Page 3

Visha

We keep strolling hand in hand for a while longer until we reach a white BMW. This mister has a pretty smile, but he keeps treating me like I’m made of sugar. It’s annoying.

Is it weird holding a stranger’s hand and following them home? Absolutely. Am I going to be sensible and go back home? Hell, no.

For the first time in a long time, maybe in my whole life, someone has extended their hand to me. Not once, but twice . Even if this man is dangerous, I’m ready to take the risk because this warmth is more than worth it.

He unlocks the door and holds it open for me, barely paying me any attention. I settle down in the passenger seat, relishing the feeling of the luxurious leather under me. Sitting down behind the steering wheel, he immediately starts the ignition and lets the engine warm up before turning on the seat heater.

He slides off his gloves to reveal pale skin and long fingers. I expected as much due to his complimentary face but seeing his hands makes me want to reach for them.

Wait, no. Okay, I need to stop thinking about the weirdest things right now. Hold his bare hand? Why on Earth would I want to do that?

I haven’t been in a car since the day my foster parents welcomed me into their home. When I say welcomed, I mean dragged. Literally . They didn’t even give me the time to get my hopes up before breaking me down. They never let me ride in their car and always make me take the bus or go on foot.

“I know I offered to take you with me but are you sure? I mean, aren’t you being too reckless? What if I’m a serial killer or, I don’t know, a child trafficker?”

Nothing could be worse than the torture I go through in that house on a daily basis.

“Maybe you could tell me your name before killing me and chopping me into pieces for your Christmas feast?” I joke.

He chokes on his spit and accidentally smacks the honk. “Jesus, don’t say things like that.”

He’s truly intriguing and somewhat childish, but it’s endearing. He must be in his twenties at most, his skin is youthful, but he has slight dark circles. Insomnia, maybe? He doesn’t look at me and taps his index finger on the steering wheel in rhythm with the beat of the song playing on the radio.

“Ah, yeah. Sorry. I’m Aoi Holden. Nice to meet you,” he introduces himself politely and smiles.

He sure does that a lot. Smiling comes easy to him, compared to me who struggles with it. Honestly, I can’t remember the last time I genuinely felt joyful enough to smile.

“What does it mean?” I ask, hinting at what he mentioned previously about my name.

Aoi’s smile becomes shy, and he scratches his nape as he replies in a half chuckle, “It refers to the colors green and blue in Japanese.”

Blue like his eyes. It suits him, not only because of the color but he gives out a calm and unshakable vibe. As he said earlier; it’s befitting of its owner. He keeps a cheerful expression on, but he strikes me as a sad person. Eyes don’t lie after all, and his shout loneliness with each look.

It’s hard to look away from the depth of his irises, but I have to or else I’ll be staring.

“How old are you, Visha?” he asks composedly as he starts driving. His eyes are focused on the road ahead, but he occasionally sneaks glances at me.

“How old do I look?” I shoot back, finding his expression amusing. He looks as though he doesn’t want to guess the wrong age and upset me.

“Mhm, not sure. You do look pretty young, but your demeanor sure doesn’t.” He laughs faintly. “Maybe eleven?”

He isn’t far off to be honest. “Twelve,” I correct as I stare out the window.

It’s still snowing but less than earlier. I notice the slight tremble of my hands and the shallow breaths escaping me. Maybe I’m making a mistake by following a total stranger home and I might end up regretting this decision, but I can’t bring myself to care about the consequences anymore. Which makes me wonder if my foster parents are looking for me. They’re probably more worried about getting in trouble with the authorities than me being in any sort of danger. Good riddance either way.

“Close enough,” he shrugs.

“I guess so.”

I gape at the way his fingers curl around the leather steering wheel. His hands resemble fine silk and appear especially delicate. They’re really pretty.

“Why are you helping me?” I blurt and almost face palm myself.

Ugh, why did I ask that ? Out of the millions of conversational subjects, I had to pick the most uncomfortable one. Good job, Visha. You should get an award for dumbest person on earth. I really don’t want to know. What if it’s a disgustingly selfish answer? What if he’s going to admit to being a dangerous psycho cannibal?

His grip on the steering wheel tightens for a faint second, then immediately loosens. He lets out a pensive hum and simply says, “Because I can.”

Because he can? What the hell does that even mean? Is he some rich dude that has money to waste so he made me his charity case? He doesn’t look rich, yet he is driving a luxurious car, so maybe he is. I examine the vehicle, and it surely strikes me as brand new.

Meanwhile, Aoi reaches for the glove box and pulls out a remote to open a garage. The drive went by faster than I expected. He drives in and parks the car on the second floor down. It looks like some kind of shared underground parking lot for an apartment building. He turns off the engine and steps out of the car, so I follow.

It’s rather chilly in the parking lot, but it can’t compare to the glacial air of the outside world. A metallic scent lingers in the air, and I start thinking about those movies where the na?ve character gets kidnapped by an innocent looking person just to be never found again. That’s not going to happen to me, right?

“I live on the eleventh floor,” he points out as he guides us towards the elevator.

He presses the button indicating the number eleven and the doors close behind us. I stare at the screen denoting the shifting numbers as we climb the floors. The closer we get to his apartment, the more nervous I become but I keep quiet until we reach the front door, and he unlocks it swiftly. Aoi pushes the oak door open and hangs the keys on a key holder on the wall right next to the entrance while I stay still, watching him walk inside his home.

This is his home, and he is welcoming me inside. Do I even deserve it? I peek down at my clothes and feel shame heat my cheeks. I look like a beggar, maybe he takes me for one too.

I stay motionless in the entry hall. Am I allowed to be here? Is this really fine? My hands are moist with sweat, forcing me to wipe them on my pants. Aoi takes off his jacket and hangs it in a cloak room next to the front door. He glances at me and smiles sweetly.

My throat constricts and it aches. His kindness hurts because I don’t deserve a drop of it, but I don’t want to relinquish it so soon because it’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of.

My extremities are frozen, my nose is running, and my hair is drenched. Yet, the discomfort evaporates the moment his lips curl into a gentle smile. He is spilling with tempting generosity and such warmth despite the cold blue of his eyes.

“What’s wrong? Come in.”

I can’t. I want to but my legs won’t move. I shouldn’t be here. This is wrong. I don’t deserve any of this. I’m not worthy of such generosity, and he shouldn’t be so nice to someone as useless as me.

“Visha? Are you okay?” he asks, worry palpable in those jewels.

What do I do? Can I really take his chance of erasing the past and starting anew?