LIKE LOVE OBSESSION

The rooftop door creaked open, and the faint scent of smoke drifted toward me, carried by the crisp morning air. My eyes locked on the silhouette of Sinister, his figure framed by the endless blue sky. With his back turned to me, he lifted a cigarette to his lips, the ember glowing faintly in the sunlight.

He didn't turn around fully, just enough to glance over his shoulder when he heard me. Then, as if I were no more than a passing breeze, he continued smoking.

"Sinister?" I called, hesitating. "Why did you do that?"

He exhaled a slow plume of smoke, his voice calm, almost detached. "Do what?"

I took a step closer, my frustration bubbling to the surface. "I heard you've been investigating Megan. But why didn't you tell me?"

Finally, he spoke, his tone quieter, almost like a sigh. "You were suspecting me, weren't you?"

I froze. His words cut deep, hitting a nerve I didn't realize was so raw. When I didn't reply, he continued, his voice carrying a tinge of something I couldn't quite place—resignation, perhaps.

"That's why I didn't tell you. It's easier this way. If you find the truth on your own, good. If you don't, well..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "It's not my problem anymore."

"That's so irresponsible!" I snapped, unable to hold back. "Why didn't you try to explain yourself? Why do you always make me the bad person—accusing you of things without even knowing the full story?"

I didn't mean for the words to sound so harsh, but they spilled out anyway.

"Why should I?" he countered, his voice soft yet firm.

I stared at him, caught off guard by the weight of his words.

"You know, Grey," he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips, "you sound just like Mom."

The casual remark stung in a way I couldn't quite explain. But I wasn't here for cryptic comments. I needed answers.

"Why did you help me, then?" I pressed. "You're making me feel guilty now."

At my words, he stubbed out his cigarette with deliberate care, then turned to face me fully for the first time. His hands slid into his pockets as he walked toward me, closing the space between us.

He stopped just inches away, his gaze steady and unflinching.

I held my breath, unsure of what he would say or do. Then, without a word, he stepped past me.

Turning, I saw him pick up a plastic bag from the bench nearby. He walked back, holding the bag out in front of me.

Curiosity got the better of me, and I peeked inside. My eyes widened. "Strawberry milk?"

The bag was filled with cartons of the drink. The sight was so absurd that for a moment, I forgot what I was upset about.

I glanced up at him, searching his face for an explanation.

"So, it was you? The locker?" I asked, piecing the clues together.

His lips twitched into a faint smirk. "Last time, in the alleyway... you called me your friend," he said softly, his voice carrying a rare vulnerability. "Weird. The memory keeps coming back to me."

He stepped closer, and the scent of cologne and cigarettes hit me—sharp, intoxicating, and uniquely him.

"I wanted to be close to you," he admitted.

His words made my heart twist painfully, a mix of guilt and something else I didn't want to name.

"I'm sorry, Sinister," I whispered, my voice trembling. "For accusing you, for believing someone else without asking you... I'm sorry for everything."

His expression flickered with surprise, then unease as tears began to spill down my cheeks.

"Hey, are you crying?" he asked, panicked. "Listen, I'm not good at this—comforting people and all that."

I tried to choke back a sob, but it only made the tears flow harder.

"Please, stop crying," he said, his tone awkward and desperate.

Then, with a hesitance that was almost endearing, he reached out and placed his hand on my cheek. His touch was warm, steady, and completely unexpected.

"I'm really okay," he said, his thumb brushing away a tear. "I wasn't hurt, so please don't cry. I don't know how to handle this."

I let out a shaky laugh through my tears. "You're terrible at this."

He stepped back slightly, pressing his hands together in a mock prayer. "Okay, okay. You win. Tell me what I need to do to make this better. Teach me how to be your friend."

The earnestness in his eyes caught me off guard. For all his arrogance and mystery, there was a sincerity to his words that I couldn't ignore.

I sat at my desk, absently twirling a pencil between my fingers. For some reason, my thoughts kept circling back to Sinister. There was something about him—hidden beneath his usual arrogance—that intrigued me. What feelings was he masking with his cutting words and aloof demeanor?

And then, of course, there was the mystery of his life. He is the heir of some wealthy family, by his mannerisms and the occasional slips in his words. But I couldn't help but wonder if there were wounds beneath that polished exterior, wounds no one else could see.

"Stop it, Grace," I muttered under my breath, shaking my head. With so much going on, why was I wasting time thinking about him?

The day passed in a blur until the end of classes, when our homeroom teacher swept into the room with a stack of papers in her arms.

"You all know what this is," she said, smiling. "Midterm reports! Come up when I call your names. But before that, I have some exciting news to share: once again, our class holds the top two graders in the entire school!"

A murmur rippled through the room, a mix of admiration and envy.

"Again?" I thought, recalling what Sophia had once told me—how she and Sinister always battled it out for the top spot. All eyes turned toward them, the atmosphere charged with anticipation.

"Sinister Romanov and Sophia Windsor," the teacher announced, her smile widening. "Excellent work, you two."

The class erupted in polite applause, though some claps sounded more like reluctant taps on desks.

I glanced at Sophia, who was glowing with pride, then at Sinister, who looked as indifferent as ever. He barely acknowledged the teacher's praise, his expression unreadable as he casually flipped through a book on his desk.

Once the teacher left, Sophia turned to me with a teasing grin. "Aww, Grace, you're so lucky. You don't have to worry about a report from the last midterm."

I chuckled awkwardly, focusing on packing my bag.

We were just leaving the room when I froze. "Oh no," I muttered. "I left my purse in the classroom. You go ahead—I'll catch up."

Hurrying back, I pushed open the door and stopped in my tracks.

Sophia was standing near Sinister, who was sitting on one of the desks. He looked lost in thought, staring out the window until Sophia spoke.

"Congrats, Sinister," she said, her voice unusually soft.

He turned to her slowly, his gaze sharp and almost dismissive. After a pause, his lips curved into a faint, crooked smile.

"Oh, it's you. Sophia, right? Grace's friend?" His tone was polite but distant, as if her presence barely registered. "Thanks."

Before Sophia could reply, he grabbed his bag and walked toward the door.

I stepped aside quickly, holding my breath until he disappeared down the hall. Sophia stood there for a moment, watching him leave, a strange expression flickering across her face.

I didn't say a word as I slipped out of the room, unsure of how I felt about what I'd just seen.

As I reached for my phone to text Sophia, it buzzed in my hand. A message from Sinister popped up on the screen.

"Marketing, Party, and PR by Flyra Rosher. Don't forget to bring this book."

I blinked at the abruptness of his message.

Yes, sir! Following your orders :P

I typed back with a grin, expecting him to ignore my joke, but his reply came almost instantly.

It's not an order. I'm simply asking.

I stared at the message, his words somehow carrying a warmth that wasn't there in person. For a moment, I could almost see the faint vulnerability beneath his stoic exterior, the side of him I glimpsed on the rooftop.

Why did he make me feel this way?

Why did I keep thinking about him?

Shaking off the thoughts, I tucked my phone into my pocket and made my way to the library, the weight of unanswered questions lingering in my chest.