“What? You’re grown. You think I don’t see the way he tracks you? It’s not creepy. Well, okay, itiscreepy—but only 'cause you’re trying so damn hard to ignore it.”
“I’m not—” I start, then stop. What’s the point?
She shrugs and takes a long drag. “Just sayin’, babe. Don’t waste your breath denying something your body already clocked. That man stares like he wants to memorize your bone structure. That’s not a casual glance, that’s… an agenda.”
I turn back to the mirror. The scarf sits snug against my throat. Sleek. Dangerous. Mine.
“I’m not getting involved,” I say quietly. “I don’t need the trouble.”
Ceera blows a perfect smoke ring toward the ceiling. “Honey, trouble’s already here. Might as well enjoy the ride.”
I don’t respond.
I just tighten the scarf again, watching my own reflection.
One breath. Two.
Then I kill the light.
His red eyes haunt me the entire time at work. Even when I leave, my gear in a backpack bouncing on my shoulders, I can’t shake his presence. The street’s thick with the stink of fried oil and half-burned meat, but I don’t mind it tonight. The vendor lights glow soft against the dirty awning of the Crimson Coil’s side alley, painting everything in hues of copper and grease-slicked gold. My boots scuff the curb as I loiter there longer than I need to, half-listening to some human offworlder argue about sauce portions like it’s a life or death negotiation.
And then—I see him.
He’s leaning against a food stall across the street. Not watching me. Just… there. Arms folded. Broad frame backlit by a pulsing holo-ad for some overpriced stim-slush. His eyes are on the ground, maybe the vendor’s grill, maybe nowhere at all. ButI know him. That stillness. That shape. My stomach flips like I missed a stair.
He doesn’t look up.
My mouth goes dry anyway.
I should go. I’ve got no business hanging around. My set ended half an hour ago, and I’m only out here because the dressing room felt too tight and Ceera kept giving me that look like she knew something I didn’t want to say out loud.
But I don’t leave.
I pretend to study the menu at the skewer cart. My fingers twitch against the scarf still looped around my neck. The mesh catches the vendor light and throws tiny glints onto my collarbone like sparks. I swear I can still feel the heat of his gaze, even if he’s not looking.
The air smells like smoke, and my pulse pounds like I’ve been dancing, not standing still. There’s no fear this time. Not really. Just… tension. A pull low in my gut, heavy and slow and winding tighter every second I don’t move.
Then I hear his voice.
Not loud. Just a single word, tossed like a pebble in a still pond.
“Kelsea.”
It’s the first time he’s said my name. Hearing it in that deep, rumbling tone—like gravel being rolled in thunder—it hits me like a sucker punch. I blink and look over.
He’s looking now. Red eyes sharp. Pinning.
I don’t know how he crossed the street so fast, but he’s closer. Not crowding. Not looming. Just standing there, like gravity bent to bring him near.
“I’m Roja. Didn’t mean to spook you,” he says, voice low, almost reluctant.
“You didn’t.” I lie so fast it hurts.
Roja tips his chin toward the scarf. “It fits.”
My hand rises on instinct to touch it. I nod, but words fail me. It fits too well.
“Good pick?” he asks.
