The day started off deceptively normal. Birds chirping with irritating brightness. The sun filtering through my curtains with that smug early morning glow that seemed to taunt me for sleeping in. But unlike yesterday, today has a secret agenda tucked under its sleeve—a lie.
A small lie.
I told my mum I wasn't feeling well today. That my throat felt like sandpaper and that the room spun if I stood up too fast. The high thermometer reading came courtesy of my lamp's heat bulb. The suspiciously runny nose was just tap water artistically dabbed onto my upper lip. I even added a mean little cough for dramatic flair, suspiciously theatrical.
Honestly, I thought she'd see through me instantly being a physician. She has dissected real sickness before but instead... she believed me.
So now, here I am on my way to the shopping centre with Dominic Lachowski.
The door clicks shut behind me with a metallic thud as I fumble with the lock, juggling a precariously balanced flask of coffee tucked into the crook of my elbow and a box of doughnuts cradled in the other arm. Franklin had left them out for me, complete with a scrawled sticky note that read "Feel better, kid."
My thumb jams the key into my back pocket, opting to retire the rock in the garden for now.
A car, sleek and gleaming like the gods of car wash kissed it, sits just shy of the pavement.
I manage to sidestep a rogue leaf and hustle to the passenger door, miraculously avoiding any spills.
Dominic opens it for me before I can even reach it, like some begrudging chauffeur.
"Thanks," I mutter and slip into the leather seat, instantly soothed by the fresh scent of everything.
It smells like everything has just been cleaned.
"Good morning," I say with a little lilt in my voice, the kind that doesn't match our usual dynamic.
I sip the warm coffee, tasting the sweet froth. The corners of my mouth are still tugged up behind the cup, and I catch Dominic giving me a perplexed squint he reserves for people who behave out of character.
"You're being weird," he says flatly, eyes narrowing suspiciously. "Why are you smiling... at me?"
I glance at his bandaged hands resting on the steering wheel, rough from, well the whole window incident.
I sigh guiltily.
Okay, maybe I am being slightly nicer than usual because of the incident yesterday. Only slightly though.
Before he can catch me staring worriedly, I flash him a totally innocent grin. "Well, Domi, if you must know, it's a beautiful morning."
He arches a brow as if silently asking me to elaborate.
"I had two granola bars for breakfast," I begin proudly. "Then I found a third in my bag which is always a win in my world. It was a little stale but still edible."
He grimaces, lips tugging to one side.
"Then I finally watched Bridgerton last night. Like fully binged an entire season. Thank Franklin for paying the Wi-Fi bill. Took him long enough."
"Franklin?" he echoes, eyes flicking sideways.
"My dad."
"You call your dad Franklin?"
I shrug, stirring my coffee with dramatic flair. "Well, he's my stepdad. When he first moved in, calling him Dad felt weird. Still does sometimes. Calling him Franklin just kinda stuck, you know. I don't think he minds though."
"So... you have a stepdad?"
"Yeah? Everybody knows that."
His face says otherwise. "I didn't."
I blink back. "How did you not know?"
Dominic leans on the steering wheel, furrowing his brows. "Are you lying?"
"Why would I lie about that?"
He doesn't answer right away—just stares hard. The kind of stare that feels like he's waiting for me to reveal a truth that only he suspects in his mind. I gnaw on the inside of my cheek and try not to laugh. The sheer suspicion in his eyes is almost endearing.
"I don't know," he mutters, still squinting at me. "You lie about other things."
I arch a brow. "Like what?"
He shrugs, glancing out the windscreen as if compiling a mental list. "Like... you say you hate me all the time."
"I do hate you."
"Then why did you save me from falling to my death yesterday? If you actually hated me, you would have just let me break a bone."
"There's this thing called being human," I say slowly, drawing the words out like he might need translation. "We do things like save people from death even if those people are currently keeping us under duress."
"So you don't actually hate me."
"Not enough to let you die."
"That's the bar?"
"Sure?" I reply with a shrug, sipping my coffee.
The engine rumbles to life with the throaty growl of a beast barely restrained.
"So let me get this straight," Dominic begins, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel rhythmically. "You allegedly hate me, yet you lied to your parents just to go out shopping with me. That kind of hate?"
