Elora had finally finished her long day of work. She stepped out of the shower, letting the warmth linger on her skin for a moment before wrapping herself in a towel. Her hair, damp and loosely tied back, clung to her neck slightly. She made her way downstairs, determined to make herself something simple for dinner, something that required little effort after the day she had endured. The kitchen smelled faintly of lemon and clean surfaces, a quiet sanctuary after hours of cleaning rooms and making beds.
She set about chopping vegetables, her movements methodical. The soft hum of the kitchen fan and the faint sizzle from the pan were the only sounds accompanying her. For the first time that day, she allowed herself a small moment of calm, thinking about nothing beyond the vegetables in front of her.
And then he appeared.
"Making dinner?" His voice was calm, neutral, but carried a quiet awareness that immediately made her stiffen.
Elora froze mid-chop. She kept her tone short and simple. "Yes," she replied, not wanting to engage beyond the bare minimum.
He observed her, eyes steady, measuring. "You're calm."
She didn't reply. She didn't need to. She had learned long ago how to keep interactions neutral, professional, and limited.
"You used to do that at the coffee shop too," he said casually, watching her carefully.
She blinked, spatula hovering mid-air. "…What?"
"When customers were rude," he continued, steady, precise. "You'd smile like it didn't bother you."
Her stomach flipped. The coffee shop. The early morning shifts. The window seat. The corner table he always ordered black coffee at.
Slowly, she turned to face him fully. " Excuse me, what the hell?That was you?"
He frowned faintly. "Yes."
Her chest tightened. "…Oh my God. That was you all this time?"
He didn't answer immediately, his gaze steady.
"I knew it," she whispered, a mix of relief and shock bubbling up. "I knew I wasn't overthinking."
He raised an eyebrow slightly. "You weren't?"
Her hands clenched lightly around the spatula. "Why the hell were you watching me? Were you stalking me all this time? What do you want from me?"
"I—" He shook his head slightly. "I wasn't stalking you."
"Then what?" Her voice rose slightly, incredulous. "All those mornings, all that time, just… stalking me? Why? Are you trying to kill me or something?"
"No, now you're just being dramatic. Why would I do that, I was just observing" he said evenly, like it was the simplest fact in the world.
"That's the same thing," she shot back. "Watching me without saying anything. Making me feel like I was imagining it."
"You weren't imagining it," he replied calmly.
Her breath hitched. "You mean to tell me all this time… I wasn't crazy?"
"No." His tone was flat, neutral, but not dismissive.
She ran a hand through her damp hair, tugging at the loose strands falling around her temples. "…So you noticed everything. My shifts, my orders, how I smiled at the rude customers…" Her heart started beating faster.
He stepped slightly closer, narrowing the distance between them. She instinctively took a small step back.
"Stop," she said quietly but firmly. "Don't come closer."
His gaze softened, calm. "I'm not going to hurt you."
"Still—step back." Her hands hovered near her sides, fingers slightly tense. She didn't want to be trapped in the kitchen, not now.
He paused, leaving just enough space between them to respect her words, but the subtle tension in the air made it impossible to ignore him.
"…And then you just… offered me the job?" she asked, keeping her distance. "Without me even applying?"
"It was simple," he said. "I saw someone capable. Someone consistent. You suited the work."
Her chest tightened again. "…Without telling me you had been watching me for months?"
"Would that have made a difference?"
She hesitated. "…I don't know," she admitted softly. "Maybe I would have walked away."
He studied her silently. "Then I made the right choice."
"…Right choice?" she repeated, voice quiet, more to herself than to him. "It feels… unsettling."
"Unsettling how?" His question was calm, even, but measured.
"Like… I've been watched," she said, swallowing hard. "And now you're here. Watching me again."
"I'm not watching you now," he said evenly. "I'm standing here."
"…Which is basically the same thing."
He didn't argue. Just observed her, expression neutral, unflinching.
She felt exposed. Vulnerable. "…Why?" she asked finally, quieter, almost afraid to hear the answer.
"Because you were different."
"That's not an answer," she said softly. "Different how?"
"Different," he repeated. "I noticed it."
Silence stretched between them. The smell of the food, the soft sizzle of the pan, the dim lights—all of it felt thick with awareness.
"So I wasn't imagining it," she said again, a little shakily.
"No," he confirmed.
Her hands flexed at her sides. "And you just… offered me the job after all that?"
"Yes," he said simply.
Her lips pressed together. "Why?"
"Because you're consistent," he replied. "You do what you do, you do it well, and you don't overreact. That's rare."
Her eyes widened. "…And now I have to keep working in the same house with the person who watched me for months without telling me?"
He tilted his head slightly. "I'm not a problem. You don't have to treat me like one."
"I'm not," she said quickly, but her voice carried the faintest tremor of disbelief. "…But it feels like I am."
He didn't respond. Just stood there, calmly, letting her words hang in the air.
Finally, she picked up the spatula again, steadying herself. "I'll finish dinner," she said softly, more to herself than to him.
He nodded once. "Do that."
Her stomach churned, a mix of confusion and nervous energy. Her mind raced over months of unnoticed glances, accidental encounters, and the steady weight of someone observing her life so intently.
She had not imagined it. She hadn't made it up.
And that realization was more unsettling than anything she had expected.