#hoab

Dread sets in her stomach like a stone. Something feels off. She grabs a coat, shoves her feet into sneakers and heads out. The rest of the cereal lies forgotten on the table, slowly turning to mush.

The wind claws at her face, while anxiety rips her apart from the inside. It’s only when she rounds the corner to the hostel that she sees the crowd.

Reporters. A dozen or more of them crowd the sidewalk in front of the building, microphones in hand, cameras slung over their shoulders, trying to capture everything, anything, like they’re hunting for blood.

Her stomach drops.

She hesitates, keeping her distance, trying to calculate the odds of them knowing who she is. They couldn’t, right? She does not appear on the footage the police are showing, and surely the hostel management would keep her identity private. Right?

Gabriella’s stomach drops. Someone is holding up their phone—her own face is staring back at her from the screen.

They know.

She takes a step back, hesitant between turning around and trying to walk around them to the side entrance. But then someone spots her, and the choice is taken from her.

“That’s her!” a voice shouts.

Suddenly they’re moving, the group surging towards her like a wave. Her instincts scream at her to turn around and bolt. But she can’t. Marcus called her in, and if she doesn’t show up, she’ll hear about it later. Going through them is the only way.

“Gabriella, what’s your connection to the shooter?”

“Did you know him personally?”

“Do you feel responsible for what happened?”

Her pulse skyrockets. With a deep breath, she pulls up her hood and lowers her head, clutching the strap of her bag like it’s some kind of shield.

“No comments,” she says, voice firmer than she feels, and starts pushing through the crush of bodies.

They’re relentless, shoving mics in her face, firing off questions she doesn’t have answers to. Someone snaps a picture, and the flash would be blinding if she didn’t have her head down.

It’s mortifying. She feels exposed like a corpse on a cold metal table being pried open and dissected.

By the time she makes it to the employee’s entrance, her heart is pounding so hard it’s dizzying. Her hands shake as she fumbles for the key card.

Inside, the lobby is eerily quiet, almost peaceful compared to the chaos outside. Marcus is standing behind the counter, his arms crossed over his chest, face drawn tight.

“You forgot to tell me about the mob outside,” she says, yanking her hood down.

“Yeah, well, I thought you wouldn’t show up if I told you,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck.

“What the hell is going on? Why are they out there?”

Marcus exhales sharply, rubbing a hand down his cheek like he’s facing an internal dilemma, and the silence stretches without his reply. Then he finally gestures toward the office. “Come on. Let’s talk in here.”

In her stomach, dread spreads and burns like acid. The squeaking of her sneakers against the tile as she follows him into the office almost hurts her ears.

It’s a cramped space, cluttered with old files that were supposed to have been sorted years ago but nobody ever bothers. On the far corner, there’s a coffee machine that hasn’t worked since before she was hired.

Once they’re inside, he closes the door and leans against the desk, avoiding her eyes. That sinking feeling in Gabby's stomach worsens.

“Marcus?”

He sighs, and keeps rubbing the back of his neck like it has all the answers. “Look, Gabby… This isn’t easy.”

A cold weight settles in her chest. She watches the way he won’t meet her eyes, the tension in his posture.

And, just like that, she knows.

“What isn’t easy?” she asks, her voice sharp now. “You’re firing me over this?”

“It’s not personal,” he says quickly, hands up like he’s trying to calm her down before she even reacts. “This came from higher ups. Corporate—”

“Corporate?” Gabriella laughs bitterly, the sound hollow. “What the hell does corporate have to do with me? I didn’t do anything wrong!”

“It’s not about right or wrong,” he says, finally finding his balls and meeting her gaze. “It’s about the press. The story, it’s… bad optics. Corporate doesn’t want the headache.”

She blinks at him. “The headache?”

“They’re saying it’s bad PR.” His tone is soft, but detached, like he’s reading from a script. “The cops poking around, your name tied to… well, him. It’s making people nervous. They think keeping you here makes us look… complicit.”

“Complicit?” She takes a step back, like the words physically hit her. “I checked him in, Marcus. That’s it. That’s literally eighty percent of my job description.”

“I know,” he says, and for a moment, his mask slips. He looks almost apologetic. Almost. “But the board doesn’t care. They just want it to go away.”

She stares at him, mind racing for something to say that will change his mind, something that can make all this go away. But nothing comes.

There’s nothing she can say.

“So that's it?” She finally manages, and her voice cracks at the end of the sentence.

“It’s not personal,” he repeats, like that makes it better.

