Familiar Strangers

Bitten by a dog

I’d be finished if Grandpa heard even half of what happened yesterday.

So I do the only thing my panicking brain can come up with—something ridiculously cheesy I once saw while doom-scrolling TV.

I kiss her.

I pull her in, one hand gripping her wrist, the other on the back of her neck to keep her still. She tastes sweet—way too sweet—and for a second it’s intoxicating. Dangerous. My mind blanks.

Then she jabs her free hand into my side with a vicious pinch.

I let go instantly.

“Grandpa,” I say, acting all surprised just as he steps in.

I glance down at Marissa. She’s glaring daggers at me, wiping her lips… then she licks them, slow and annoyed, before turning to face Grandpa.

For that one second—her eyes on me, that irritated lip-lick—my chest slams against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.

I freeze.

What the hell is happening to me?

Marissa’s POV

Oh I am livid. First he accuses me of something I didn’t do, then he has the audacity to kiss me? I’m pissed enough to squash him, blend him, and toss him in an incinerator. But Grandpa comes first, so I slap on my brightest fake smile and head down the stairs.

“Grandpa, good morning! I’ve missed you.”

I hug him, and of course he’s wearing that knowing smirk. That "I see you" smirk. If only he knew it was all his grandson’s fault. Ugh. Whatever. I’ll take the kiss like a dog bite—it’s not even my first kiss.

“I see you two are getting along very well,” Grandpa says, grinning so wide I can practically count every tooth he owns.

“We were actually about to go out for breakfast,” I lie sweetly, praying he’ll walk away so I don’t have to share space with Antonio’s oxygen right now.

But of course not.

“Is that so? I came hoping to eat breakfast with you. How about we all go together?”

I turn to Antonio, but the i***t is still frozen on the stairs like a broken statue. I grit my teeth and call his name.

He finally snaps out of it and starts walking down.

“What?” he says, like I’m the problem.

I ignore him and smile at Grandpa.

“Let’s go,” Grandpa says, cheerful as ever.

“I’ll go change,” Antonio mutters before sprinting back upstairs.

A minute later he reappears, and we all head out—with him driving, me stuck right beside him because Grandpa insisted, and Grandpa relaxing in the back seat like this is some wholesome family outing.

Kill me now.

We get to the restaurant, hop out, and head inside. The moment we sit, I grab the menu and a wicked little idea pops into my head. Naturally, I go with it.

“I already ordered for both of us,” I tell Antonio with the sweetest smile I can fake.

While we wait, Grandpa and I chat and laugh like old friends. Honestly, I really like this man. He’s hilarious, warm, and actually normal. Meanwhile his grandson is… whatever mutated version of him happened down the bloodline. Tch.

Our food arrives fast, and we dig in. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Antonio dropping his cutlery and chugging water like he’s fighting for his life. Perfect.

“Ahh, this food is delicious,” I say loudly, turning to him with a grin. “You should eat more, it’s really good.”

He does not look pleased. At all.

See, during that first meal at Grandpa’s house, I noticed something crucial: this mighty, intimidating man can’t handle pepper, and he hates onions like they owe him money. And clearly Grandpa doesn’t know. The cook doesn’t know. Nobody knows—except me, feels good.

And this past week, while cooking, I tested the theory. A little onion slice here, a spicy garnish there. Every time, he either didn’t finish his food or avoided the dish completely, pretending it was no big deal. Mr. Stoneface couldn’t even lie properly.

So yes—every single dish I ordered today is either flaming hot or decorated with onions like a parade float.

I’m petty like that. And honestly? It feels great.

I keep eating, fully enjoying my food while Grandpa and I toss jokes back and forth. After a while, Grandpa clears his throat and announces he has somewhere to be. Please. That man is lying through his teeth. He just wants to give his stubborn grandson and me “space.”

He leaves anyway, and suddenly it’s just Antonio and me in the booth. Silence. Thick awkward silence. I finish my food slowly, wipe my mouth, and get ready to stand.

Antonio stops me.

“We need to talk.”

“I doubt that,” I say, already rising.

“I’m apologising for yesterday,” he says.

I inhale and pause. Honestly, I’m still annoyed, but not at yesterday’s level, I guess I've gotten some of the heat off my system. So I turn fully to him. He’s still seated, looking up at me.

“Do you even know what you’re apologising for?” I ask.

“I’m sorry for concluding without getting the facts,” he says.

“Good. Because next time—actually, let’s hope there won’t be a next time—I don’t go around chasing trouble. I don’t even have the energy for petty arguments or fights.” I glance at the spicy, onion-loaded disaster I ordered for him. I clear my throat and continue. “And if I ever do something wrong, I’ll own up to it. I’m not the type to deny what I’ve done.”

I lean a little closer.

“And if I do something, trust me, it’ll be justified. Which is why, as partners, there should be trust between us… like friends, or at least some kind of camaraderie.”