Connection | 18+

Chapter Thirteen

   She’s sitting on the sofa, her laptop open on the table in front of her. A notebook rests in her lap as she scrawls something across the page, her headphones cocooning her in her own world. Her short hair is disheveled, tumbling down in a way that suggests she’s run her hands through it one too many times. A cigarette—one that smells distinctly off— dangles between her fingers, wisps of smoke curling in the air. Beside her laptop sits a bottle of whiskey, a half-filled glass catching the dim light. 

   Her eyes are locked on her notebook with a focus I’ve never seen before, burning with a glint that makes me stop in my tracks. There’s a raw, untamed beauty about her—an unfiltered and unguarded version of Olivia. She isn’t performing for anyone, not with her fake smiles or sparring with her words or wearing the armor she usually does. This is her, stripped bare in a way no one else gets to see.

   I let myself trace every inch of her with my eyes, unapologetic and unrestrained. The curve of her shoulder as she leans slightly forward, the way her fingers grip the pen with a subtle tension, the stray strands of black hair falling into her face as she leans forward and types on her laptop. Every detail pulls me deeper, like I’m cataloging her in a way I shouldn’t, but can’t stop. 

   Her lips, slightly parted as she concentrates, look softer than I remember, and the way she absently taps the notebook with her pen feels oddly intimate—like I’ve stumbled upon something sacred. I take in the flush of her cheeks, the faint shadows of eye bags under her eyes, the way her disheveled state doesn’t diminish her beauty but enhances it. 

   She looks like a homeless person, yet there's an inexplicable sense that she doesn’t need a home to begin with—she is her own home.

   She’s chaos and calm intertwined, a contradiction I despise almost as much as the fact that I’m drawn to it.

   Drawn to her.

   For a moment, guilt washes over me, a pang sharp enough to make me falter. I have no right to see her like this. She hasn’t given me permission, and I know I’ve crossed a line simply by standing here. 

   But then that bastard inside me, the one she’s awoken, raises its head. That part of me doesn’t give a damn about her permission. That part revels in the fact that it’s me—not anyone else—who gets to witness her like this. Even if it’s by force. Even if I had to steal the moment.

   That bastard feels nothing but satisfaction, a dark sort of pride that she’s let her guard down completely, even if unknowingly, in my presence.

   I wait for a few more minutes, watching as she takes a final drag of her cigarette, the ember burning down to nothing before she stubs it out and immediately lights another. The sharp flick of the lighter echoes in the room, and for a moment, all I can hear is the soft crackle of tobacco and something else. She’s entirely engrossed, lost in whatever world she’s creating, and I can’t bring myself to interrupt her yet.

   I don’t move, don’t make a sound, just stand there like a shadow in her space. Her fingers move furiously across the keyboard of her laptop, then pause as she writes something in her notebook, lost in thought. It isn’t until her gaze finally drifts upward that she notices me.

   Her eyes widen in shock, and she lets out a startled yelp, the pen slipping from her hand and clattering onto the floor. In a rush, she slams her laptop shut as if she’s been caught doing something she shouldn’t.

   “What the fuck, Ethan?” she exclaims, her voice shaky as she scrambles to compose herself and takes the headphones off of her, the cigarette still burning between her fingers.