Gabby laughs, but it’s hollow and bitter. “Not personal? I’ve worked here for years, Marcus. I’ve covered shifts you didn’t even ask me to. I’ve—”

“I know,” he cuts her off, and for a second, Gabriella thinks it's guilt she sees flashing across his face. “I know you’re good at your job, Gabby. But this isn’t up to me.”

Her jaw clenches. “You could’ve fought for me.”

“I did,” he says quietly. “But my hands are tied.”

The silence between them is loud, thick and suffocating.

“We'll pay you for the rest of the week,” Marcus adds, like he's doing her a huge favor.

“How generous,” she scoffs, adjusting the bag on her shoulder and turning her back on him.

“Gabby—”

She shakes her head, cutting him off. “Don’t. Just… don’t.”

Before he can say anything else, she walks out of the office and slams the door shut behind her.

Her thoughts buzz louder than the fluorescent lights overhead as she makes her way to the small employee lounge tucked at the end of the hall. The reality of being fired—just like that—hasn’t fully sunk in.

Inside, the lounge is depressingly familiar: a battered vending machine humming in the corner, a sagging couch no one wants to sit on, and a row of dented metal lockers. She heads straight for hers, to salvage the last remnants of her daily routine. The door squeaks when she yanks it open, and she starts shoving her things into her bag—reusable bottle, a paperback novel with the spine cracked, spare hoodie over her arm. Her fingers curl around a mug imprinted with the words World’s Okayest Employee in large black letters. It was a birthday gift from her coworkers, but she changes her mind and pushes it aside.

There are footsteps behind her just as she’s picking up a half-eaten granola bar, and when she turns, her friend Marcy is there, eyes wide, clutching her phone like it’s a lifeline.

“Gabby… What’s going on? I saw you come in, and there are reporters outside—like a ton of them.”

Gabriella exhales slowly, staring at the lockers, wishing the words were carved into the metal, so Marcy could just see them—so she wouldn’t have to say them out loud and make them real.

“Marcus called me in just to fire me.”

Marcy blinks as if the words don’t make sense. Her mouth parts in surprise. “Fire you? Over what?”

“Yeah. It’s about the… You know.” Gabriella gestures around vaguely with the granola bar and shifts uncomfortably, gaze locked on the door like she expects the guy to jump out and yell ‘just kidding!’. “Corporate thinks it’s bad press that I’m somehow associated with the case. They don’t want the headache.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Marcy snaps, stepping closer. “You didn’t do anything! Everyone knows that.”

Gabriella huffs a bitter laugh, dragging a hand through her hair. “Hah, yeah. That doesn’t matter to them, does it?”

Marcy shakes her head, muttering a curse under her breath. “Did he at least offer you a reference? Severance?”

“A reference?” Gabriella scoffs. “For what? Another dead-end job where I’ll get tossed the second I become inconvenient against my will?”

We’ll pay you for the rest of the week, Gabby. Her fingers tighten around the granola bar, knuckles whitening as the words echo in her head.

“And severance? Please. I was barely making enough to afford groceries, babe. You think they’re paying me to leave?” There’s a hint of a sarcastic laugh simmering under every word.

The granola bar flies across the room, smacking the wall before hitting the floor in pieces. Marcy flinches but Gabriella barely notices. Under her skin, frustration crackles like bottled up lightning, louder than anything else.

And then she adds, in a mocking tone, “We’ll pay you for the rest of the week, Gabby.” Her nostrils flare with simmering anger. “They don’t give a shit.”

Marcy’s jaw clenches, fingers tightening around the phone. “This is bullshit.”

Gabriella runs a hand through her forehead and doesn’t disagree. When Marcy steps forward to pat her arm, she closes her eyes. “Gab, I’m so sorry. Is there anything you can do? Talk to HR or… I don’t know.”

“Doubt it. I asked Marcus if he could fight for me, but…” she shrugs, hand tightening around her bag’s handle. “You know how it is here.”

Marcy swallows hard, eyes darting around the dreary lounge. “Seriously, I—I can’t believe this. You’ve been here forever. If it weren’t for you, half the guests would’ve burned the place down by now.”

Her words spark a sad half-laugh out of Gabriella. “Yeah, well, guess it doesn’t matter if management thinks I’m a liability.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, Marcy asks, “So… that’s it, then?”

Gabriella nods, feeling the sting all over again. “Yeah. Guess I get to sleep in for a few days.”

Marcy doesn’t laugh. Instead, she pulls Gabriella into a tight hug. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I wish there was something I could do.”

Gabriella’s throat tightens. Her arms twitch at her sides, not sure whether to return the hug or push away.

Instead, she does neither.

Gabriella steps back. Acts like it’s nothing. Like she’s not nearly falling apart. “Don’t worry. I’ll figure something out.”

