, that annoyed me more.
"I'm joking; she was jealous when I called you baby. I saw the way she was looking at you; that's why I called you baby," he admitted. His voice dropped lower on that last word —"baby" like he wanted me to feel the weight of it. But I didn't care. Or at least, I told myself I didn't.
"Are you mad at me?" he asked, glancing sideways.
I stayed quiet.
"Am I getting the silent treatment now?" he added. Still, I said nothing. My chest felt tight, and I didn't even understand why tears were welling in my eyes. The feelings tangled inside me confusion, jealousy, something else I couldn't name.
I felt the car slow down, the hum of the engine fading. The city lights blurred outside my window.
"Testimony?" he called, his voice low now, softer like velvet after steel. "Testimony, look at me," he said, firmer this time, his hand turning me gently but decisively toward him. His eyes met mine dark, intent, unreadable and I froze.
Did I mention the fact that I hate that I'm really sensitive to the smallest things in the world? I'm just like my mother; little things broke her. In front of me, she was strong, but I knew that when I wasn't there, she was bitterly crying. Other days, she'd just break down in front of me when she couldn't hold it anymore.
I looked down, trying to escape the intensity of his gaze, but before I could think, his hand lifted my chin slightly. His lips brushed mine not soft, not rough, just decisive. It felt like he was silencing my thoughts, not asking for permission.
I froze, then slowly let go of the tension in my shoulders. His touch carried warmth and something dangerous beneath it. My tears slid down my cheeks, mixing with the moment.
He pulled back, watching me carefully. "I'm sorry," his voice was barely a whisper.
"It's okay," I breathed, the words trembling.
He kissed my forehead gently once, then again, slower each time until a small, involuntary smile tugged at my lips.
"We're never ordering there ever again because that witch made my baby cry," he said, the faintest smirk on his face.
Instant butterflies. I couldn't help it.
"Now I'm happy," I giggled, the tension in the car melting, and he smiled in relief. His shoulders relaxed, and for a moment, he looked younger softer.
We drove about thirty minutes until we reached what seemed to be his house — or more like an estate. A sleek villa rose behind tall, iron gates. The headlights caught the marble steps and clean, sharp architecture.
"It's… beautiful," I breathed.
"Uhmm, I can't get in here; what will your family say?" I asked, suddenly aware of how small I felt in front of that massive gate.
"Don't worry, I live by myself," he said simply.
"All alone in this villa house?"
He nodded, stepping out, unlocking the door with a key that gleamed under the moonlight. I unbuckled my seatbelt and got out, grabbing our food, following him inside.
The entrance was breathtaking floors so polished they reflected the golden chandelier light above. Every piece of furniture looked expensive but lived in, like the kind of wealth that didn't need to show off. Black-and-white art lined the walls faces, cities, and smoke.
"Welcome to my lonely place," he said, raising his arms slightly, half-smile on his lips.
I looked around, taking it all in — the silence, the subtle smell of sandalwood, the faint sound of wind against the windows.
I followed him upstairs. His room was large, minimalist black and white, sharp lines, soft light. It felt… calculated. Every item had a place, just like him.
I placed the food neatly on his study desk.
"Can we eat? It's almost five o'clock; I have to write my homework and go home," I said.
"Mmmm," he said, sitting down casually, taking his burger. I started on my fries. Blues they were so delicious. I ate like I was the only one in the world.
When I looked up, he was already watching me. That faint smile again calm, knowing, unreadable.
"Why haven't you been in my life this entire time?" he said, voice low, almost a whisper.
I blinked, unsure if I'd heard correctly.
"Mmmmm?" I asked, tilting my head.
"I said, are you enjoying your food?" His tone was casual now, but something about his eyes said there was more behind the words.
"Yeah, it's really good," I said.
"Glad," he murmured, his gaze lingering on me for a second before he returned to his food.
We didn't finish the table was still full, and I couldn't eat another bite. I didn't understand why he ordered so much.
Afterward, we sat together, catching up on my notes and homework. He leaned back as I wrote, watching in quiet focus. Twenty minutes later, I closed my book.
"Done," I said, and our eyes locked a quiet, charged pause.
"Done," he echoed, his voice low, smooth. He handed me my book, his fingers brushing mine briefly intentional or not, I couldn't tell.
I tucked it in my bag, heart thudding harder than it should.
"Thank you," I whispered softly.
A faint, unreadable smile crossed his face.
"What?" I asked, stepping closer, my voice barely above a whisper.
"It's nothing," he said, turning his gaze away.
I knew that look. I'd worn it myself the smile people use to hide something heavy.
"You're going to tell me, or should I tickle you?" I teased, leaning forward.
He raised a brow. "You wouldn't dare."
"Try me," I grinned, lunging playfully toward him.
He laughed an unguarded, real laugh that echoed softly in the big room.
"Leave me, please stop," he said between laughs, though he made no real effort to escape.
"Tell me!" I demanded, still giggling.
Then, in a blink, the mood shifted. His hand caught my wrist; his other arm steadied me, and suddenly, I was beneath him.
His movements were fast trained, almost. His eyes burned with something fierce yet controlled.
For a heartbeat, guilt and excitement warred inside me. My pulse raced as his hand brushed against mine not demanding, not rough, just grounding. The air around us thickened.
Our hands stayed there, fingers brushing, neither of us moving. I felt my heart stutter, unsure if I should look away or closer.
He gave a small, steady smile the kind that could disarm anyone.
He held me there, not in possession but protection. And for the first time, I realized he was dangerous not because he hurt but because he could, and chose not to.
We sat together afterward, shoulders touching, sharing a quiet laugh. His gaze softened.
"I have to go home," I said softly, remembering the time.
He nodded, reluctant. "Do you really have to?"
"My parents will be waiting," I said, forcing a small laugh. The moment felt too perfect to end.
He stood, offering his hand to help me up. His touch lingered brief, steady, warm.
When we reached my house, the air outside was cool, calm.
"Thanks for today," I whispered.
He smiled, leaning in, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead — gentle, deliberate.
"You're special," he murmured. "Don't forget that."
His voice was quiet but carried that same weight — the kind that didn't need to be repeated to be remembered.
I smiled, warmth spreading through me. Somehow, the world felt lighter, safer — even though I knew nothing about the shadows that followed him home.