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Leila almost missed him.
It took her a second longer than it should have, standing halfway down the aisle of the bus, one hand gripping the overhead rail as the doors hissed shut behind her. Her eyes skimmed over unfamiliar faces—an elderly couple, a student with headphones in, a woman scrolling through her phone—before landing, unexpectedly, on someone she knew.
Julius Kingsley sat by the window near the back.
For a moment, Leila just stared.
He looked out of place in a way she couldn’t quite name. No uniform, no insignia, no immaculate presentation drilled into him by the academy. He wore dark civilian clothes, neat but unremarkable, with a black digital watch attached to his wrist. His posture straight even as the bus lurched forward. A black eyepatch covered his left eye, the strap disappearing into his hair. He wasn’t reading, wasn’t listening to music, wasn’t doing anything—just staring out the window like he was watching something far away rather than the passing streets.
She hesitated. Kingsley wasn’t exactly known for being approachable. At school, he spoke only when necessary and not a word more. Efficient. Cold. Distant enough that even the most social people stopped trying after a while.
But there were no other empty seats nearby.
Leila toke a deep breath before and slid into the seat beside him.
The bus jerked forward again. Kingsley didn’t react immediately. It took a few seconds before his visible eye shifted toward her, assessing, recognizing.
“Malcal,” he said.
No greeting. Just her name.
“Kingsley,” she replied, trying to keep it light and friendly. “Didn’t expect to run into you here.”
“I could say the same.”
His voice was quiet, even, giving nothing away. He turned his gaze back to the window as if the conversation were already over.
Leila resisted the urge to sigh.
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. The eyepatch caught her attention more than she wanted it to. At the academy, it had blended into the image everyone had of him—another sharp edge, another reason to keep distance. Here, stripped of context, it felt more personal. Like something he carried rather than displayed.
“So,” she tried again, “summer break treating you well?”
A pause.
“It’s… tolerable.”
That was it.
She smiled faintly to herself. “High praise.”
He didn’t respond.
The bus rolled on, sunlight flickering through the windows. Leila shifted in her seat, suddenly aware of how quiet it was between them. Not an uncomfortable silence exactly—Kingsley seemed perfectly at home in it—but one that made her feel like she was intruding.
Still, curiosity got the better of her.
“I didn’t realize you lived around here,” she said.
“I don’t. It’s kinda complica-“
He paused
“Not permanently.”
“Visiting?” she asked.
“Something like that.”
Of course it was.
Leila leaned back, studying the ceiling for a second. He wasn’t being rude. Just closed. Like a door that only opened when absolutely necessary.
She tried a different angle.
“You look different,” she said.
That got his attention. His eye flicked toward her, sharp.
“Different how?” he asked.
“Less… intimidating,” she finished, choosing her words carefully. “Without the uniform, I mean.”
If she expected him to bristle, he didn’t. He simply looked away again.
“That’s unfortunate,” he said flatly.
She laughed before she could stop herself. “You really enjoy that reputation, don’t you?”
“It’s efficient.”
Leila shook her head, amused despite herself. “You know, normal people don’t think like that.”
“I’m aware.”
The bus slowed at a stop. A few passengers got off. Kingsley stayed where he was, gaze fixed ahead. Leila noticed then how still he was—no restless movements, no idle habits. Like he was conserving energy.
“Do you ever relax?” she asked, half-joking.
He didn’t answer right away.
“I don’t see the point,” he said eventually.
She turned toward him fully now. “You’re on summer break. There’s nothing to prepare for. No evaluations. No instructors.”
“There’s always something to prepare for.”
That answer felt heavier than it should have.
Leila softened her tone. “You don’t have to be ‘Kingsley the Strategist’ all the time, you know.”
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
“That’s not a role I can turn off,” he said.
She didn’t push. Instead, she looked out the window, letting the city fill the space between them. For a while, neither of them spoke.
Then she noticed the street signs.
“…You’re getting off at Central Terrace, aren’t you?”
He glanced at her, surprised. “Yes.”
A smile tugged at her lips. “Me too.”
That earned her another long look. Not cold this time—just curious.
The bus rattled on toward their shared stop, the space between them still careful, still distant, but no longer empty. Leila leaned back in her seat, content to let the silence exist for now.
She had time.
And for the first time, she had the sense that Julius Kingsley—quiet, closed-off, guarded—might be someone worth patiently figuring out.
The bus slowed with a tired groan, brakes squealing as it pulled up to the curb. The digital display flickered: Central Terrace.