Her friend gives a small, shaky smile. “I know you will. You’re… you. If anyone can bounce back, it’s you.” She pauses. Then, “I’ll stalk you if you stop calling me, Gabs, I’m serious!”

Marcy’s eyes are assertive, and brimming with sympathy, but the moment feels suffocating. Gabriella just nods and forces herself to walk away before she loses her composure.

By the time she pushes out the side door and into the cold air, the reporters are still out front, unaware of her slipping away. A wave of relief mingles with the biting wind, but it’s fleeting. The shock hasn’t fully worn off yet, but reality is starting to creep in, pressing at the edges of her mind.

Her cheeks burn, though not from the chill. Being fired wasn’t just humiliating—it was infuriating. She can still hear her manager’s gritty voice echoing in her head.

"It’s not personal, Gabby."

She’s unemployed. Fired for actually doing her job. It’s so unfair it physically hurts, like barbed wire squeezing her throat and stabbing into her skin.

That was her only job, the only thing paying her rent, keeping her fridge stocked, covering the bills already stretching her too thin.

She swallows hard, refusing to break. How long can she last without a paycheck? Two months, maybe. Three if she starts rationing groceries and lets a few bills stack up. But rent isn’t forgiving, and neither is her landlord.

She can’t even allow herself a moment’s rest. She needs to find another job. Fast.

As she crosses an intersection, her eyes land on a newspaper stand and a wire rack filled with neatly folded stacks of The Times and The Post.

For half a second, her brain reverts to some outdated survival instinct. A memory, an old one, comes back to her. Her mom sitting at the dining table, circling job listings in the paper with a ballpoint pen, calling every “Help Wanted” number she could find. It’s almost comforting, the idea of doing something—anything—real, immediate, something she can touch, to fix her problem.

She steps closer, opens one and scans the front pages, looking for something—anything. But there's nothing. No “Help Wanted” ads. No listings. Just news.

A second later, it hits her. Nobody looks for jobs in newspapers anymore. That was a long time ago. Now it’s all LinkedIn, and networking, desperately refreshing email inboxes hoping for a reply that never comes.

Gabriella huffs a small, humorless laugh and keeps walking.

What is she even good at? Dealing with drunk backpackers? Smoothing over arguments about who stole the last yogurt from the communal kitchen?

Maybe she’ll find something nice eventually, but good jobs don’t grow in trees and she needs something now.

Her fingers are cold-stiff inside her coat pockets, but her brain is racing, already planning. Already mentally preparing herself for the next few excruciating days of sitting at her laptop, scrolling through endless listings for baristas, retail clerks, receptionists. Maybe even those apps where people pay you to assemble their IKEA furniture or walk their dog. Anything that will pay just enough to keep her afloat—but never enough to make her feel secure.

But even as she fights to stay optimistic, dread starts coiling in her stomach like a snake in the grass.

“Corporate doesn’t want the headache.”

Her name is attached to his now. Her face. The girl who talked to him. Who laughed at something he said.

Who’s gonna hire me now?

She takes a deep, shaky breath. It doesn’t calm her down as she hoped. Rubbing her hands together isn’t working to fight off the cold either.

Gabriella just keeps walking, one step in front of the other, letting her feet carry her home on their own. She’s overwhelmed, distracted, too busy trying not to lose herself to hopelessness to even pay attention to her surroundings.

She doesn’t see the shadow keeping pace with her own.

---

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L’s there, folding the blanket from the couch with slow, deliberate care. His jacket is already on, backpack slung over one shoulder, like he’s preparing for a quiet exit.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” she blurts.

He turns, clearly caught off guard, eyes wide like he’s been caught stealing. “I… told you I’d be gone in the morning.”

She crosses her arms and he just stares at her like he’s still trying to figure out if she’s angry or just sleep-deprived. 

“I meant what I said,” he continues. “I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

Gabriella shakes her head as if that’s the most absurd thing she’s heard all year. “You’re not going back out there.”

He blinks, like he’s not sure he heard her right. His mouth opens like he wants to argue, but she cuts him off.

“It’s dangerous.”

“I’ll be fine,” he mutters, but it’s not convincing. He doesn’t even sound like he believes it himself.

“No,” she cuts in, stepping closer. “You look like shit. You barely made it through the night. You think I didn’t notice how long it took you just to sit down? How hard you were breathing?”

He looks away. Shame flickers across his face. 

“You’re not going back to sleeping in alleyways or whatever the hell you were doing before this. You can stay here for a while,” she says simply. “As long as you need until you… figure things out.”

“I don’t want to be a burden.”

“You’re not,” she says with some finality to her tone. 

He shifts his weight, clearly still uncomfortable. 

