Onyx's POV
"You heard me," he repeated calmly. "I'll stay here for the weekend."
"I heard you clearly, Jace," I said. "But don't you have anything else to do? Aren't your parents going to look for you? They might think you got into an accident if you don't go home."
If he stayed here long enough, he would start connecting the dots.
That we had talked before.
That I was the reason he failed to graduate on time.
That I was the one he had been furious at back then.
"Nah," he said with a careless shrug. "My dad doesn't even care. So it's fine."
"What about siblings?" I asked. "Surely someone would get worried."
"I don't have any."
"That explains certain behavioral patterns," I said. "You're a bit spoiled."
The thought lingered after the words left my mouth. I was an only child too, but I wasn't like him—not even back when we still had money. My father used to buy things I never asked for, things I didn't even think about. The only time I ever really got excited was with gadgets.
Jace didn't respond. He lay there staring at the ceiling, expression unreadable. And me? I remained seated in the far corner of the room, watching him, trying to understand how this guy had ended up here—inside my room—when I had once been so certain I never wanted to see him outside school.
"Thanks for showing up, Boss," he said with a soft chuckle.
"Thank my father," I replied. "He's the one who helped me out."
"Oh," he said easily. "Then I'll thank him later when I step out of here."
I gave him a sideways glance.
So he was really planning to make himself at home.
"Jace, you have to go home," I said firmly. "Or at least tell your parents where you are."
He sighed.
"My dad will call when he remembers me," he said.
"When he remembers you?" I teased lightly. "What, does he usually forget he has a son?"
He didn't laugh.
Okay, that wasn't funny. I thought it was. The humor fell flat, and I immediately shut my mouth.
"Nah," he said. "He just cares more about something else. That's all."
I blinked.
"Maybe that's how you see him. But parents don't do that to their children."
He closed his eyes.
"Why do you care?" he said, followed by a quiet chuckle.
"Then I won't ask," I replied. Simple. Clean. Done.
He laughed softly and opened his eyes again.
"You're funny."
"I'm not joking," I said flatly. "Well, if your dad doesn't care about you, at least your mom does. Right?"
"Yeah," Jace said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He lifted an arm and draped it over his eyes. "She did... when she was still alive."
"Oh," I said quietly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring that up."
I hesitated, then added.
"Are you crying now?"
He laughed again and lowered his arm, turning his head to look at me.
"Why would I be crying?"
"Because your mom isn't here anymore," I said honestly. "I thought you might feel sad."
"I'm used to it," he said easily. Then his gaze sharpened just a little. "How about you? Where's your mom? Is she the one cooking our breakfast?"
"Correction," I said. "You're not included in breakfast because you'll be leaving soon. And my mom isn't with us anymore."
"She passed away too?" he asked, curious but careful.
"No," I replied. "She's with her fiancé."
"I see..." He nodded, no follow-up questions, as if he understood exactly what I meant.
"So," I said again, "are you going to leave now?"
"I already told you," Jace said. "I'll stay here for the weekend."
"You can't," I said. "I have a lot of things to do. I can't entertain you and your disruptions."
"Then don't," he replied smoothly. "I'll just hang around. Probably chat with your dad while you're busy."
I exhaled deeply.
"So you don't plan on leaving anytime soon, even if I demand it?" I said.
"Yeah."
"But our home isn't luxurious like yours, even if I haven't seen it." I continued, pushing on. "Our bathroom is small. My room is small. We don't have a proper dining area—we eat in the living room as we sit on the carpet, and—"
"It's fine," he cut in. "That sounds better than living in a big house where it feels empty."
I swallowed.
Then, without warning, he pulled his shirt over his head.
I frowned immediately.
"It's kind of hot in here," he said casually. "You don't have air-conditioning?"
"No," I replied. "Will that be enough to make you leave?"
"Apparently not," he said, thoughtful. "I'll have one installed in your room. That way it won't be hot the next time I stay here."
He paused.
"How about Pa?" he added, glancing at me. "That's what you call him, right? Does he have one? If not, I'll order two."
I stared at him.
"Is the alcohol still lingering in your system?" I asked, irritation creeping into my voice.
"Why?"
I leaned back and stared at the ceiling instead, surrendering to the absurdity of arguing with him.
"Can you at least open the window for me?" he asked.
I looked at him slowly, deliberately. "Really? You're making demands now?"
He clasped his hands together dramatically. "Please, Boss," he said, grinning like he had just delivered the most charming line in the world.
I closed my eyes and exhaled through my nose.
This...
This was exactly why I did not want him in my room.
The space was already small—four walls painted in a color that used to be white, a narrow bed pressed against one side, my study desk on the other, shelves crowded with books and neatly stacked folders. Add one overconfident, broad-shouldered tattooed guy sprawled across the mattress, and suddenly the air felt thinner.
Not because of the size.
Because of him.
I stood up and walked toward the window. The floor creaked under my steps. When I slid it open, cool morning breeze rushed in, brushing against my face, lifting the curtain slightly. It felt like oxygen had finally remembered this room existed.
If I were being honest, I needed the air too.
Our breathing had started to sync without my permission.
"Thanks, Boss," he said again.
I turned.
He was still lying there, propped up on one elbow, looking up at me with that same ridiculous grin. The kind that made people forgive him before he even apologized.
And that was when I saw it again.
The compass.
Ink etched across his chest—dark lines against skin.
My gaze lingered a second too long.
He followed my line of sight and glanced down at his own chest. "Are you wondering what this tattoo means?" he asked.
I walked to my usual spot at the study desk and sat across from him—aligned, but not quite facing him. "No," I said, as if his tattoo hadn't caught my attention at all.
He smirked.
He told me anyway.