I groan and slide deeper into the passenger seat, arms crossed like armor. "It's more complicated than that. Don't forget you're blackmailing me."
He scoffs, keeping his eyes on the road but letting sarcasm ride shotgun. "You keep calling it blackmail. I call it enforcing accountability."
"For what?" I shoot back. "Doodling some feelings in my sketchbook? Is that a crime?"
That maddening glint flashes in his eyes, the one that always signals his next word is going to unravel whatever logic I just stitched together.
"Let's not pretend your doodled feelings weren't just begging to be used as leverage. I merely obliged." His smirk is practically dripping. "I mean, crushing on your best friend's boyfriend..."
I clamp my lips shut as embarrassment sneaks up my neck, my cheeks warming like I'm being roasted under a spotlight. "This is exactly why I hate you. You're like an annoying rash I didn't ask for but now I have to treat you until you eventually go away."
He glances at me from the corner of his eye, deadpan.
I steal a glance at him.
The smile trying to tug at the edge of his mouth betrays him.
His profile is irritatingly perfect. Sharp jawline, eyes focused on the street ahead. Then he rolls his eyes in exasperation just as he's shifting the handbrake. I wonder what annoying thing I could've done to trigger his signature eyeroll.
Then suddenly, he leans toward me.
My breath stutters.
The coffee almost sloshes over the rim of the cup, but I keep it cool on the outside.
His gaze meets mine with that quiet, reckless intensity that I hate to love. The air tightens. My stomach somersaults in warning and I instantly regret inhaling three granola bars in less than twenty minutes. All that granola is now trembling in my stomach, unsure if it's going to survive this nauseating moment.
Those dark, sharp eyes don't flicker away. Not even once. And just like that, the memory of yesterday hits me like a truck. Of tangled limbs and breathless proximity. Of his hand gripping my wrist, his body underneath mine, the silence that felt louder than any confession. The stare.
That stare.
Is this our thing now? Staring at each other like star crossed fools in enclosed spaces? Because if it is, someone better tell my lungs to prepare for war. My chest tightens—not in a medical emergency sort of way, but because the person looking at me is having this kind of effect on me.
Is this bad?
My mind says yes, absolutely. Red flags are waving loudly.
But the rest of me—traitorous and warm—is leaning in and quietly asking, what if?
I should probably stick a sticky note to Dominic's forehead labelled "stop staring".
Click.
He doesn't say anything at first, just flicks his wrist back to the steering wheel casually but then his voice follows, slightly condescending. "Do I have to remind you to put your seatbelt on every single time?"
I blink, stunned for half a second, breaking the heated staring match we had somehow slipped into. Slowly, my eyes travel down to find the seatbelt stretching diagonally across my chest like a safety sash.
Oh.
Oh.
I suck in a breath.
He wasn't leaning in to kiss me. Of course not. Why did my brain immediately jump there? Like this was some romcom slow burn and not just Dominic being... well, Dominic. What did I expect? A cinematic moment under moody lighting? No, he was obviously just trying to avoid manslaughter charges if this car ended up flipped in traffic.
Trying to will away my embarrassment, I clear my throat and lean slightly toward the glove box.
"You know what might help," I say casually as he pulls out of the driveway and into the street, the engine humming with that expensive sounding purr, "You should write it on a sticky note and slap it onto the glove compartment."
"Why would I do that?"
"That way, I'll immediately see it and you won't have to keep reminding me."
He releases a long and heavy sigh, as though my suggestion added another burden to his very exhausting existence. His head shakes once side to side just enough for me to catch it.
But I know myself. The next time we are in this car, he will be clicking my seatbelt on again. I'm the kind of person who would forget how to breathe if it weren't a conscious task.
As we slow at the turn, he glances sideways.
"I need to swing by my house before we go to the shops," he says, tone businesslike.
I sip my coffee. "Why?"
"Forgot my credit card." His fingers drum lightly on the steering wheel. "Unless you want to spoil me and buy the clothes for me."
I stop in the middle of a sip and stare at him like he just asked me to adopt him.
My answer is a swift shake of the head, frowning vehemently at the painful suggestion. I am not spoiling the person who is currently holding my secrets hostage.
"Figured as much."
I eye him warily. "Then why did you even ask?"