“Besides,” she adds, after a few seconds of heavy silence. “I’m not going to pretend I don’t sleep better knowing you’re not out there getting chased or shot at.”

He stands there, motionless, staring, like he’s trying to recalibrate his entire world view.  

“Gabby…” He tries, but she’s already moving past him toward the kitchen. 

“I’m making breakfast. You like eggs, right?” She opens the fridge, grabs a carton of eggs like it's the most natural thing in the world. “Scrambled okay?”

L doesn’t answer right away. When she glances over her shoulder, he’s still standing there like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Eventually, he exhales and lets his backpack drop to the floor.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Scrambled’s good.”

She doesn’t look at him again, but the smallest smile pulls at her lips as she cracks the first egg into the pan.

Behind her, he’s quiet for a beat too long. Then, carefully—almost like he's afraid of what the answer might be—he says, “Do you mean that?”

She pauses, mid-stir, glancing over her shoulder. “Mean what?”

“That… you sleep better knowing I’m not out there. In danger.”

Her eyes meet his. He looks so unsure. Like he’s bracing himself for her to take it back, to say she was just being polite.

Gabriella sets the whisk down. “Yeah,” she says, voice low but certain. “I mean it.”

His brow furrows slightly, as if he’s still trying to make sense of it. “Why?”

She shrugs, but it’s not casual. If anything, it looks like the gesture takes effort. “Because I care, L. Because you don’t deserve to be out there alone. And because I don’t want to hear about some guy found in a back alley and wonder if it was you.”

The silence that follows is thick. Charged. Fragile, like glass in a storm.

Gabriella turns back to the eggs, whisking like she can beat the tension right out of the room.

“And also,” she adds, reaching for levity, “you have that aura that all terrible liars have. If someone stopped you on the street, you’d probably fold in thirty seconds.”

Behind her, there’s a quiet laugh. She glances at him.

He’s leaning against the counter now, arms crossed, a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“When you walked into my place last night, looking the way you did, I think I finally realized how fucking close I came to never seeing you again.” She swallows, pouring the eggs into the pan like the motion demands more focus than it actually does. 

“And… I wanted to see you again,” voice dipping into something barely audible. The words are softer, almost shy.

From the corner of her eye, she catches the way his head lifts. But he doesn’t interrupt. Just watches her like he can’t figure out if he heard her right.

“I didn’t realize it until it was too late,” she says, her voice gaining steadiness now that the floodgates are open. “Until you were gone from the hostel and I didn’t even get to say goodbye. I thought maybe you just left early. And I told myself that was fine.” 

She shakes her head. Exhales, almost as if sharing this is costing her something. But the words keep pouring out of her like water from a broken dam. 

L just lets her talk, maybe sensing this is something she had trapped inside that’s finally clawing its way out. He’s quiet, but she can feel him watching her, the weight of his gaze pressing into the space between them.

“I kept thinking about you. Wondering where you’d gone. If you got to wherever you were going okay. I didn’t think it’d hit me like that, but it did.”

He shifts behind her—the scrape of a sneaker against tile—and she feels it, his presence drawing closer, even if he doesn’t speak.

She doesn’t look at him. Can’t.

There’s another pause, like she’s bracing herself.

“And then I saw your face on the news.”

The words land like something heavy. She doesn’t need to describe the way her stomach dropped or how long she sat frozen on the couch. It’s all there in her voice, in the silence that follows.

“I don’t know what I felt in that moment,” she says, scraping the pan with the spatula like that makes the words come out any easier. “Shock. Fear. Maybe even anger. But mostly?” Her voice dips. “I felt sick.” 

She taps the spatula against the edge of the pan, clearing the excess, the motion automatic because her mind is entirely somewhere else. 

“Because I thought I was never going to see you again. And I hated that.”

L doesn’t speak right away. But when he does, it’s soft, barely above a whisper.

“I didn’t think you’d care."

She turns the stove off, and finally looks at him again. 

“I didn’t think I would either,” she admits. “But I was wrong.”

That’s when he finally moves—just a step, almost imperceptible, but enough for her to notice the shift. His posture, always guarded, loosens like some internal wall has finally cracked. For a second, he looks like he’s about to say something, but then he just exhales—quiet, shaky, like he’s letting go of something he didn’t realize he was holding.

His eyes meet hers, and there’s something raw in them. Not surprise. Not even relief. Something deeper. Like her words just pulled the floor out from under him, and he’s still trying to find his footing.

“Thank you,” he says eventually, voice low. Honest.

She raises an eyebrow. “For what?”

“For giving a shit,” he says, and there’s a crooked little smile forming now—tired, disbelieving, but real. “For saying it out loud.”

