YURI

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

On my way outside, I caught sight of Killian through the glass door. He was sitting at the small patio table, one hand wrapped around a mug—coffee, I’d bet—while the other typed away on his laptop. His brows were slightly furrowed, but not in an angry way… more like someone lost deep in thought.

Immediately, my steps faltered. Nope. Not doing this today.

“You know what, Maggie,” I said, pivoting back toward the counter, “I think I’ll just eat here.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Maggie glance at Kirby, and the two of them exchanged *that* look—one of those silent, telepathic conversations people who’ve known each other forever seem to have. Then, like clockwork, their lips curled into knowing smiles.

“What?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

Kirby didn’t answer—she just chuckled under her breath and walked out of the kitchen.

“What???” I called after her, raising my voice this time, but the only response I got was the sound of her laughter fading down the hallway.

I turned to Maggie, ready to demand answers, but she had suddenly become very invested in chopping vegetables, the smirk still tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Yeah. Definitely some conspiracy going on here.

I spent the rest of my Saturday in my room, mainly because I was avoiding a certain man—yes, the one from my dreams, quite literally. Every time I thought about stepping out, I’d picture those eyes on me, that small, infuriatingly calm smile, and I’d retreat right back under my blanket like a coward.

Eventually, my phone became the most boring thing on earth. I’d scrolled through every social feed twice, watched videos I didn’t even care about, and still felt restless.

Finally, I gave up and decided to head to the home library. If I couldn’t keep my mind off him, maybe a good book could. The quiet there was always comforting—rows and rows of shelves filled with stories I could disappear into.

Padding softly down the hallway, I pushed the heavy wooden door open, breathing in the faint scent of old paper and polished oak. The afternoon sunlight streamed in through the windows, casting warm stripes across the floor. I ran my fingers along the spines of the books, searching for something to pull me in.

I was struggling to get to the top shelf to get one of my favorite books of all time, *The Last Good Man* by — well, I never actually remembered the author’s name, but the cover was burned into my memory. I was on my tiptoes, fingers just grazing the spine, when suddenly a hand reached over mine and pulled it down effortlessly.

Startled, I spun around, and there he was—Killian.

For a split second, my brain went blank. My face was level with his chest, my palms instinctively pressing against the firm muscle beneath his shirt to steady myself. His scent hit me first—clean, warm, and faintly woody, like cedar after rain.

Time slowed. I could feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing under my hands, and I was terrified he might feel the frantic pace of mine.

“Here,” he said in that deep, smooth voice that seemed to curl around my name even without saying it. He held the book out to me, our fingers brushing in a way that felt entirely too deliberate to be an accident.

“Thanks,” I mumbled, clutching the book as though it could somehow shield me from the electricity crackling between us.

But he didn’t move away. His eyes, sharp yet unreadable, held mine with an intensity that made the air in the room feel thicker.

“You like this one?” he asked.

I nodded, swallowing hard. “It’s… one of my favorites.”

Something flickered in his expression—interest, maybe curiosity—and his lips curled ever so slightly. “You’ll have to tell me about it sometime.”

And then, as if realizing he’d lingered too long, he stepped back. But the ghost of his presence stayed with me, into my thoughts, where I knew it would live rent-free for far too long, At that moment, I realized I do have a crush on him, or maybe it was more than that.