Page 54 of Infamous
“You look tired,” he says softly, studying me the way surgeons study wounds.
I laugh, brittle. “You should see the others.”
His smile turns real. “Coffee?”
The word hits like oxygen. I shouldn’t. But I nod anyway. “There’s a place down the street, if you don’t mind leaving the hospital?”
We walk out together, the hospital lights giving way to the hum of the city. The café is small, warm, the kind of place that offers peace in a city bustling with noise. When he holds the door open, our hands brush. It’s nothing, yet it’s everything.
I’m halfway through ordering when a familiar voice cuts through the air.
“So this is why you won’t talk to me, huh?”
Michael.
My blood runs cold. He’s standing at the doorway, making a fool of himself as he raises his voice. “Who’s the guy, Nadia? Another one of your projects?”
I start to speak, but Jude steps between us and his presence shifts the room. “Leave. If you know what’s good for you, turn around and walk away.”
Michael lets out a sharp, high-pitched laugh - one that’s more like disbelief than humor. “Back off, hero.”
It happens fast. Michael stalks in and grabs for my arm. Jude catches his wrist before I can react. His movement is clean, silent, controlled. Michael jerks back, hissing.
“Leave,” Jude says quietly.
This time it’s enough. Michael stumbles out, throwing curses over his shoulder that no one listens to. The café hums again, pretending nothing happened.
My hands shake. Jude notices but doesn’t call me on it. He just takes off his jacket and rolls his sleeves up, like violence is something that can be folded away neatly.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
He shakes his head. “You don’t owe me an apology.” His voice drops lower. “He shouldn’t have touched you.”
Something in my chest breaks loose. The kindness in his tone is worse than my anger at Michael, and it undoes me.
“You okay?” he asks, as we take our seats.
“I will be,” I lie.
He studies me, quiet, unreadable, and yet everything in him feels achingly familiar.
Outside, the city keeps moving. Inside, it’s just us—two people sitting too close, pretending this is nothing. But when he looks at me again, I know it could be something.
33
LUCIAN
Nadia sits across from me, her coat hanging off the back of the chair, fingers curled around a cup that steams in the soft café light. She looks tired—beautiful in that fragile, unguarded way that pulls something sharp in my chest.
I stir my coffee once. Twice. Watching her from under the quiet weight of thought. The encounter with her ex still lingers on her skin, like a bruise that hasn’t yet faded. Her voice is softer now, sadder, her smile thin and careful, as if it might crack if she lets it stretch too far.
I lean back. “Your ex,” I say finally. “He doesn’t seem like the type to take no for an answer.”
Her lips twitch into something that isn’t quite a smile. “He’s… persistent,” she says. “One of those people who think obsession is just another word for love.”
I tilt my head. “Why do you think people do that? Hold on when they should let go?”
She looks at me for a long moment, eyes distant, violet ringed in fatigue. Then she shrugs, a slow exhale slipping pasther lips. “Maybe it’s not about love at all. Maybe it’s about control. Some people can’t stand the idea of being forgotten.”