Gabriella leans her hip against the counter, turning to face him fully. The spatula hangs loose in her hand.

“Do you remember that conversation we had by the vending machines?” she asks, her voice quieter now.

Something flickers behind L’s tired eyes. “Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

“You asked about my headaches. Most people just tell me I look tired and move on. You actually asked questions. Real ones.” She shakes her head a little, almost like she still can’t believe it. “You weren’t just being polite or making small talk. You were genuinely interested.”

L’s brow pulls together, like he doesn’t understand why she’s so shocked. “You were hurting. I could see it.”

“I was just the girl behind the desk to them,” she adds. “Polite, helpful, replaceable. Nobody ever asked about my headaches. Not when I complained about the shitty air freshener, or when I kept holding cold water bottles to my temple. But you just took one look at me and asked.” Her eyes meet his. “And you meant it.”

He opens his mouth like he might say something, but nothing comes out at first. Then, finally, “I did.”

“You saw more of me in that fifteen-minute conversation than some of my coworkers ever bothered to notice the whole time I worked there."

He doesn’t say anything, but his expression shifts—something softer, something aching. Gabriella exhales and looks away, staring down at the cooling pan like it might anchor her to the moment.

“And I don’t just mean the migraines,” she goes on. “You remembered things. Like, what I said about night shifts being a gamble, and the karaoke joke. And you looked at me like I mattered. Like I wasn’t invisible.”

He looks up at her, startled—but not by disbelief. Like he understands exactly what she means.

“People come and go in that place all the time, but you actually looked.” Her voice wavers for half a second, then steadies again. “And I didn’t even realize how rare that was until you were gone.”

A beat passes. His brows pull together like he wants to argue with that, like it surprises him. But he doesn’t. He just watches her, carefully, like he’s realizing something important and doesn’t want to ruin it by speaking too soon.

She sighs. “You paid attention. I think that’s why it stuck with me,” she murmurs. “Why you stuck with me. You saw me.”

He stares at her for a long moment, like the words take a second to land. Then his expression shifts—barely, but enough. The tension in his jaw softens. His eyes flicker, like he’s not sure whether to breathe or break.

Slowly, his arms uncross. His shoulders drop, just slightly. A quiet, almost disbelieving breath leaves his lungs.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever said something like that to me before,” he says, voice low and raw around the edges. He takes a tentative step closer, then stops, as if afraid going any further might shatter whatever this is. “Not without wanting something back.”

There’s no sarcasm in it. No armor. Just quiet truth, stripped bare.

Gabriella’s throat tightens. She wants to say something—anything—but for a second, all she can do is hold his gaze.

“You’re not alone anymore, L,” she says finally. “Not if you don’t want to be.”

That’s what undoes him.

He looks away first, like her words hit something too vulnerable to hold her stare. He nods once, just barely—more a breath than a gesture—and runs a hand through his black curls like he’s trying to ground himself.

And she doesn’t press. Just turns back to the pan and plates the food like it’s the most ordinary morning in the world. With practiced movements, she splits the eggs between two chipped plates and sets them on the table. No ceremony, just quiet routine.

“Eat,” she says gently, taking the seat across from him. He gives her a grateful nod as he sits down and picks up his fork.

She watches from beneath lowered lashes, pretending not to notice how quickly he devours the eggs. He tries to pace himself, as if he doesn’t want her to see how hungry he really is, but the speed of his bites gives him away. Her heart aches a little, and she wonders just how long it’s been since he had a proper meal—and what else he’s gone without.

Every bite disappears too fast. When he finishes, he sets the fork down carefully, almost embarrassed by the empty plate in front of him. Gabriella doesn’t say anything. Instead, without comment, she pushes her own untouched plate of eggs across the table toward him.

L’s eyes widen. “Gabby, no. You haven’t even eaten.”

She gives him a look—soft, firm, and quietly stubborn. “I’m not that hungry. Just eat.”

For a moment, it looks like he’s going to protest again, but something in her eyes seems to quiet him. His jaw clenches, and he swallows whatever argument he might’ve wanted to make. His gaze lowers, accepting, as he picks up the fork once more.

Gabriella leans back, grabbing an apple from the bowl at the center of the table, watching him quietly. He eats slowly this time, eyes downcast but shoulders relaxing gradually. She doesn’t press him or break the silence. Right now, this small gesture—the second plate of eggs, the quiet understanding—is enough.

After breakfast, he starts stacking their plates, quietly gathering utensils and bringing everything to the sink. Gabriella watches him for a second before pushing her chair back.

"You don’t have to do that," she says, voice soft.

"You cooked," he replies simply. "Least I can do."

