2024-12-20 04:48:02Chapter Eight.
When I pulled up to Aliyah’s place, I could already feel the difference. Her place was... inviting, almost annoyingly so. The kind of space that didn’t try too hard but still made you feel like you didn’t deserve to be there. It wasn’t big—just a modest little apartment—but it had that air of control, like she had her life stitched together better than anyone I knew. Bigger than the sorry excuse for a place I called home, that’s for sure. I stepped inside, dropping my bag by the door with a thud, and scanned the room. Aliyah’s voice floated from the back, sharp and familiar. "Lock the door behind you, Auston. I don’t need your mess following you in here." She emerged a second later, wiping her hands on her sweatpants like she’d just been elbow-deep in something—maybe work, maybe dinner, maybe a murder for all I knew. She looked at me, one eyebrow arching up like she could already tell I’d screwed up. Her arms crossed, a little shift in her stance that screamed impatience. I sank into the closest chair—small, stiff, and way too delicate for a guy like me. My knees practically touched my chest, but I wasn’t about to complain. I leaned forward, elbows on my thighs, trying to figure out how to start. "So?" she said, her tone cool but direct. "What’s going on? And don’t give me that ‘it’s complicated’ crap. How do you keep ending up in this kind of mess?" Before I could answer, she disappeared into the kitchen. I heard cupboards opening, the faint clink of glasses. Classic Aliyah—no life-altering conversations until you’ve had something to eat. She came back, sliding a glass of water and a plate of food onto the table in front of me without a word. Then she sat down across from me, leaning back in her chair with that same unrelenting look. "Alright," I started, picking at the food. "You remember that girl I told you about? The one who owns the company we’re working on? Well, technically her dad owns it, but she’s the face of it." She tilted her head slightly, lips curving up like she already knew this was gonna be good. "You mean the one whose father owns the bank? Yeah. What about her?" I pointed my fork at her, swallowing quickly. "Exactly. Her. She seems nice on the surface, sure, but—" Aliyah cut me off with a smirk, her head cocking to the side. "She seems cute." "Aliyah," I snapped, dropping the fork with a clatter. "Not the time. Seriously. She hasn’t done anything to me directly, but I messed up with her... I don’t know, boyfriend? Fiancé? Whatever he is. I might’ve rubbed him the wrong way." She blinked, slow and deliberate, like she was giving me time to hear how stupid that sounded. "Rubbed him the wrong way? Auston, how?" I threw my hands up. "I don’t know! Maybe I said something, maybe I didn’t. The guy’s all ego, and now he’s got his sights set on me like I personally insulted his ancestors. That’s why I called you to come get me." Her jaw tightened, and she sat forward, resting her elbows on the table. "You’re saying this dude is after you?" "Yeah," I said, the word heavy, almost bitter. "And he’s not subtle about it either. The guy’s got resources, Aliyah. He could make my life hell if he wanted to." Aliyah’s eyes narrowed, her fingers tapping on the edge of the table. She leaned back, folding her arms again, and tilted her head to the side. "Okay. First of all, breathe. You look like you’re about to crack. Second, do they know you’re here?" "No," I said quickly. Too quickly. "They don’t. I made sure of that." She studied me for a second, her gaze sharp and measuring, before nodding. "Alright, that’s something. But what’s your plan? You can’t just crash here forever, and you definitely can’t keep running. What’s next?" "I just need time to figure things out," I said, my voice quieter now, like admitting it was some kind of weakness. Aliyah exhaled through her nose, standing up with a shake of her head. "You’re such a pain, you know that? Finish eating. I’ve got work to do, and you’ve got thinking to do." She pointed at me with a lazy wave of her hand as she moved toward the corner of the room, where her desk sat piled with papers and her laptop glowing softly. I watched her go, her shoulders relaxed but her movements precise, efficient. She was always like this—handling her own chaos while I barely managed to stay afloat. She sat down and started typing, her focus shifting entirely. "Don’t even think about dragging me deeper into your drama, Auston," she said over her shoulder, her tone light but firm. I leaned back in the chair, letting out a low chuckle despite myself. "No promises," I muttered under my breath, staring at the ceiling. For a moment, the tension eased, and the steady rhythm of her typing filled the air. But deep down, I knew this wasn’t over—not by a long shot.
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