That idea was doomed before it left his mouth.
He glances at the box in my lap as he shifts gears, his brow tugging down for a split second in curiosity. But he chooses not to comment right away, eyes flicking back to the road.
"What's that you've got?" he asks finally, voice coated with suspicion.
"I come bearing gifts, mate!" I announce triumphantly, setting my coffee in the cup holder. "Pastries."
"Why?"
"Just because..."
His eyes flick down to the box. "Are you trying to bribe me into forgetting you slammed my fingers in a window?"
"Maybe," I say sheepishly, grinning with innocence. "They're frosted."
I catch an almost smile reluctantly tugging at the corner of his lips.
"Feast your eyes on—" Dramatically, I open the box and reveal the precious cargo. "Doughnuts! We have caramel ones, an Oreo flavoured one, one vanilla with sprinkles... and obviously the only chocolate one which is mine."
I tuck the chocolate doughnut protectively aside.
"Do you have strawberry?" He cranes his neck, trying to get a better view. "Is that strawberry?"
"That's raspberry jelly actually," I say after seeing the colour. "But close enough, right?"
"Close enough?" He looks offended that I even dared to say that.
"Yeah..."
"Strawberry is its own unique, intricate flavour. Its sweetness is one you can never compare to others. Tasteful and bursting with deliciousness. It stands out. No other flavour will ever surmount to it. Definitely not raspberry."
I blink. "Did you just monologue for strawberries?"
"I can't believe you just tried to pawn off that junky flavour onto me, Starr. How dare you?"
I roll my eyes at his exaggerated reaction.
"Just give me the caramel one."
I smirk. "Say the magic word."
"Now?"
"That's not the magic word," I say, scowling at the uncaring look he throws at me through his peripheral vision. "You just sound entitled. Did you not learn your manners growing up?"
"So you want me to grovel for a doughnut I didn't ask you to bring? One that isn't even strawberry?"
I nod enthusiastically, grinning widely.
His scowl deepens as he mutters, "Forget it. I'll just buy my own doughnuts when we stop by at the shops. Strawberry ones. Real strawberry. Not whatever imposter you're peddling."
I scoff and swat away his theatrics.
"Okay, fine. Geez. Stop complaining. It's not an attractive look."
Without waiting for further sass, I grab the caramel doughnut and hold it out in front of his face, an offering served with attitude.
He eyes it with contempt.
With visible reluctance and a glare that could curdle milk, he leans forward and takes a bite. His jaw moves slowly as he chews, dissecting every molecule of flavour. Then a faint shudder passes through him, eyebrows tightening, but he forces the bite down.
"Why is that so fucking sweet?"
"Because it's caramel. What the fuck did you expect, mate?"
"Just give me the raspberry one," he rasps, as if choking on his pride more than the doughnut.
I roll my eyes, snatching the raspberry one from the box and shoving the caramel back into its spot. While tearing into my chocolate doughnut, I remind him, "You were just dragging this one not even two minutes ago."
He accepts the raspberry with wounded dignity, chewing with hesitation.
I watch, chin propped in my palm.
The moment his teeth sink in, there is the briefest flicker in his eyes. A cross between surprise and delight.
But it's gone in a blink.
He swallows hard, and his lips twist. "Good enough," he spits out defeatedly.
I chuckle, licking chocolate from my thumb. "You know, it's okay to admit you like it. We won't tell strawberry about your betrayal."
He scowls in response, clearly furious at his taste buds for betraying him. Probably even angrier at raspberry for stepping up and punching above its weight.
"What was it you said earlier?" I tease. "About strawberry being a flavour that could never be matched?"
"Shut up," he groans, voice soaked in suffering.
I burst out laughing.
The ride hums along in a quiet rhythm until I reach over and tap the radio on. It syncs instantly with his phone—his playlist lighting up the screen—and, without warning, Kendrick Lamar's voice floods the car. I immediately sit up straighter, already mouthing the lyrics like muscle memory.
Dominic taps his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the beat as his voice flows through the speakers. His knuckles flex with every bass drop, subtle but rhythmic, and I catch myself smiling.
"You know this song?" I ask, glancing at him with one eyebrow cocked.