"I got this when I was in my second year of college," he said. His tone shifted—still casual, but thinner around the edges. "That was my darkest time. Everything was falling apart. Fast."
I did not interrupt.
"My mom died," he continued, his tone almost casual. "Then I found out my ex-girlfriend was cheating on me. My dad started hating me for not taking the course he wanted—business, of course. I nearly landed in jail after a fight at a billiard place." He gave a small shrug. "And... a few other things, I guess."
He said it like he was listing groceries.
I blinked once. "Wow. That's... a lot," I said.
It sounded inadequate the second it left my mouth.
But I did not know how to do this.
I was not built for comforting speeches. I never had stable friends. Never had anyone lean on me emotionally. People leaned on me academically. Logistically. Practically.
I could solve your project. I could fix your presentation. I could rewrite your code.
But your grief?
I had no manual for that.
"Yeah," he said, shifting as his gaze drifted to the ceiling. "It was a lot." A pause. "There was a point I thought about just driving—fast enough to end it."
He paused.
"I kind of wish I did."
He smirked after saying it, like it was a joke.
I did not react.
I kept my face neutral. Steady. Controlled.
Inside, something tightened.
He continued more quietly, "I didn't know what to do with my life. I felt lost. Completely lost. So I decided to get another tattoo. A compass tells you direction, right?"
He tapped lightly over the ink.
"But mine, as you can see, the needle is broken."
The room went still.
Even the breeze felt quieter.
"Still lost?" I asked.
He chuckled under his breath. His eyes drifted back to the ceiling. He closed them for a moment, then opened them slowly.
"Yeah," he said. "Still lost. Unless someone guides me to the right path."
This time, when he looked at me, the grin was gone—no teasing, no deflection—just something direct and unmistakably serious, as if the air between us had quietly thickened.
"Well," I said, more measured than light, "if what you're lacking is direction, then relying on me would be inefficient. I don't navigate people—I follow systems. And you don't seem like something that can be mapped that easily."
He laughed, rubbing the back of his forehead. The tension cracked just enough to breathe.
"But thanks for sharing," I added. "Even though I wasn't asking."
"We're partners," he said. "We should know at least something about each other."
I frowned.
"Partners academically," I corrected. "It's just one unit. One semester. After that, we go our separate ways."
"I don't think so," he said.
I narrowed my eyes. "What does that mean?"
He smiled faintly. "Nothing."
I did not like that answer.
"Anyway," he continued, shifting onto his side so he was facing me fully now, "tell me something about you."
I stiffened.
"About me?"
"Yeah. Anything. Something you've never told anyone else."
I hesitated. "I'm not good at this."
"That's fine," he said. "Just try."
He studied me in a way that made me uncomfortable.
Too observant.
"You know," he continued, "I feel like you're too independent."
I blinked.
"What?"
"I've seen how our classmates treat you," he said. "They ask for help with projects, assignments, activities. You help them immediately. No hesitation."
He tilted his head slightly.
"But they only notice you when they need something. If they don't need help? You're invisible."
My jaw tightened.
So he had been watching.
"I've never seen you ask anyone for help," he continued. "Not once. And I've only been with you a few days."
I looked away.
"I just don't like bothering people," I said. "I know what that feels like. So I don't do it. I'd rather help than ask."
He shook his head slowly.
"You should ask me for help sometimes," he said.
I looked back at him. "Help? With what exactly?"
"If you don't have enough allowance," he said, suddenly serious, "if you forget your laptop, borrow mine. If you need someone to talk to. I don't know, anything. Just ask."
He sounded almost annoyed.
I sighed.
"If I can handle something on my own," I said evenly, "I will. That's it."
He watched me for a long moment.
"Someday," Jace said quietly, "you're going to need my help."
I leaned back in my chair and smirked.
"Well," I replied, "keep waiting."
He smiled, but this time it wasn't teasing or playful—there was a quiet certainty in it, as if he understood something I didn't. And for the first time, I wasn't sure who was actually lost.
"But it's strange," he said, shifting slightly on my bed, one arm tucked behind his head as if this were his room and not mine. "I know people who like being alone. They're cold. They hate the world. But you don't. You are just a bit serious, that's it.
I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms. The morning light filtering through the window softened the edges of his face, which was unfair. People like him should not be allowed to look reflective.
"It's for my peace of mind," I replied. "I'm not heartless. I can be approachable. I just prefer listening over speaking."
I paused, then added before I could stop myself, "You're just the only one who makes me talk this much."
His brows lifted.
"Is that a good thing?" he asked.
"No," I answered flatly. "But you're not that bad either."
He frowned slightly. "What does that mean?"
I hesitated, then decided to be honest.
"I thought you were a bully," I said. "A psychopath. A delinquent who makes his own rules."
He opened his mouth to object, but I continued.
"Well... you do make your own rules," I admitted. "But after knowing you for a while, you're not exactly what I thought."
He went quiet.
"You're wrong," he said.
I blinked. "What?"
"I am all of that," he replied.
"Really?"
He shifted, propping himself up on his elbows now, the broken compass on his chest catching the light again.
"I just li—"
"Onyx! Are you awake already? Breakfast is ready. Tell your friend to eat with us!"
My father's voice cut cleanly through the moment from outside my door, snapping the tension like a pulled thread and leaving a sudden, hollow silence between us.
I turned to Jace.
He was grinning—no, beaming—like whatever had been building a second ago hadn't been interrupted at all.
What was he about to say?
"You heard that," he said. "Your Pa prepared breakfast for me too."
I exhaled in defeat.
"Get up," I muttered. "And put your shirt back on. At least pretend to have manners."
"Okay, Boss," he said cheerfully, already reaching for his shirt.
End of Chapter 11