She crosses her arms loosely, leaning against the counter. “You don’t have to earn your stay.”

That makes him pause.

His hands hover over the dish soap, and for a moment he just stands there—back to her, shoulders rigid. “I know. I’m doing it anyway.”

He stands at the sink, sleeves rolled up, steam rising gently from the warm water as he starts rinsing the plates. His movements are methodical, almost too careful, like he’s focusing all his attention on not breaking anything. 

Gabriella joins him a few seconds later, leaning against the counter beside him with a dish towel in hand, taking the plates as he finishes with them.

She’s the first to break the quiet.

“Why’d you come to my place?” she asks, not looking at him. “Out of everyone… everywhere. You could’ve gone anywhere.”

He doesn’t answer right away. He scrubs at the pan like it’s done something personal to him.

When he finally speaks, his voice is low. “I thought about it. I tried to. But every time I pictured knocking on some stranger’s door, hiding in some alley, sleeping under a bridge...”

There’s a long pause.

He lowers the pan into the drying rack and rests his hands on the edge of the sink. His voice is quieter when he finally answers. “I remembered how you looked at me. That night. And I kept thinking about what you said when we played pool that one morning after your shift.”

Gabriella   her weight slightly, drying a plate more slowly than necessary. “Which part?” she asks, though her heart already knows. She just wants to hear him say it.

He glances at her, then looks down again, voice steady but softer now. “You said most people only see the parts of you that are useful. That no one really looks at you like a person unless they need something.” His fingers flex slightly against the rim of the sink. “But you looked tired that morning. Worn out. And you still laughed with me like I wasn’t just some guy passing through.”

She swallows around the lump that forms unexpectedly in her throat.

“I didn’t want to be just a ghost in someone else’s hallway again,” he says. “I didn’t know where else to go. But I was hoping you’d remember me. Not just my face—me.”

Gabriella sets the plate down carefully and folds the towel in her hands. “You weren’t wrong.”

They stand like that for a moment—him at the sink, her beside him, both pretending they’re still busy with dishes even though neither of them is moving anymore.

He meets her eyes again, and this time he doesn’t look away. “That’s why I came back. Because you made me feel like someone worth remembering.”

The air feels heavier between them now, charged with something unspoken. But it’s not uncomfortable. It’s just real.

Gabriella swallows hard, blinking fast before handing him the towel. He dries his hands on it, but doesn’t move away from the sink.

“How bad was it?” he asks quietly. “With the cops, I mean.”

Gabriella leans against the counter beside him, arms crossing over her chest. “They showed up the morning after your face hit the news,” she says. “Two of them. Said they had questions, but they weren’t really asking. They were looking—for anything. For reasons to pin me to it.”

He turns slightly to look at her, expression unreadable.

“They tried to play good cop, bad cop, maybe hoping they’d catch me on a lie. Asked if I remembered your name, if you said anything suspicious, any other details about you. They made it sound like I’d handed you the gun instead of a room key.”

She says it like she’s telling a story that happened to someone else, but the tension in her jaw says otherwise.

He tenses beside her. “What did you tell them?”

“I told them the truth,” she says. Then after a beat, she adds, “Kinda.”

That catches his attention. He looks at her, eyes narrowing slightly—not suspicious, but curious. Careful.

“I never even told them that we talked afterwards. Or that we played pool. Didn’t tell them about the hot chocolate you brought me because the damn vending machine was broken again.”

That makes him pause. Really pause.

He watches her a little longer, like he’s trying to see through her skin to the parts of her she isn’t saying out loud. “Why didn’t you tell them?”

She shrugs, but it’s forced. “Because they didn’t deserve to know. And because it felt like…” She hesitates, then finally meets his eyes. “Like I’d be betraying you.”

His breath catches. Just a fraction. But she hears it.

He looks away, eyes flicking to the window like he needs something else to focus on. The guilt is obvious in the set of his shoulders, in the way his hands clench at his sides. “You lost your job because of me.”

“You didn’t get me fired.”

“I didn’t not,” he says, voice rougher than before. “If I hadn’t shown up—”

“Stop.” Her voice is sharp, firmer than before. “Don’t you dare.”

He falls quiet.

She places a hand softly on his shoulder, makes sure he sees her face when she says it. “You didn’t do this to me. The system did. You think they needed you as an excuse to drop me? They were just waiting for one.”

His mouth opens like he’s going to argue, but he doesn’t.

She lets out a breath, softer now. “I’ll find something else. I don’t know what yet, but I always do.”

A long silence stretches between them. Then, gently:

“Is there any chance they’d give it back? Your job?”

She shakes her head. “No. And after what they did, I wouldn’t want it back anyway. They can all get fucked.”