Leila stood, slipping her bag over her shoulder. Julius followed a second later, smooth and unhurried, like he’d already known she would get off here. They moved down the aisle together, close enough that she was aware of his presence without looking.
Outside, the air was warmer. Late-afternoon heat clung to the pavement, softened by the shade of low trees lining the street. The bus pulled away behind them, leaving an awkward pocket of silence in its wake.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
“Well,” Leila said, turning slightly toward him, “this is where I usually disappear.”
Kingsley inclined his head. “Then this is where we part ways.”
He sounded perfectly neutral about it. Like that was the natural conclusion.
Leila hesitated. She hadn’t planned this far ahead—hadn’t expected to see him at all, much less end up standing beside him on a quiet street with nowhere urgent to be.
She glanced down the road. A café sat on the corner, its windows open, muted chatter spilling out along with the smell of coffee.
“…Do you drink caffeine?” she asked.
Julius looked at her, clearly caught off guard by the question. “Yes.”
“That was a little too fast,” she said. “You didn’t even ask why.”
“I assumed,” he replied, “that you were about to invite me somewhere.”
She smiled despite herself. “You’re very perceptive.”
“I try to be.”
She gestured toward the café. “I was going to get something cold. You don’t have to join me. I just—” She paused, then decided honesty was simpler. “I’m curious.”
“About what.”
“About how you are,” she said, then added quickly, “outside of school.”
He studied her for a long second. His expression didn’t change, but something in his eye sharpened.
“You’ll be disappointed,” he said.
“Maybe,” she replied. “But I think I’ll survive.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
Then, with a faint exhale that might have been resignation, Julius turned toward the café.
The café was quieter than Leila expected.
Not silent—just subdued, like everyone inside had collectively agreed not to raise their voices too much. The windows were open, letting in warm air and the distant noise of traffic. Somewhere behind the counter, a machine hissed, followed by the dull clink of ceramic.
Julius paused just inside the doorway, scanning the room with that same careful attention he gave everything else. It wasn’t paranoia exactly. It was habit. Leila waited until his gaze settled before moving toward an empty table near the window.
“Here okay?” she asked.
He nodded once and took the chair opposite her. He sat straight, hands resting loosely on the table, eyes flicking briefly toward the door before returning to her. It was subtle, but she noticed. She always noticed things like that.
They ordered at the counter—quickly, efficiently. Julius didn’t hesitate over the menu, didn’t ask questions. When they returned to the table, there was nothing to do but wait
She cleared her throat. “So,” she said. “This is already more time than I’ve ever spent with you outside of a classroom.”
“Yes.”
She smiled thinly. “You don’t have to agree with me that fast.”
“I wasn’t agreeing,” he said. “I was confirming.”
Of course.
She leaned back slightly. “Do you always talk like that?”
“Like what.”
“Like every sentence is a report.”
He looked at her for a moment, then away. “It prevents misunderstandings.”
“Or creates them,” she said. “People assume you don’t care.”
“That’s usually acceptable.”
She studied him. “Usually?”
He didn’t answer.
The silence stretched. Not uncomfortable—just… present. Leila shifted in her seat, tapping her fingers lightly against the table.
“You’re quieter than I thought you’d be,” she said.
“That’s interesting,” he replied. “Most people assume the opposite.”
“They don’t know you,” she said without thinking.
That earned her a look—brief, sharp, unreadable.
“No,” he said. “They don’t.”
She felt like she’d crossed some invisible line, but instead of pulling back, she leaned into it.
“Is it different for you?” she asked. “Being away from the academy?”
“Yes.”
Just one word.
She waited. When it became clear he wasn’t going to elaborate, she sighed softly. “You’re really making me work for this.”
“You’re not required to.”
“I know,” she said. “I want to.”
That stopped him.
He looked at her again, this time longer, as if reassessing a calculation. Leila met his gaze, steady. She wasn’t challenging him. Just… staying.
After a moment, his attention drifted downward—to her bag, resting against the chair leg.
Something in his expression changed.
“Is that a chess book?” he asked.
She blinked, surprised. “What?”
He gestured subtly with his chin. “in your bag.”
She glanced down. Sure enough, the corner of an old, battered book peeked out—creased, familiar.
“Oh,” she said, a little embarrassed. “Yeah. I didn’t even realize I brought that.”
“Do you play?” he asked.
The question was quiet. Almost careful.
She thought about it for a moment. “Not in a while.”
“Why.”
She shrugged. “Life got busy. I stopped enjoying it the same way.”
