The city was draped in the damp chill of evening, as if someone had thrown a heavy, wet blanket over it. November gripped my shoulders with icy fingers, its cold breath seeping into my very soul. The rain had stopped ten minutes ago, but that didn’t make things any easier—my jacket was soaked through, my boots squelched with every step, and there was still no word about my scholarship. This was the third address in the last hour. My legs ached, my hands trembled, but there was no turning back—this side gig was my only shot at staying afloat.
I pulled my hood down lower, as if it could shield me not just from the rain but from the entire world, and quickened my pace.
In my hands, I clutched a bag with the restaurant’s logo, while the screen of my phone taunted me with a glaring red timer—six minutes late. Six! But for a typical rich kid, judging by the condescending tone in his texts, this was probably a tragedy of cosmic proportions.
The building turned out to be a sleek new high-rise—sterile, glassy, and alien. I punched in the code I’d barely managed to read on the fly and stepped into the warm lobby. The elevator glided smoothly to the seventh floor, while in my head, I was already mapping out the route to my next delivery, like a puzzle that never quite comes together.
The door swung open almost immediately after my knock. There he stood—barefoot, in a dark T-shirt and sweatpants. Messy blond hair, tired, slightly cold brown eyes—he scanned me from head to toe. Displeasure was written all over his face. And something else. A calm, predatory indifference. Dangerously calm.
“You’re late. Six minutes,” he said, skipping any “good evening” and not even bothering to look me in the eye. His gaze was glued to his phone. His tone was like a prosecutor’s. As if I’d delivered not his dinner, but a death sentence.
“Thanks, Captain Obvious,” I wanted to hiss. But instead, I just handed over the bag. My fingers were numb, my jaw clenched. And that tone of his… so calm, with a hint of disdain—it made my blood start to simmer.
“Traffic. Rain. The roads were a nightmare,” I explained, trying to keep my voice steady.
“You work in delivery,” he said, as if that automatically made me some all-knowing goddess of logistics. He took the bag carefully, barely brushing my hand, and I yanked it back instantly. Not out of embarrassment—out of a desperate need to end this conversation as fast as possible. “Shouldn’t you account for stuff like that?”
His arrogance dripped from every word. Direct, cold, shameless.
“And can’t you just heat up your own dinner if it’s such a tragedy for you?” I snapped, unable to hold back.
He didn’t reply. But his gaze turned even colder. Like ice down my spine.
“You know, I could. But then I wouldn’t be paying for a service. If you can’t handle it, don’t do the job.”
I took a step forward. My wet clothes clung to my skin, and my heart pounded in my throat.
“And you’re just another spoiled rich kid who thinks the world should bow down because you’ve got money. Want perfect service? Hire a personal chef. Or come down from your high horse and remember that outside your door are real people. Tired, soaked to the bone, with wet boots. And they’re trying, even if you don’t notice.”
He stayed silent. Didn’t look away. Just pressed his lips together again.
“I just wanted a normal evening, not a scene at my doorstep,” he said quietly.
“And I just wanted to drop off your order and not stand outside your building, drenched to the skin,” I shot back. I turned to leave, not waiting for a thank you or a tip.
His voice caught up with me as I reached the hallway:
“Nobody asked how you’re feeling. This is just a job.”
I stopped dead. Those words hit like a punch to the gut. Sharp, painful.
“Oh, I’ll remember that,” I threw over my shoulder without turning around. “And you’re gonna regret saying that today.”
Clenching my fists in my pockets, I headed for the elevator. A bitter sting rose in my throat, familiar and uncomfortable. No time for weakness.
In this city, you don’t survive if you let your emotions get the better of you. Especially when the client is a smug rich kid with cologne that still lingers in my nose and a fancy apartment in the heart of downtown.