Unscripted

chapter 3

The next evening, the city streets glistened from the earlier drizzle, reflecting the warm glow of streetlights. I pulled my hoodie tighter around me as I pushed open the café door, the comforting aroma of coffee and pastries wrapping around me. Sway and Arianna had already claimed our usual corner booth, whispering conspiratorially over a notebook. MK was slouched near the window, scrolling lazily on his phone.

And there he was—Malachi—sitting at the table we'd taken last night. Calm, composed, smirk in place, like he belonged in every space he entered.

"Right on time," he said lightly, voice casual but threaded with that teasing edge that made my chest tighten.

"I am not late," I said, sliding into the chair across from him, ignoring the damp sleeves of my hoodie.

"You might be," he murmured, leaning back in his chair, smirk faint, voice soft. "By a minute or two."

"Doesn't count," I said quickly, cheeks warming despite my best efforts.

Sway's grin stretched across the booth. "Oh, I see how it is. Barton's got you flustered."

"I am not flustered," I muttered, gripping my notebook.

Arianna tilted her head, smirking knowingly. "Uh-huh. Totally not flustered. Right."

Malachi's smirk tugged faintly at his lips. "They're just observant," he said, glancing at me. "Mostly."

I groaned, hiding behind my notebook.

For a while, the group dispersed—Sway off to take a call, Arianna scribbling notes, MK absorbed in his phone—leaving Malachi and me alone. The quiet was intimate, heavy with possibility.

"You've been quiet," he said softly, leaning back in his chair, watching me with that impossible mix of amusement and focus. "Usually, you're all over the place."

"I'm just... thinking," I murmured, twisting the corner of my notebook between my fingers.

"About me?" His smirk was subtle, teasing—but the intensity in his eyes made my stomach flip.

"Absolutely not," I said quickly.

"You're lying," he murmured, leaning just enough that our knees brushed under the table. The small contact sent a jolt of heat up my spine.

"I am not," I insisted, though my chest felt tight.

"Sure," he said softly. "But your cheeks are betraying you."

I groaned, hiding my face behind the notebook.

Later, walking home under a gentle drizzle, we ended up side by side on the quiet streets. Neither of us reached for the other, but our shoulders brushed multiple times—each accidental touch sparking an awareness I could barely contain.

When I finally shut the door behind me, my phone buzzed almost immediately.

Malachi: "You made it home safely?"

Me: "Barely. Rain tried to ruin my life. Finally quiet though."

Malachi: "Good. I was starting to worry."

Me: "...Worried?"

Malachi: "Maybe. A little. Don't get used to it."

Me: "I won't. But thanks, Barton."

Malachi: "You're welcome. Sleep well... if you can."

I stared at my phone, heart racing. Sleep wouldn't come easily—not with the memory of his shoulder brushing mine, not with the quiet weight of his gaze lingering.

A few minutes later, another buzz:

Malachi: "Also... you looked ridiculous trying to hide your blush tonight. Just saying."

I groaned, tossing my phone onto the bed. "Impossible," I muttered, hiding a small laugh.

The next day at rehearsal, the slow-burn continued. Paired with him for a scene, our hands brushed while passing props, and neither of us pulled away immediately. Each fleeting contact lingered just long enough to make my pulse spike.

"You're distracted again," he murmured during a break, leaning slightly closer. His voice was low, intimate.

"I'm not," I muttered, though I couldn't stop stealing glances at him.

"You are," he countered softly. "And I like it."

Even with the friends whispering commentary from the edges—Sway grinning mischievously, Arianna shaking her head, MK observing quietly—I felt a subtle pull toward Malachi that threaded through every movement, every glance.

During a pause, I stepped outside to get some air. The streetlights reflected on the wet pavement, and Malachi followed silently, his presence close but not imposing.

"Why'd you come out?" I asked, trying to sound casual.

"Needed a break from the chaos inside," he replied. "And... to talk to you."

"Talk to me?" I repeated, wary.

He shrugged, smirk faint but eyes serious. "Just... you. For a minute. No one else."

We walked side by side, the quiet hum of the city around us. At one point, our arms brushed lightly. I felt a spark, startling in its intensity, and I couldn't look at him.

"I... don't know why this is so complicated," I admitted softly, almost to myself.

"Because it's us," he murmured, gaze fixed on mine. "And complicated can be... interesting."

I swallowed hard, nodding. "Interesting... yeah, okay."

Later, at home, my phone buzzed again.

Malachi: "Thinking about tonight. About... you."

Me: "...Me?"

Malachi: "Yeah. Don't overthink it. Just... can't stop noticing."

Me: "You're impossible."

Malachi: "Maybe. But I'm worth noticing."

I stared at my screen, breath catching. The slow, magnetic pull between us had just tightened—an unscripted tension I couldn't ignore.

By the end of the evening, I realized something undeniable:

Every glance, every accidental touch, every teasing word had woven a tension neither of us could resist.

This slow, messy, unscripted connection wasn't just playful—it was magnetic. And I was completely, hopelessly hooked.