He seemed to crack a smile as she said those words. Add to mental note: Kingsley loves chess
Before she could continue, the barista called her name.
Leila stood. “I’ll grab them.”
“You don’t have to—”
“It’s fine,” she said. “I invited you, remember?”
She left him there, walking over to the counter to get their beverages.
When she returned, the cups were warm against her palms. She set his down first, careful not to spill. He murmured a quiet “thank you.”
They both took a sip at the same time.
Leila made a face. “I forgot how strong this place makes their coffee.”
He didn’t react. “It’s elegant.”
She laughed. “High praise again.”
This time, there was the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth. She might have imagined it, but she didn’t think so.
The presence of the drinks seemed to loosen something between them. Not much—just enough.
She took a another careful sip. Too hot still. She didn’t mind.
Across from her, Kingsley had already leaned back in his chair, one ankle resting on the opposite knee, fingers loosely wrapped around his mug. He looked uncharacteristically still, like he’d finally stopped bracing for something. The earlier tension—whatever had followed him in when they first sat down—had thinned, stretched out, but not disappeared entirely.
Leila blew gently across the surface of her drink and let her eyes wander.
The café TV was mounted high in the corner, angled just enough that you had to tilt your head to really watch it. She hadn’t noticed it earlier. It blended into the background most days, a constant presence that no one paid attention to unless something important was happening.
Something was happening now.
A football match was on.
The camera panned across a packed stadium, the crowd a blur of color and motion. Jerseys flashed across the screen, green cutting through white, then red, then back again. The commentator’s voice rose and fell with practiced excitement, muffled slightly by the café’s noise but still clear enough to follow.
Leila’s gaze lingered.
She wasn’t even sure why she cared. She wasn’t the kind of person who followed teams religiously, didn’t argue stats or scream at referees through a screen. But football had a way of pulling you in regardless—something about the rhythm of it, the way the whole world seemed to narrow down to one ball, one moment.
Someone on the screen missed a pass. The crowd groaned.
She smiled faintly without meaning to.
When she looked back down, Julius wasn’t watching the TV.
He was staring at his phone.
It had appeared in his hand so quietly she hadn’t noticed when he’d picked it up. The screen glowed against his palm, illuminating the sharp line of his jaw. He wasn’t speaking yet, just listening, his brow drawn slightly together, thumb hovering near the edge of the screen like he was deciding whether to say something or not.
Then he spoke.
“Yeah,” he said, low and measured. “I hear you.”
Leila paused mid-sip.
He turned his head just enough that she could see his profile clearly now. Whatever was being said on the other end of the call had his full attention. The easy looseness he’d had moments ago was gone, replaced by something quieter, more inward.
She set her cup down slowly.
The match continued behind her, the commentator raising his voice as a player sprinted down the wing. Somewhere in the café, a spoon clinked against porcelain. A couple at the next table laughed softly.
Kingsley leaned forward, resting his elbow on the table, fingers pressing lightly against his temple.
“Slow down,” he said gently. “You’re talking too fast.”
There was a pause.
His shoulders eased.
“Okay. Okay, that’s good. That’s really good, actually.”
Leila watched him carefully now.
She’d seen him tense before—jaw tight, eyes guarded, words clipped like he didn’t want to give anything away. This was different. As the call went on, the tightness melted from his face. The line between his brows smoothed out. His mouth curved, just slightly at first, like he was trying not to smile too much.
Then he did smile.
It wasn’t big or flashy. It didn’t reach the point of laughter. It was small and real, the kind that happened when you forgot you were being watched.
Leila felt something shift in her chest.
“Yeah,” Julius said, his voice warmer now. “I knew you could do it.”
Another pause.
He let out a quiet breath through his nose, half a laugh. “No, I’m serious. I’m proud of you.”
Whatever was being said on the other end made his smile widen, just a little. His eyes softened in a way Leila hadn’t seen before, like some internal guard had stepped aside without asking permission.
She looked away, suddenly feeling like she was intruding.
Her gaze drifted back to the TV. The match had grown more intense. A foul had been called. Players clustered around the referee, gesturing wildly. The crowd roared its displeasure, sound spilling faintly into the café.
She barely registered it.
When Julius finally ended the call, he didn’t put his phone down right away. He stared at the darkened screen for a moment, thumb brushing across it absently, like he was still holding onto the echo of the conversation.
Then he looked up.
Leila was already watching him with curious eyes.
“Everything okay?” she asked.
He blinked, like he’d forgotten where he was for a second. Then he nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, everything’s fine.”
She tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing just a touch. “You don’t usually smile like that.”
