Coco's pov
It was getting harder to ignore him.
Kyle Carlisle was everywhere.
He wasn't supposed to be though. For weeks, he had been more of a ghost than a presence, the kind of older brother who worked in some glittering glass building overseas, too important to remember there was a family home back here. Everyone whispered about him when he returned… how he'd taken over a division of their father's company in Japan, how the business trip had stretched into years, how he was the only one between the Carlisle children who could actually compete with their father's brilliance.
And now he was back.
Back with his sharp suits, hypnotising scent of expensive perfumes, back with that calm that seemed to silence a room when he walked into it, back with those storm-grey eyes that unsettled me in ways I didn't want to admit.
I was twenty and he was twenty-five. There was a whole yard of experience between us like a canyon, and yet… my stomach betrayed me every time his gaze lingered a fraction too long on me.
It wasn't supposed to matter, God knows it wasn't. I wasn't supposed to notice how the evening sun clung to his cheekbones, or how his voice, smooth and precise, carried a kind of weight that made people listen. I wasn't supposed to care that he was the only man I'd ever seen who looked like he could calm the storms within me, his strength never loud, always controlled.
But I did notice. I cared more than I wanted to admit.
It was ridiculous. Hormones, I told herself. Pure hormones. I'd never had a real boyfriend before, never experienced the dizzy kind of attention girls my age bragged about between classes. I had crushes before, yes, quiet, private ones, but they were always fleeting. Boys at school had childish grins and even louder jokes, and they were as harmless as puppies honestly. None of them could tilt my world the way Kyle Carlisle did by simply walking into a room.
I told myself it was nothing. Just my imagination, just my heart confusing gratitude with attraction. He'd been kind to me once or twice, asked me if I was studying, looked at me with that strange, quiet curiosity in his gorgeous eyes. He was a bit older for my inexperienced self, out of my league, probably surrounded by women who wore diamonds and heels, not faded hand-me-down sweaters and patched sneakers.
He didn't belong in my orbit. And yet, he was there.
That afternoon, I had been sitting at my desk, pretending to focus on the history notes Kairo had worked on. The bruises on my arms ached under the sleeves of my shirt, little reminders of my stepmother's sharp nails and sharper tongue. I traced them with my fingertips absentmindedly, grateful no one had noticed yet.
Except Kyle had, oh my freaking word.
I caught him once in the hallway, his eyes flicking down, sharp and assessing, before softening into something I couldn't quite name. I looked away too quickly, embarrassed, my cheeks burning due to the numbing shame, as if the bruises themselves had betrayed me. Since then, I'd felt his presence more, his gaze brushing against me like a whisper, his silence louder than words.
And then, as I settled for bed that evening, my phone buzzed.
I almost ignored it. Unknown numbers usually meant spam or the endless messages my stepmother sent when she wanted to control my every breath, but something made me pick it up, swipe the screen open, and stare.
The text was simple. No name. Just words.
Unknown Number:Do you usually stay up this late working?
My heart slammed against her ribs, I almost threw up.
I blinked, reading the words again. My hands trembled. Who?
My first instinct was that it was a mistake. Wrong number, but then, another message came through.
Unknown Number:It's Kyle. Don't panic.
Panic was the exact thing I did. I dropped the phone onto my bed, staring at it as if it had turned into something alive, something dangerous. Kyle. Kyle Carlisle had my number. Kyle Carlisle was texting me.
I picked the phone back up, my fingers hesitant. I typed, erased, typed again.
Coco:Oh. Hi. How did you get my number?
I hated how stiff it sounded, but what else was I supposed to say? What do you say to a man like him, someone you've only admired from the edges of a room?
The reply came quickly, as if he had been waiting.
Kyle:Kairo gave it to me. Don't be mad at her, I asked. She didn't think I'd use it.
My stomach twisted. Kairo. Of course. My dearest student, my unlikely ally.
Coco:It's okay. Just unexpected.
My pulse raced. I chewed my bottom lip, staring at the blinking cursor, waiting.
Kyle:I noticed you looked tired earlier. Thought maybe someone should check in. Do you always push yourself that hard?
There it was again, the concern even in his words. The same concern I saw flicker in his eyes when they caught my bruises.
I swallowed hard, torn between truth and pretence.
Coco:Working keeps me out of trouble. That's all.
It was safer that way. Vague. Harmless.
But his reply wasn't casual.
Kyle:You're not trouble, Coco.
My chest tightened, something hot and fragile blooming beneath my ribs. I wanted to argue, wanted to tell him he didn't know the half of it, didn't know the punishments, the whispers, the way my stepmother and Mika had shaped my life into something narrow and suffocating. He didn't know how much of my existence was about survival, not living.
But I didn't say any of that. Instead, I typed the smallest truth.
Coco:Sometimes it feels like I am.
There was silence on the other end. A pause long enough for me to think he'd abandoned the conversation, realized his mistake in reaching out. And then…
Kyle:I don't believe that. You carry yourself like someone who belongs in rooms bigger than this house. That's not trouble. That's strength.
My throat tightened. I pressed my hand against my chest as if that could steady the wild rhythm of my crazy heart. Nobody talked to me like that. Nobody saw me like that.
I typed, erased, typed again. Finally, I let the words go.
Coco:You're exaggerating.
Kyle:I don't exaggerate.
My lips curved before I could stop them. A smile. A real, startled smile in the dark of my bedroom, lit only by the glow of my phone.
I lay back against the thin pillow, staring at the screen, my mind spinning. This couldn't be real. Kyle Carlisle, twenty-five-year-old businessman, could have been texting anyone. And yet, here he was, taking his time and texting with me.
It was foolish to think it meant anything. Dangerous, even, but in that moment, with my bruises hidden under long sleeves and my loneliness pressing like a shadow at the edges of the room, it felt like sunlight had slipped through the cracks.
I didn't know where this conversation would go. I only knew that I didn't want it to end.