breakfast

Enzo's POV

The weekend had slipped through my fingers like sand, leaving only the cold, unyielding weight of Monday behind. My alarm blared, its shrill beeping slicing through the fragile quiet of the morning. I groaned, slamming my hand against the clock to silence it. The stillness that followed was almost mocking, like the universe itself was reminding me of the long day ahead.

The floor was icy against my bare feet as I swung out of bed, sending a shiver crawling up my spine. The air in my room felt heavy, stagnant, as if it, too, resented the start of the workweek.

In the bathroom, the fluorescent light buzzed faintly overhead, casting a harsh glow over the tiled walls. I stepped into the shower, the water stinging my skin as it transitioned from icy to scalding. The sharp scent of eucalyptus body wash filled the air, mingling with the rising steam. I closed my eyes, letting the heat seep into my muscles, wishing it could dissolve the dread pooling in my chest.

After drying off, I rubbed lavender-scented lotion onto my arms, the soothing fragrance doing little to calm my restless thoughts. I dressed quickly, the stiff fabric of my uniform brushing against my skin, grounding me momentarily. Clipping on my badge, I caught my reflection in the mirror. My eyes looked dull, tired, as though they hadn't quite caught up with the rest of me.

I glanced at the clock. Ten minutes until I had to leave. Just enough time for breakfast.

The thought perked me up slightly as I headed to the kitchen. But as I entered, I stopped short, the air thick with the sweet, inviting aroma of pancakes and honey. My stomach twisted—a mix of hunger and unease.

On the table sat a plate stacked with pancakes, the golden syrup glistening under the dim morning light. For a moment, I stared, my mind racing. I didn't make this. I live alone. So who did?

"This is creepy," I whispered, my voice barely audible over the pounding of my heart. I approached the table slowly, the faint squeak of the floorboards beneath my feet breaking the silence. The plate was warm when I touched it, as though whoever had made this had only just left.

My hands trembled as I picked it up. Without giving myself time to think, I carried it to the trash. The pancakes slid off with a dull thud, and the honey jar followed, its lid rattling as it hit the bottom. The sound echoed in the empty kitchen, louder than it should have been.

If someone had been in my house, it wasn't through the window. I glanced at it, the latch firmly in place. They must have used the door. A chill ran down my spine, not from fear, but from the realization of how vulnerable I truly was.

"Now I have no appetite for food," I muttered, my voice trembling despite my attempt at sarcasm. "Thanks to whoever broke into my house."

Grabbing my bag, I left, the door slamming behind me with a sharp finality. The brisk morning air hit me as I stepped outside, biting at my cheeks and nose. The familiar hum of the bus engine greeted me as I climbed aboard, sinking into my usual seat by the window.

Outside, the city was waking up, the streets alive with movement. But I couldn't focus on the world beyond the glass. My mind was elsewhere, tangled in a web of thoughts I couldn't shake.

Since the day I helped that man who'd been shot, something inside me had shifted. It wasn't just the eerie feeling of being watched—it was deeper, like a thread had been pulled loose in my life, unraveling everything I thought I knew.

But the strangest part? I wasn't scared.

I didn't throw out the pancakes because I was afraid. It was more like… defiance. A refusal to let the unknown dictate my actions.

The bus jerked to a stop, and I stepped off, the cold concrete beneath my feet a harsh contrast to the warmth of the bus. My breath fogged in the air as I glanced around, my eyes landing on a familiar figure.

Dr. Olivier stood near the curb, his tall frame upright, his hands buried in the pockets of his coat. His eyes, sharp and penetrating, locked onto mine as if he'd been waiting for me.

My pulse quickened. Was he waiting for me?

"Good morning, Doc," I said, my voice steady despite the flutter in my chest. "How was your night?"

His lips curved into a faint smile, his expression unreadable. "My night was good. Get in," he said, nodding toward his car. His voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. "I've been waiting for you. And don't you dare say no—I didn't stand here for thirty minutes just for you to turn me down."

I hesitated for a moment, his words sinking in. The idea of him standing here, waiting for me, sent a warmth through me that I couldn't quite explain. Without a word, I slid into the passenger seat.

The car smelled faintly of leather and his cologne, a woodsy scent that was both comforting and intimidating. The warmth of the seat heaters enveloped me, but it did little to calm the pounding in my chest.

"Enzo," he said after a moment, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. "Do you seriously not remember what happened when I took you home that day?"

My stomach tightened. I turned to him, my fingers gripping the strap of my bag. "I… I don't always remember things when I've been drinking. Did something happen? Is it something I should know?"

He glanced at me, his eyes shadowed by something I couldn't name. "No," he said, his voice curt. "Nothing happened."

But I didn't believe him. There was a tension in his tone, a weight in his words that made my chest tighten. Something had happened. And he wasn't telling me.

The rest of the drive was quiet, the sound of tires on pavement filling the silence between us. When we arrived at the hospital, I stepped out into the biting wind, pulling my coat tighter around me.

That feeling returned—the prickling sensation at the back of my neck, like unseen eyes were following me. My breath hitched as I glanced over my shoulder, but the street was empty.

Shaking it off, I followed Dr. Olivier inside, the cold clinging to me like a second skin.