He huffed. “Did I smile?”
“Yes.”
He went silent for a moment.
She laughed softly. “Who was that?”
Kingsley picked up his mug again, rotating it slowly between his palms. The steam had mostly faded now. He took a sip, then another, like he was buying time.
“My sister,” he said.
Leila stilled. Kingley has a freaking sister?
“Oh.”
He glanced up at her, gauging her reaction. When he didn’t see any awkwardness—or pity, or forced curiosity—his shoulders relaxed again.
“Didn’t know you had a sister,” she said.
“Most people don’t.”
“Older or younger?”
“Younger. By 3 years, actually.”
“She okay?” Leila asked.
Julius nodded. “Yeah. Better than okay. She just… had something she wanted to tell me.”
Leila’s eyebrows lifted. “ok.” She countinous to sip her tea.
Leila wrapped her hands around her cup again. “You sound really close.”
“We are,” he said simply. “Had to be.”
She didn’t press. She could hear it in his tone—the weight behind the words, the history he wasn’t spelling out. Some stories didn’t need details to feel heavy.
The TV erupted again behind her as someone scored. A goal. The crowd’s roar broke through the café’s hum, loud enough that a few heads turned instinctively toward the screen.
Leila glanced up just in time to see players piling onto one another, jerseys tugged, faces lit up with adrenaline and joy.
Kingsley followed her gaze. “You watching the match?”
“Not really,” she admitted. “It just caught my eye.”
“Same,” he said. “I don’t even know who’s playing.”
She smiled. “Fake fan.”
“Completely.”
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, sipping their drinks, letting the noise wash over them. The café felt smaller now, more intimate, like the rest of the world had politely stepped back.
Leila studied him again, more openly this time.
It was strange—how one phone call had shifted something about him. He looked lighter, less coiled. Like whatever he carried on his shoulders wasn’t all-consuming, at least not right now.
“She must mean a lot to you,” she said quietly.
He didn’t deflect this time.
“She’s the reason I don’t screw up as much as I could,” he said. “Or… as much as I want to sometimes.”
Leila nodded slowly. “That’s a good reason.”
“Yeah,” he agreed. “She keeps me honest.”
Another pause.
“She what I was up to,” he added.
Leila raised an eyebrow. “For real? What did you tell her?”
He said “I just told her I had to meet someone. She just heard me say I was meeting someone and wouldn’t shut up until she knew who.”
Leila shook her head, smiling despite herself. “And what did you tell her?”
“That you’re annoying.”
“Wow.”
“And that you’re… easy to talk to.”
Her smile softened.
“That’s the nicest insult I’ve ever received.”
He grinned. “I’m talented like that.”
The match on the TV edged toward halftime. The commentator’s voice slowed, filling space with analysis and speculation. Outside, the light had begun to shift, afternoon stretching toward evening.
Leila leaned back slightly in her chair.
It was strange how moments like this crept up on you. No dramatic declarations. No sudden realizations. Just a football match you weren’t watching, a phone call you overheard, and the quiet understanding that the person across from you was more layered than you’d thought.
She lifted her cup again, took another sip.
Julius watched her over the rim of his mug, expression thoughtful.
“Hey,” he said. “Thanks.”
“For what?”
“For not making it weird.”
She shrugged. “It wasn’t weird.”
“Usually is,” he said.
“Well,” she replied lightly, “your sister sounds cool.”
He smiled again—soft, genuine.
“She is the best thing in the world.”
They didn’t notice the time passing until it was already past it.
The café had thinned out slowly, not all at once. Tables emptied in stages—first the loud groups, then the couples who lingered like they were waiting for a sign to leave, and finally the regulars who treated time like a suggestion. The light outside the windows had shifted almost imperceptibly, the bright afternoon giving way to something amber and tired.
Leila was the one who noticed the clock first.
She glanced at it mid-sip, eyes widening just slightly before she smoothed her expression again. Fifteen minutes past when she’d told herself she should leave. Not late enough to panic. Late enough to acknowledge.
“We should probably get going,” she said, setting her cup down.
Across from her, Julius followed her gaze to the clock and let out a quiet breath. “Yeah. You’re right.”
Neither of them moved immediately.
There was that brief, awkward pause—the kind that always came at the end of something good, when both people were trying to decide whether to stretch it or respect it.
Eventually, Julius stood up. Leila gathered her bag, slipping the strap over her shoulder. They exchanged a look that said that was nice without either of them needing to say it out loud.
The door chimed softly as they stepped outside.