"Please." He rolls his eyes. "Alright is a cultural milestone. Of course I do."
I chuckle. "Didn't peg you for a Kendrick fan."
"Didn't peg me for someone with decent music taste?" he shoots back, but his tone is more playful than cutting.
"Honestly?" I start with some laughter spilling out. "Not really."
The car rolls to a gentle stop.
I glance out the window and notice we're parked in front of a house I recognise even though it takes me a second to place it. It's modest but well kept, with a garden so obsessively trimmed it practically screams suburban perfection. I blink, realising how close we are to my place.
"Wait... this is your house?" I ask, eyes scanning the neat rows of hedges and pristine paintwork.
Dominic unbuckles his seatbelt. "Why do you sound so surprised?"
"I don't know," I murmur. "It's just... normal. I figured your parents would stash their heir in a penthouse suite somewhere. This place feels a little reachable. I could walk here."
He steps out of the car and stretches. "They wanted to keep me grounded, I guess."
I frown, still staring at the house. "Grounded how? Your parents are basically walking Louis Vuitton ads. Why are they friends with folks in this neighbourhood? Isn't that beneath them?"
Dominic shrugs. "Sometimes real friendships outlast social climbing. They knew each other before money made things weird."
"So... this house isn't some sort of temporary exile?"
"Nah, it's just where I live for the time being. Weirdly cosy, isn't it?"
I glance around, still not convinced. "Suspiciously so. I'm half expecting robot butlers and a hidden wine cellar."
"No robot butlers, but they definitely have a wine cellar," Dominic says impassively. "Filled with old Halloween costumes and Christmas decorations."
That earns a laugh from me.
He tosses a casual, "I'll be right back" over his shoulder, shutting the car door with a firm thud before jogging up the path.
His stride is quick and he doesn't bother knocking—just nudges the front door open and disappears inside, leaving it ajar.
As soon as he's out of view, I grin and lean toward the dashboard. The volume knob gets a generous twist, flooding the car with music. The bass thumps against the leather seats and windows, and I let the lyrics fly from my mouth like I'm the opening act at a concert.
That's when I spot movement at the house.
A little boy peers cautiously through the open doorway. His hand grips the frame, and he watches the car curiously but not afraid.
I press the window button, letting it slide down smoothly with a soft whirr.
"Hi," I mumble warmly, waving from behind my bitten doughnut.
He lifts his hand tentatively, then wiggles his fingers in return. His smile is small but sweet, testing the waters before blooming. Definitely one of those genuinely shy smiles.
He's tiny, probably five or six, with neatly brushed hair that's somewhere between golden and chestnut, unlike Dominic's wild curls that look like they have their own time zone. His blue eyes brighten when they meet mine, just enough for me to feel it.
The moment teeters between adorable and slightly too curious, because the kid is just about to step outside when Dominic reappears, sweeping him up with dad reflexes and parking him on his hip.
"Nope," Dominic mutters, shaking his head, eyes narrowed like a disappointed tutor.
The boy blinks at him guilelessly.
"You don't leave the house without an adult, Zachary. Go watch cartoons or build another LEGO empire."
He sets the boy down gently but firmly, with that stern tone that says this is non-negotiable.
Zachary turns and shoots me one last gap-toothed grin then scampers off like a puppy.
Dominic pulls the door shut properly this time with a click.
Back in the driver's seat, he tosses his wallet onto the glove compartment, fastens his seatbelt with muscle memory, and starts the engine. The car purrs back to life.
"You made a friend," he says dryly, shifting into gear without looking at me.
"He has elite waving skills."
"He waves at squirrels too, so don't get ahead of yourself."
I chuckle and settle back into my seat as the car rolls into motion again.
"Is that your brother?" I ask, my voice laced with curiosity.
Dominic doesn't get a chance to answer. The music stops in the middle of a verse as his phone rings, slicing through the moment like a knife. The strum of his ring tone bubbles through the speakers.
He glances at the caller ID, his jaw tightening. A frown etches its way onto his face before he silences the call with a swipe and shoves the phone deep into his pocket like it personally offended him.
Then, as if remembering I exist, he turns to me.
"What?" he mutters, annoyance flickering in his eyes.
I lean forward just slightly. "Zachary... is he your brother?"
