Kalila Miracle Hart

Sumer, Akira, and I were busy sorting through the art pieces that needed to be stored and prepared for the winning bidders to take, and we were too engrossed in the task to notice Evara returning from the stage. The loud thud of her fist slamming on the table snapped us out of our rhythm.

"What's wrong?" I asked, my brow furrowing as I turned toward her. Akira and Sumer abandoned their whatever they're doing and gather around with a little bit of panic on them.

Evara stood there, her face twisted in frustration, her shoulders tense. "Someone, just ruined my day," she muttered through gritted teeth. Akira sighed, her exasperation suggesting she'd seen this side of Evara too many times to count. Sumer, on the other hand, just chuckled softly.

"You seem to have a lot of those days," Sumer teased lightly, earning a glare from Evara.

"Anyway," Evara said sharply, waving off the subject with a dismissive gesture, "we'll talk about it later." She handed me a piece of paper, her movements brusque but efficient.

"These are the lists of winning bidders," she explained, passing me the sheet. "I'll go collect their payments, while you guys finish storing the pieces."

I shook my head, stopping her with a raised hand. "I'll handle it. You need to rest," I insisted. I could see the exhaustion creeping into her features, even if she was too stubborn to admit, plus her mood's not helping either. Evara had been running around all day, coordinating the booth, organizing the auction, and acting as the auctioneer. She'd done more than enough.

Evara hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line as if she wanted to argue, but eventually, she nodded reluctantly. "Fine," she muttered, handing over the paper completely.

"We'll continue checking the stored pieces," Akira chimed in, already moving to sort through the next batch. Her practical tone helped set the pace, and we all nodded in agreement. There was still plenty of work to divide and conquer.

Evara joined me as we set up the station for receiving payments. We laid out the necessary documents, including certificates of authenticity and ownership transfer papers, organizing everything. Her energy, despite her earlier foul mood, seemed to return slightly as she helped arrange the area.

"Let me know if you need me to step in," Evara said, giving me a glance as she stacked the last set of papers. Her tone was softer now, the earlier frustration replaced with a more focused determination.

"I've got this," I reassured her, offering a small smile. She gave a curt nod before stepping back, finally taking a moment to breathe after her hectic day.

The first piece to sell was Akira's. Watching her artwork go to a genuine admirer filled me with pride. This project had done more than showcase her talent; it had helped her step out of her shell, growing more confident with each passing day.  In fact, this whole project had shaped us all in ways I hadn't expected.

Evara had become more open, her guarded demeanor softening around the scholar students. What started as mere acquaintances had turned into genuine friendships, something I could tell she cherished even if she wouldn't say it outright. She laughed more now, even during stressful moments, and seemed to enjoy the bonds she was forming.

Then there was Sumer, who had somehow managed to become even friendlier while adopting some of Evara's bold, no-nonsense way of speaking. Whether that was a good thing or a bad thing was still up for debate, but it certainly made our group dynamics a little livelier.

Akira, the quiet, meek girl I'd first met, was no longer afraid to take up space. She spoke with conviction, her confidence shining brighter with every small accomplishment. It was a transformation that inspired me, even as I struggled to figure out my own.

And then there was me. What had I gained from all this? Sure, I could list the stress—an overwhelming, nerve-wracking kind that left me wondering how I'd survive the next day. I'd created problems for myself, no doubt about that. But despite the all the drama swirling around me, I couldn't deny that I'd grown, too. Maybe not in the ways I wanted, but in ways I needed.

I sighed, crossing my arms as I looked out at the bustling scene before me. My heartbeat still felt erratic, my mind running a hundred miles an hour. But deep down, a small part of me held onto hope. Hope that I'd figure out a way through all of this. Hope that I could survive the whirlwind my life had become and will become.

The winners of the bidding trickled in one by one, each transaction completed without a hitch. I was almost finished when I glanced at the list again, I didn't get the chance to check how much my ceramics had sold, and I hope the bidder that bought it would cherish it, after all that piece is the only good thing I had in my late childhood.

When my eyes landed on the figure next to my name, my jaw nearly hit the floor.  "Five fucking thousand dollars?!" The words burst out before I could stop them, my grip tightening on the paper. I squinted, counting the zeros twice just to be sure I wasn't hallucinating.

"Is it not enough?" a familiar voice interrupted my disbelief, smooth and laced with dry amusement.

Carcel Evander Dawson. Again?

My head snapped up, and there he was, standing in front of me with his usual air of composed confidence. I shouldn't have been surprised, but I still was.

"No, it's... it's plenty," I stammered, clutching the list like it might slip away. Why would he, of all people, pay so much for mugs?

Without missing a beat, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his card. "Here," he said, holding it out casually.

"Sorry," I replied quickly, "we don't take cards."

"Then give me your bank details," he said, his tone unbothered. "I'll transfer it to you."

I blinked at him. Calm, collected, and entirely too comfortable in this interaction—something was off. Or maybe it was just me, because my heart was hammering like I'd run a marathon.

"Why did you buy my mugs?" I manage to ask even though my voice tinged with hesitation.

His gaze shifted, sharp and unyielding as he crossed his arms. "Why are you avoiding me?"

Oh fuck.

My brain stalled. The money had blinded me so much I'd momentarily forgotten I'd been trying to avoid him. Deny it. Just deny it.

"I'm not," I lied, forcing the words out in a shaky breath.

He raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. The weight of his stare made my pulse spike.