Evening had fully settled in. The sky was streaked with dusky blues and faint orange near the horizon, the sun already dipping behind the buildings. Streetlights flickered on one by one, casting warm pools of light onto the pavement. The air had cooled just enough to be noticeable, brushing against Leila’s skin like a reminder that the day was done.
They started walking, falling into step without thinking about it.
For a while, they talked about nothing in particular—small things, easy things. The match from the café TV. A passing comment about the smell of roasted corn from a nearby stall. The way the city sounded different at this hour, less frantic, more honest.
Then Julius slowed slightly, hands tucked into his pockets.
“You know,” he said, tone casual but not careless, “you call me unapproachable.”
Leila glanced at him. “I don’t call you unapproachable.”
“You heavily imply it.”
She smiled. “Fine. I heavily imply it.”
He huffed a laugh. “But I never see you with anyone either. Not really. Apart from that Clement girl.”
Her smile faded—not sharply, not dramatically. Just enough.
“That’s different,” she said.
“How so?”
She hesitated, eyes forward, watching the way the streetlights stretched long shadows across the road. “It’s complicated.”
Julius nodded slowly, accepting the answer for what it was—and what it wasn’t. “Funny,” he said. “That’s usually my line.”
They walked a few more steps in silence, shoes scuffing softly against the pavement.
“People think being alone means you’re closed off,” he added. “Sometimes it just means you’re… selective.”
Leila looked at him then. “Is that what you are?”
“Selective?” He considered it. “Yeah. I think so.”
She hummed thoughtfully. “That tracks.”
He smiled faintly, but there was something else beneath it now. Something more serious, more deliberate.
“Leila,” he said.
She felt the shift immediately. The way her name sounded different when spoken with intent.
“Yes?”
“There’s something I should probably say before we part ways.”
Her pulse ticked up, just a notch. “Okay.”
He stopped walking.
She did too.
They stood under a streetlight that buzzed faintly overhead, its glow softening the sharp edges of his face. For a moment, he looked like he was deciding which version of the truth to offer her.
“I know you’re Britannian,” he said finally. “Or… that you were.”
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t step back. Her face stayed composed, but her fingers curled slowly around the strap of her bag.
“How?” she asked quietly.
She waited for judgment. For curiosity sharpened into something invasive. For pity, or suspicion, or that subtle distancing she’d grown used to.
It didn’t come.
Instead, Julius said, “I fled the empire too.”
Her head snapped up. “You—?”
“With my sister,” he added. “A long time ago.”
The words landed heavy between them, reshaping the air.
“You’re Britannian,” she said.
“Former,” he corrected gently. “Same as you.”
She searched his face, looking for cracks. Lies. Anything. But all she found was truth, worn smooth by time.
“Why?” she asked.
His mouth curved—not into a smile, exactly, but something close. Something tired.
“That,” he said, “is a story for another day.”
She studied him for a moment longer, then nodded. “Fair enough.”
They started walking again, slower now, conversation quieter, more careful. The city seemed to lean in around them, as if listening.
Eventually, they reached the intersection where their paths split.
Leila stopped.
“This is me,” she said.
Julius nodded. “Figured.”
They stood there again, that same reluctance hovering between them, but this time it felt heavier—weighted with what had been shared.
As Leila turned to go, Julius cleared his throat.
“Hey. Leila?”
She looked back.
“Can I get your number?”
She blinked, then smiled. Not a guarded smile. Not a polite one. A real one, warm and unforced.
“Yeah,” she said. “You can.”
She took his phone, fingers brushing his briefly as she typed. The moment lingered just a second longer than necessary.
“There,” she said, handing it back.
He glanced at the screen, then up at her. “I’ll try not to misuse this power.”
“Good luck with that.”
She stepped back, lifting a hand in a small wave. “Bye, Julius.”
He shook his head slightly, smiling. “See you later.”
Something about the way he said it made her believe him.
She turned and walked away, not looking back this time—but smiling all the same.
Later that night, steam fogged up the bathroom mirror as Leila stepped out of the shower, towel wrapped loosely around her hair. The day clung to her in fragments—coffee, conversation, streetlights, that quiet admission beneath the buzzing lamp.
She changed into her pajamas, soft fabric settling against her skin, and collapsed onto her bed with a sigh.
Her phone buzzed.
She frowned slightly, then
picked it up.
A message.
From Julius Kingsley.
Thanks for today. I didn’t realize how much I needed a normal afternoon until I had one. Sleep well, Leila.
She stared at the screen for a long moment.
Then she smiled.