Miguel stood there, completely dazed and paralyzed, a man caught in the crosshairs of an impossible coincidence.
This was the boy.
The "Mr. Rot-Mouth" who had humiliated him in front of a crowd; the same boy he had found himself gooning and moaning to on just days ago in the quiet of his own thoughts; and the very target he had sworn to hunt down once the business with Storm was settled.
He was right here, breathing the same air, and honestly, Miguel didn't know where to start. He couldn't do anything but stop, his momentum dying instantly as he was drawn deep and lost in the sight of him, as always.
Wrong timing.
Fedora had already cut off his own internal monologue to avoid looking like a madman. When he first heard the fast-approaching footsteps, he assumed they were merely those of a passerby.
He had paused in his tracks, waiting patiently for the rhythmic strides to fade into the distance so he could resume the elaborate, crazy scenarios playing out in his head.
But he waited a beat too long. There were no more clicks of heels, no sound of movement.
Strange.
He decided to sneak a look across the distance, just to be sure he wasn't being haunted by some lingering ghost of his own making.
He lifted his head, and immediately, their eyes locked.
Miguel quickly averted his gaze. For him, the eye contact was the final confirmation he needed that he wasn't hallucinating; it was also the reason his rage had mysteriously evaporated before he even realized it was gone.
But the look on Fedora's face was the polar opposite. On that beautiful face was a well-carved, profound grimace—a cocktail of confusion and sheer, unadulterated irritation.
Why is this man staring at me like that? Do I look like a clown? Fedora wondered, his ego stinging. Or maybe there's still mud on my face.
That explains it, he concluded, trying to rationalize the intense heat of the man's stare.
"Weirdo," Fedora muttered under his breath. He cautiously snapped his head back down toward his flask, intending to ignore the giant... but then he froze.
Wait a minute.
Fedora paused the very moment the cold, icy, breathtaking realization hit him. That 'punch-worthy' face.
Those arrogant lips and intimidating eyes.
"Wait!" he repeated almost aloud, his tone thick with disbelief as the full picture flashed back into his mind.
The club.
The slap.
The spilled drink. The aftermath.
I am fucked!!!!!, Fedora screamed inwardly. How was this happening? Had this man been stalking him? To add to his spiraling state, Fedora's eyes ran a frantic scan over the gigantic figure looming before him.
When he saw the hockey stick held firmly in the man's grip, his heart sank deeper than the Titanic.
"Ho!" A raspy gasp escaped Fedora's lips. That mouth of yours is definitely going to be the death of you one day, he cursed himself.
He didn't need a tarot card reader to tell him how dire the situation was. They were alone on this desolate stretch of road.
He had humiliated this man days ago, and by the looks of things—Fedora peeped over the man's shoulder to see the stalled cars—he had likely wrecked the man's vehicle too!!!.
Soup on soup.
Panic and fear began to unspool in his chest like a tangled wire.
Actually, no. Fedora affirmed the thought in his mind. This wasn't entirely his fault. If the world were fair, this man wouldn't dare lay a finger on him.
He gripped his flask and stood to his full height—tall and challenging, even though his trembling legs told a completely different story about his desire to bolt for his life.
Yet, Fedora remained firm, fueled by a stubborn ego and ready for anything, especially ready to run if things went south.
A few feet away, Miguel let out a slow, exasperated exhale. This boy always had a way of doing the least expected things in the least expected places.
Miguel didn't even have to blink twice before every ounce of his previous malice vanished. At this point, he was at a crossroads: should he turn around, head back to his car, and continue his mission, or just... stay? Whatever the choice, he knew one thing for certain: he wasn't going to hurt the boy. At least, not in a wicked way.
Before the contemplation could even finish, Miguel found his feet moving. He was walking toward him.
As he approached, Fedora staggered slightly. He subtly flung his hands behind his back, clutching them as tight as possible to mask the way they refused to stop shaking.
The man would definitely recognize him. The thought made his heart pound like a drum as he watched the figure approach, playing with the hockey stick like a literal specter of vengeance.
Okay, just like you learned in class, Fedora coached himself, his mind frantically analyzing an escape route. Squat out the first strike, use the flask as a weapon, and then, baby boy... run as fast as you can.
It was a cheap plan, and deep down, he knew it wouldn't work, which only sent his survival instincts into a fresh spiral.
"He's going to recognize me, he's going to recognize me," Fedora sang silently to himself, pressing his eyes shut. When he opened them again, the man was closer than before—only a few inches away.
Damn, he smells good.
"Oh my God, Fedora, focus!" he barked inwardly. His eyes darted everywhere, the trees, the asphalt, the flask.....anywhere except at the man standing directly in his personal space.
He reached up and subtly scratched his neck, trying to appear nonchalant while his pulse raced.
Who really is this boy? Miguel asked himself, fascinated and genuinely surprised by his own reaction. Navarro had tried everything to calm his temper earlier, but nothing had worked.
Yet here, standing in the presence of this chaotic boy, it felt like his rage had been gently shoved into a freezer.
The cooling effect was instantaneous and strange—something Miguel couldn't even begin to explain.
Such a pie!
To be continued.....