"Look me in the eyes when you're talking, Kalila." His voice dropped, cold and precise, he sounded like he was about to snap anytime.

My palms turned clammy, and I fumbled for a distraction, grabbing my phone as if it were my escape. I quickly typed out my bank details.

"I texted you my account information," I said, forcing a casual tone. "You can send the money later."

It was a weak attempt to change the subject, but Carcel didn't budge he stood  there still glaring at me.

"You didn't answer my question." he said leaning slightly towards the table between us.

"Maybe I didn't like the question, You got a better one?" I rolled my eyes.

I'm starting to believe that Carcel is doing this on purpose. He seizes every opportunity to make me the center of attention. And after all this time, I’m still anxious and scared of getting too close to him because I know that simply having a normal conversation with him, seeing him as just a friend or a schoolmate, or even uttering his name alone could have consequences.

And perhaps, I'm the crazy one for ever considering befriending him. With his short temper and spoiled-royalty attitude, he was everything I’d normally avoid. Yet somehow, it was that very arrogance that made him frustratingly likable in ways I didn’t want to admit.

"Fine" he scowl "I just thought you wanted my address, or do you want your poor cat to die in hunger?" he said with a smirk.

“That’s why you need to learn to reply to texts, Mr. Dawson,” I snapped, holding his gaze.

“Why would I?” He paused, his brow furrowing as if genuinely puzzled. “When I can just tell you in person?”

I couldn't tell if his clueless, stupid or maybe both. A sigh escaped me before I could stop it. There was no winning against his infuriating logic. I should just tell him outright that his presence made me uncomfortable and that we needed boundaries

“Kalila!”

The voice startled me, pulling my attention away from Carcel. I turned to see Evara approaching, her arms crossed and her gaze locked on him with visible annoyance. And beside her—Marco?

A smile tugged at my lips when I saw him. Without thinking, I stepped forward and hugged him.

“So this is the guy I lost the mugs to,” Marco said, looking at Carcel. He extended a hand for a handshake, his smile polite, but Carcel didn’t even flinch. His eyes dropped to Marco’s hand as though it was something offensive.

Seriously, where are his manners?

I stepped in quickly, grabbing Marco’s hand to smooth over the awkward moment. “What are you doing here?” I asked, forcing a casual tone.

“I was just passing by,” Marco said with an awkward chuckle. But the way his gaze flicked toward Evara gave him away instantly. She looked anywhere but at me, her posture stiff with unease.

I narrowed my eyes, suspicion prickling. “What are you two hiding?” I asked, looking between them. Neither answered right away. the awkward silence stretch out even more, until Evara couldn't handle it.

“He can’t find any jobs,” she blurted out, her voice cutting through the rising tension.

My head snapped toward Marco. “What?!”

“He got kicked out for taking too much time off work, and now he’s unemployed,” Evara explained, her tone exasperated.

My glare hardened as I turned to Marco, who instinctively stepped back, raising his hands in surrender.

“Okay, everyone needs to calm down,” Marco said quickly, his voice carrying a nervous edge.

“This is calm for me, Marco,” I shot back, my voice cold. “Does Aunt know?”

He shook his head, avoiding my gaze.

Of course not.

Great. Aunt would let him slide, as always. She loved Marco too much to hold him accountable for anything. To her, he was still a kid, even when he wasn’t acting like one. She’d raise him for the rest of her life if she had to, no complaints. She’d probably raise his kids too if it came to that. But I wasn’t Aunt. I couldn’t ignore reality.

How were we supposed to survive? I didn’t have a job, Aunt couldn’t keep working three at once—she was too old for that now—and Marco needed to step up.

“I’m actually here for a job interview,” Marco said hesitantly, scratching the back of his neck.

“What?”

“They’re hiring a technical assistant in the admin office,” he confessed. “So I went in for an interview earlier.”

I blinked, struggling to process his words. “And you’re just telling me this now?”

“It’s not that big of a deal.” He crossed his arms, his voice defensive. “What’s with that reaction? Don’t you want me to be close to you?”

“No!” I protested quickly, then sighed, softening my tone. “I mean, yes, I’m glad. I’m just surprised, that’s all.”

“Good,” he said, grinning as he patted my head like I was a child. “Now I get to keep an eye on you.”

“What are you even talking about?” I muttered, kicking his shin lightly.

“Hey, ow!” he yelped, rubbing his leg.

“Anyway, don’t get ahead of yourself. We’re not even sure you’ll pass the interview,” I pointed out, folding my arms.

“Oh, don’t worry,” he said, slinging an arm around my shoulders. “I’ll pass. Trust me.” His confidence was annoyingly reassuring.

“Get off, you’re heavy,” I grumbled, trying to wriggle free.

Marco opened his mouth to tease me again, but before he could, Carcel stepped in. His hand wrapped around mine—firm, pulling me away from Marco. The gesture caught me off guard, and for a moment, the world seemed to go still.

My body stiffened as Carcel pulled me closer to him, too close that i could even smell his scent—woodsy and clean, with a subtle sharpness that felt entirely him. It was intoxicating and as I inhaled it I could feel my face heat up, it was a good thing no one can see me now because it would be so embarrassing.

then he leaned down, his breath brushing against my ear as he whispered “I’ll text you my address. Come tonight. Don’t be late.”

And just like that, he was gone, leaving me standing there, stunned.

His deep, low, commanding voice lingered, sending goosebumps racing across my skin and an unsettling chill down my spine. His dangerous.

This is why I hate good looking men.