Page 8 of Shadowed Whispers

“Shit, are you alright?” The concern in his voice cuts through my haze of pain, and before I can process the situation, gentle yet firm hands are on my hips. Any other day, such a bold touch would have met with fierce resistance, but there’s something in the earnestness of his action, a palpable worry that dulls my instinct to retaliate. He lifts me with surprising ease, setting me on the high counter to examine the extent of the burn, our eyes locking in a moment charged with an intensity I wasn’t prepared for.

This eye contact, under the fluorescent lights of this cramped room, reveal ocean eyes that glow with concern and something else, something deeper. The pain from the coffee spill recedes slightly, replaced by a curious flutter of a connection unexpected and unexplored. Here, atop the counter, the physical space between us has closed, and in its place, an emotional bridge begins to form, tentative yet unmistakable.

At this height, we’re level, putting him at over six feet tall. Clad in a tight white T-shirt that outlines every muscle and worn, low-slung jeans, he embodies the essence of a dream, and he’s barefoot, making him seem even more out of place. A forgotten backpack lies next to my spilled coffee cup at his feet.

“Let me look,” he murmurs, his attention shifting to the reddened skin of my stomach, the concern in his gaze softening the edges of my embarrassment and pain. It’s a vulnerability I’m not used to allowing others to see, yet in this moment, with him, it feels almost natural.

From the shadowed corner of the room, a voice, sharp with derision yet tinged with a superiority that seems to know no bounds, cuts through the tension. “Oh, delightful, placing the injured damsel upon the counter,” he muses, his words dripping with a contempt that fills the cramped space. “One would hope such... care extends to maintaining the cleanliness of this esteemed establishment.”

“Man, can’t you see she has burns?” The man before me looks over my shoulder at the desk jockey.

“And I couldn’t care less,” he replies in a dull tone, almost as though he’s trying to make his voice sound as bland as possible.

“Then at least make yourself useful and get my keys,” he grumbles while prodding at my stomach.

“Name.”

“Leo Calderwood,” he answers absentmindedly.

“How original.”

The man known to me only as Leo stiffens at the comment, his irritation palpable. He casts a brief, scathing glance over my shoulder. I can’t help but notice the way his jaw tightens and the subtle shift in his stance—a defensive posture that speaks of the underlying friction between them.

“Yeah, and who the fuck are you?” Leo’s hands clench on my thighs.

“Dorian. Second year,” the voice continues, a smirk audible in his tone as he steps into the light, revealing a meticulously tailored appearance that contrasts sharply with Leo’s casual demeanor. Dorian’s presence commands attention—not just for the aura of unearned entitlement that clings to him, but for the keen intelligence that gleams in his eyes, marking him as an adversary.

“Your full name,” Dorian repeats, seemingly taking pleasure in the monotone delivery.

“Leonardo Calderwood. Third year.” Dismissing the pest, Leo looks at me. “Slight burns on your stomach, but you look like you’ll heal easily enough.”

“Ah, but I’m still out a cup of coffee.” My eyes roll over him. He doesn’t look my age. In fact, he looks like a grown-ass man with a beard growing in who shaved his head. Actually, I hate his shaved head. It doesn’t suit him, yet I’ve only just met the man.

His lips twitch, and those ocean eyes lock on mine. “Leo.”

“Frankie,” I reply. “I’d shake your hand, but it looks like we’ve already moved onto third base.”

“Get her off there,” the pest snaps, slapping keys down beside me. “I don’t wish to wipe her juices off my sanitized counter.”

“Ah, one should be so lucky.” Leo lifts me up before setting me down on my own two feet. “I know I’d be lucky.”

He winks and then smiles at me, flashing me dimples as though he damn well knows they’d disarm me, and they do. I’m a slut for dimples.

“Disgusting,” the pest mutters.

“Oh, now what a shame.” Leo looks over my head. “I love the taste of an aroused woman. Maybe you’re so cranky because you’ve never had the pleasure of tasting a woman who is actually into you.”

I bite back a laugh and lean down to grab my backpack to get a clean shirt.

“How dare you?” the pest growls. “Do you have any idea who I?—”

“Don’t care.” Leo grabs his keys and turns to me. “Do you know where CT38 is?”

“Sure do.” I grab a new top and tug it over my sports bra, then pick up the wet one. Now, I’m also sticky. Shit, I hate feeling sticky. “I’m heading there right now.”

“I’ll grab you a fresh cup of coffee on the way,” Leo promises. “You might have to lead me to the mess hall.”

“Good, please leave,” the pest tacks on. We both ignore him as we step out of the office.

---