The corner of his lips tugs up a little for a moment. 

They stand there just look at each other for  moment—like the space between them isn’t a shitty kitchen in a tiny apartment but something more fragile. Something worth keeping and protecting. 

“I’ve got a heating pad, if you need it,” she says casually, like it’s just a passing thought. Like she didn’t spend half the night replaying the way he lowered himself onto the couch like every movement cost him.

Lu blinks at her, caught off guard. “How did you know?”

She glances over her shoulder. “The way you sat last night. Too stiff, like you were trying not to move your spine if you could help it.”

He huffs a soft laugh through his nose, sounding a bit impressed. “You don’t miss much, do you?”

“Not when I care.”

That quiets him. He glances away, jaw ticking slightly before he nods again, more to himself than her.

“I’ve got back issues,” he says eventually, tone casual but wearied. “Surgery a few months ago. Didn’t really fix it. Just… changed the pain, I guess.”

Gabriella says nothing at first. Just lets it sit between them—the way most people don’t. No forced sympathy. No half-assed advice.

Then she turns back to the counter and starts filling the electric kettle to heat up water without waiting for him to ask.

He looks at her like he doesn’t know what to do with all this quiet kindness. Like it’s almost too much.

But he doesn't tell her to stop.

“Go sit down,” she says, not looking at him as she sets the kettle on its base and clicks the button. “Find us something mindless to watch. Crap TV. The trashier the better.”

She glances up to see if he’s moving. But he isn’t.

He’s still standing there, watching her with that unreadable look again. The one that makes her stomach tighten without understanding why.

“L?” she prompts, tilting her head slightly.

He hesitates—just long enough for her to think maybe he’s about to say something difficult—but then he steps forward.

And pulls her into a hug.

It’s not careful. It’s not guarded. He just wraps his arms around her and exhales, like his whole body’s been holding something in for too long.

Gabriella freezes for half a second, thrown off by the suddenness of it. But then her hands lift and curl around his back, and she hugs him back just as tight.

No one says anything. The kettle hums steadily behind them, filling the room with soft, rising steam.

She doesn’t ask why he needed it. She doesn’t have to.

And he doesn’t thank her. He just holds on.

--

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“Cold out there, huh?” she asks flatly, more out of habit and politeness than any real interest. It's automatic, a reflex born of too many shifts making small talk with travelers who never stay too long. Her thumb continues its lazy scroll through a thread about the best ways to revive a dying monstera plant.

“Freezing,” comes the reply. “But seeing you is already warming me up.”

The voice has a hint of charm, like it belongs to someone who knows how to disarm a room without even trying. The playfulness in the tone makes her pause and glance up.

The man approaching the counter moves with an easy confidence, hands stuffed into his coat pockets. A black balaclava covers the lower half of his face, leaving only his dark eyes visible.

“Smooth,”she says, arching an eyebrow. “You rehearse that one?”

“Not at all,” he says, placing a hand over his chest in mock innocence as if he's been accused of a great injustice. “It just came to me. You must be my muse.”

Gabriella rolls her eyes pointedly at the cheesiness of the line. And yet, there's something about the exaggerated delivery that makes her lips twitch up involuntarily. “Right. Well, inspiration or not, we’ve got a two-night max for guys who think they’re Casanova.”

“That’s too bad,” he says, leaning forward slightly, resting his forearms on the counter like they’re old friends. She notices the way his dark eyes crinkle slightly at the corners, hinting at the grin hidden behind the mask. “I needed four.”

She snorts despite herself, shaking her head as she swivels toward the computer. Against her better judgment, she's actually amused. “What’s your name?” she asks, fingers poised over the keyboard.

He pulls out his wallet with a casual ease, sliding the ID across the counter. “Mark Rosario.”

Gabriella picks up the card and glances at it before focusing on him again. Her gaze lingers on the balaclava he still hasn’t removed. “What’s with the mask? Planning a robbery or something?”

She's teasing, but the response is quick. His eyes flick down to her name tag before he leans in just a little, like he’s letting her in on a joke. “Oh, Gabriella…” Her name rolls off his tongue like it's poetry. “You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

The audacity in his tone and the playful challenge catch her off guard and make her laugh. Honestly, who flirts with their face half-covered? She leans in too, just enough to match his energy. “You should know they don’t pay me enough to fight off cute thieves.”

He lights up at that, his expression practically boyish despite the mask. “You think I’m cute?”

She taps the ID lightly, a sly smile curling her lips. “The guy in this picture is,” she teases. “You? I don’t know. I can’t see your face.”