His answer is quick, with a dry edge that could cut glass. "Oh, no. I'd off myself if he was. He's just my cousin."
I blink at the bluntness, then try again. "Do you have any siblings?"
Dominic hesitates for a beat, then shrugs as if the topic is boring him. "Uh... no. I don't have any siblings."
"Oh." I nod slowly, the word falling out of my mouth.
My gaze drifts to the window as memories stir—Ji Ho holding my hand while he cried over broken crayons, Chu Hua stealing my black nail polish and Yang Jin screaming he'd only eat dinner if I served it like a restaurant. My siblings are chaotic and wild but ultimately loyal.
I complain about them more times than I can count, yet the thought of life without them feels like trying to breathe underwater.
"Does it get lonely sometimes?" I ask, my eyes tracing the road ahead instead of him.
He throws a sideways glance, eyebrows raised. "It's what I'm used to," he says with a careless shrug. "I like being alone."
That response should've been the end of it but it only makes me more curious. "So... Zachary's also staying at your parent's friend's house?"
He squints, confused. "My parent's friend's house? Who said that was my—" The words trail off as the puzzle pieces click together. "Oh, right. I did. Yeah... let's go with that."
I narrow my eyes, sensing something off. "What happened to his parents?"
He stiffens, like the question hit a nerve. "I don't know. What's with the twenty-one questions?"
There it is—the snap in his voice, sharp and slightly defensive.
"I'm not obliged to tell you everything about me," he adds, turning back to the road. "Just because you're helping doesn't mean I owe you a life story."
The sting doesn't go unnoticed, and I press my lips into a thin line. "I was just trying to make conversation," I say quietly, hugging my own elbows. "You seriously need to chill with your bipolar behaviour."
Tense silence floods the car.
He lets out a low, frustrated huff under his breath quietly, but sharp enough to graze my nerves.
I catch his expression through the corner of my eye and narrow mine in return. What is his problem? Why does every conversation feel like walking barefoot on gravel with him? Is it really that hard to have one civil moment without setting off emotional fireworks?
I clutch my coffee a little tighter and bite my lip to keep myself from saying something snarky. I'm honestly trying. Doesn't he get that? Doesn't he realise I have just as many reasons to blow a fuse every time he says something smarmy solely for his entertainment?
Then, suddenly, he exhales again—a different kind of sigh. This one is more resigned.
"I'm..." he starts, and my head tilts slightly toward him. "Sor—"
He pauses.
Long enough for me to blink twice.
I stare at him, unsure if I heard him right. Is he about to—wait, is he actually trying to say sorry?
His jaw tenses, and then finally, he mutters, "I'm... regretful for lashing out on you. I'll try to have a better grasp on my negative emotions."
My face drops.
"Regretful?" I repeat, frowning like he just offered me a knockoff apology. "I think the proper term you're looking for is sorry. Regretful sounds a little corporate. Like a press statement they print when a celebrity gets caught doing something."
He shifts in his seat, eyes darting toward the window like it might offer him a better escape than facing me. His lips purse tight, silent defiance written all over his face. Typical Dominic. The king of emotional gymnastics. Flirting with the idea of being sincere and remorseful, then immediately backing away like it's contagious.
"You just can't say it, can you?"
He shrugs, unbothered.
I roll my eyes.
What was I expecting?
"Oh," he says, snapping me out of my thoughts. "Before I forget."
I turn toward him, brows lifting in curiosity as he digs into his pocket.
He pulls out a crumpled yellow sticky note, smooths it out with a finger, and slaps it right onto the glove compartment—covering the bold letters that read airbag. Then he leans back, gaze pointedly fixed in my direction.
I squint to read it.
Put the fucking seatbelt on, Seong Jin or I swear—
Hatefully, Dominic.
A laugh bursts from me before I can help it, soft but genuine, and I slump back into my seat with a grin tugging at the corners of my lips.
"You actually did it?" I mutter, amused.
He doesn't answer right away, just throws me a sideways glance. There's something dancing at the edge of his mouth, an unspoken smirk threatening to bloom. He tries to bury it with indifference, but I catch it anyway.
"Funny," I say again, still watching him.
This time he lets the smirk land properly, the corners curling just enough to confirm his affection.