140. An Ordinary Man

Rose's POV:

My head was in my hands.

How do I even come back from this?

I literally beckoned him closer and then immediately told him to go fuck himself.

Like… how stupid can I get?

Now, he's probably seething—ready to set me on fire or, I don't know, curse my bloodline for generations to come.

I hesitantly peeked from behind my fingers, half-expecting to see him burning with rage, hands clenched into fists, golden eyes blazing with murder.

But… no.

He was just standing there.

Still. Silent. Watching me.

I straightened a little when I realized he didn't look particularly enraged. His posture was relaxed, his hands still shoved in his pockets like I hadn't just hurled an insult at him moments ago.

Huh.

Maybe he wasn't mad?

I cleared my throat, grasping at whatever pathetic attempt at dignity I had left.

"Look," I began, my tone shifting to something vaguely diplomatic. "I know you're a… sensible man."

I watched him carefully, waiting for a reaction. Nothing.

"So, the fact that you've been stalking me every night since I—well, pretty much moved here—should make it understandable that I'm in a very… irritable mood."

He didn't respond. No shift in stance. No deepening scowl.

Encouraged by his continued lack of rage, my confidence grew.

"So, I stand by what I said." I lifted my chin, crossing my arms in a defiant display of composure I did not feel.

I half-expected him to suddenly snap, for the air to vibrate with restrained fury, for the temperature to spike with barely-leashed fire—or whatever it is that he does.

But instead—

He shrugged.

I stared.

A literal shrug—as if my entire rant, my venom-laced insult, my attempted negotiation—was met with a casual fucking shrug.

That shouldn't be weird.

I mean, he looks like a guy. He is a guy. A person. A human man. And people do commonly shrug.

Right?

Then why does it feel so strange to see him do something so… normal?

I guess, in my head, I'd already stripped him of that label. I'd been calling him a shadow, a predator, a nightmare—so much so that I'd started believing it completely.

But here he was, standing there, not as some eldritch being with unholy powers, but as a man.

A very irritating man, nonetheless.

Well, then how do you explain the fires? my own mind countered, throwing logic in my face.

I faltered.

Okay, fair point.

But to be equally fair—I can't explain the weird shit that happens inside my house any better then the thing outside my house. And I know for a fact I'm not the one setting things on fire.

So, who's to say the flames were even his doing? Maybe all of it was just… paranormal activity.

Yeah.

Yeah, I could chalk it all up to that.

What luck I have to get a house that is haunted wasn't enough, I also have a stalker to haunt me too.

I scoffed at my own ridiculous train of thought, resisting the urge to laugh bitterly.

Now seeing him under a new light feels strange. Under the lamp of an ordinary man was an idea almost laughable.

Because, let's be real, there was nothing ordinary about him.

Even without seeing his full face, the sharp cut of his jawline promised sharply devastating features. That body? Unfairly built. Lean, strong, and sleek—like an athlete.

Oh God. What if he actually is an athlete?

What if I'm being stalked by some bored ex-Olympian with too much time on his hands?

Is that a good thing or a bad thing?

I rubbed a hand down my face.

Okay, Rose, focus. Get out of your own head.

"Alright," I exhaled, shifting gears. "Since neither of us are mad at each other—" I think "—we can move on to the next topic."

I rubbed my hands together, mentally sorting through the many, many questions I had for him.

To my mild surprise, he gave a small nod, the movement barely noticeable beneath the hood.

Great, he's actually listening.

Might as well start with the most basic one.

"How about we begin with you telling me, who are you?"

I tilted my head slightly, watching him carefully, both half-hoping for an honest answer and half-expecting that he wouldn't give me one at all.