For a moment, like he’s deciding something, he pauses. Then, with deliberately slow movements, he tugs the mask down just enough to reveal a clean-shaven face and a grin that’s equal parts mischievous and charming.

“Better?”

Gabriella studies him for a beat longer than necessary, letting her smile widen just slightly. Strong jaw, features sharp but not harsh. And the smile is simply disarming. He is handsome, in an annoyingly self-aware way, but she refuses to give him that.

She holds up the ID next to his face, arching a brow as if weighing its credibility. “Well, it matches.”

“Oh, lucky me.” His voice dips just enough to underline the irony, the corner of his mouth rising in a way that's almost too smug. “What's next, background check?”

Gabriella doesn't blink, playing along with a shrug. “Depends. You hiding anything else I should know about?”

His grin deepens, his confidence never wavering. “Just my good manners,” he says lightly. “But I promise to find them before the night’s over.”

She laughs, shaking her head, finally setting the ID down. “You’re unbelievable,” she giggles, typing in his details into the system.

“Unbelievably charming, I hope.” His voice has that same playful edge, but it softens just enough to keep it from being obnoxious. “But if I push my luck, you’ll kick me out before I even get a key. So I’ll behave. Scout’s honor.”

Her smirk lingers as she types. She’s heard her fair share of bad pickup lines from late-night check-ins, but there’s something about him that’s harder to dismiss. Maybe it’s the way his voice shifts between teasing and sincere, or the way he watches her—like he’s genuinely paying attention, not just passing through.

The faint clicking of the keyboard fills the space between them. Out of the corner of her eye, she notices him leaning on the counter again, his gaze steady and unflinching. She pretends not to notice, focusing on the screen instead, but she feels his presence on her skin like music-induced goosebumps.

“So,” he says, tone more conversational now, “is it always this quiet at night, or did I just luck out?”

“Quiet’s a gamble,” Gabriella replies with a shrug, wrinkling her nose. “Sometimes it's quiet. Sometimes drunk backpackers decide 2am karaoke is a great idea. You just never know.”

He chuckles. “The karaoke sounds entertaining, but I’ll take quiet.”

“You don’t seem like the karaoke type,” she says, sliding the ID back across the counter towards him. Their fingers brush briefly, their eyes meet, and they linger on each other a moment too long.

Gabriella feels something strange—like he’s letting her see just enough of him to make her curious, but keeping everything else locked away.

“I’m full of surprises,” he says, slipping the card back into his wallet. “What about you? Karaoke queen?”

She snorts. “I try not to embarrass myself in front of strangers.”

“Too bad. Bet you’d kill it.”

His voice is unexpectedly warm, and his laugh lines soften the sharpness of his features. There’s something very captivating about him that's throwing her off. For a moment, the banter feels less like an act and more like an attempt at real connection, but she knows better than to think too much about it.

“All right,” she says, clearing her throat and pulling up the room options. “We’ve got beds available in a mixed dorm or an all-male dorm. Any preference?”

For some reason, he hesitates. His head tilts slightly, and his gaze sharpens, studying her like he’s trying to figure her out. The pause stretches just long enough to feel deliberate. Was he weighing her reaction? Why?

“Male dorm,” he says finally, voice casual, like it doesn’t really matter.

Gabriella nods, fetching the keycard. “You’ll have two roommates. Hope you don’t mind,” she says, handing it to him.

“Not at all.”

His fingers brush hers briefly again when he takes the card, and she resents the way it makes her heart beat a little faster. She clears her throat, turning her focus back to the computer.

“Rooms are upstairs. Try not to charm the other guests,” she says with a pointed look. “Some of them might actually fall for it.”

“Only if they’re half as smart as you,” he replies with another grin, voice dropping just enough to make the words feel personal.

“Enjoy your stay, Mr. Rosario.”

“I will.” He steps back from the counter, balaclava still bunched around his neck. But just as he turns, he pauses. “By the way…”

She raises an eyebrow, curiosity flickering across her face.

“Your eyes,” he says quietly. “They’re too kind for a place like this.”

Her lips part in surprise and she blinks at him, unsure whether to laugh or scowl. Was he being sincere, or was this just another line? Something in his tone, though—low and almost wistful—made her chest tighten in a way she didn't like.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He doesn’t answer, just steps toward the elevator with an easy wave. “Just an observation. Thanks for the warm welcome. Try to get some rest tonight.”

As the elevator doors close behind him, Gabriella mutters under her breath, “Kind doesn’t pay the bills.”

But even as she shakes her head and turns back to her computer, her thoughts linger on his grin—and the way his words made her feel like she'd been seen. Her curiosity was piqued in a way that felt dangerous, like walking too close to the edge of something she didn't fully understand.

---