It'd been two days since my meeting with Boreal, and since then, Manolo had been unusually quiet. For someone who thrived on being the center of attention—always quick with a smirk or some offhand comment—his sudden silence was unnerving.

I wasn't sure if I should be grateful or suspicious. It felt like he was waiting for something, letting the tension build while I tried to figure out what was going on in that scheming head of his.

He hadn't sprawled out on the couch in his usual dramatic fashion, hadn't left his coffee mug on every flat surface, and hadn't insisted on playing his obnoxious shows at full volume. The house felt too still, as though Manolo had sucked all the air out of it without lifting a finger.

I was trying to focus on work, but my thoughts kept drifting to him. It was an irritating feeling, but I couldn't help but want to know; to understand.

"Is this the part where you tell me what's on your mind, or are you going to keep staring at your laptop like it insulted you?"

The sudden sound of Manolo's voice made me jump, nearly spilling the cup of tea I'd forgotten about on the table. I looked up just as he strolled over and leaned against the couch behind me.

"Don't sneak up on people," I snapped, more out of reflex than anything else.

"You didn't answer my question," he said, ignoring my comment as he walked around the couch to take a seat. He moved like he owned the place—like he owned me—and it made my skin crawl.

"I'm working," I said shortly, gesturing at the laptop. "Some of us have to, you know. Bills, rent, survival. Ring a bell?"

Manolo laughed and dropped onto the couch beside me. "I'm familiar with the concept. Though, to be fair, you did bring some of those bills on yourself, didn't you?"

I glared at him. "You mean the ones I have because you've inserted yourself into my life like some kind of parasite?"

His smile didn't falter. If anything, it widened. "I'm not that bad of a houseguest. I got you a new couch and I've been on my best behavior these past two days."

"Yeah, and that's what's worrying me," I muttered before I could stop myself.

He raised an eyebrow, leaning forward slightly. "Worrying you? Why, Wesley, you sound almost concerned about me."

I rolled my eyes, trying to focus on the screen in front of me, but his presence was impossible to ignore. "Don't flatter yourself. I'm just saying it's weird. You're never quiet. It's like... I don't know, you're plotting something."

"Maybe I am," he said dismissively before leaning over to look at my laptop screen. "How much is it?"

"The laptop?" I stupidly asked.

"Rent," he clarified. "I'll cover it."

I snapped the laptop shut and turned to face him, jaw tightening. "No."

"No?"

"No," I repeated.

Manolo leaned back, clearly amused by my immediate rejection. "You didn't even hear me out."

"I don't need to."

He tilted his head, watching me with infuriating curiosity. "Why not?"

"Because I don't want to owe you more than I already do."

"Owe me? You make it sound like I'm some loan shark. Relax, Wesley—it's just rent, not your soul."

"It's not just rent," I shot back. "It's control. It's one more way for you to lord something over me. I'm not interested."

Manolo's smile faltered, just for a second, but his mask of confidence snapped back into place so quickly I almost thought I imagined it. "You really think so little of me, don't you?"

"I think you're manipulative, arrogant, and have a hard time doing anything without expecting something in return," I said evenly. "So yeah, I'd rather figure it out myself than add another favor to the list."

"Manipulative?" he repeated, leaning forward with mock offense. "You wound me. I've been nothing but generous, and this is how you see me?"

I scoffed. "Generous isn't the word I'd use. Opportunistic, maybe. You don't do things out of the goodness of your heart, Manolo—you do them because you see a way to get something back."

He stared at me with a sharp gaze. "And what exactly do you think I'd get out of paying your rent?"

I faced him. "Control. Influence. Leverage. Call it whatever you want, but it all boils down to the same thing—you having power over me."

Manolo didn't respond immediately. He just studied me, his head tilting slightly like he was trying to solve a puzzle. "You're so convinced I'm the villain in your story," he said finally, his voice softer than I expected. "It's almost funny."

"Funny isn't the word I'd use," I muttered, crossing my arms.

Manolo didn't move, didn't say anything at first, but the way his gaze lingered made my skin prickle. It was like he was stripping me down layer by layer without even lifting a finger.

He leaned forward, the air between us shrinking with every inch. "You talk a lot about control, Wesley. About power. But here's the thing—if I wanted to control you, I wouldn't need to pay your rent to do it."

My breath caught, and I hated how close he was. Hated how his presence seemed to fill the room, leaving no space for rational thought. "Oh, yeah?" I forced out, trying to keep my voice steady. "What would you do instead?"

His lips curved into a slow, maddening smirk, and he tilted his head, studying me like I was some riddle he was seconds away from solving. "If I told you, it wouldn't be any fun, would it?"

The words sent an uninvited shiver down my spine, and I cursed myself for the reaction. "You're insufferable," I muttered.

His smirk widened, and he leaned in just a fraction closer, the heat of him brushing against my skin. "Am I?"

I swallowed hard, my pulse pounding in my ears. I could smell him now—clean and sharp with a faint trace of something warm, something that made my head spin.

"Get out of my space," I said, my voice harsher than I intended.

To my surprise, he did. He leaned back and stared at me as if he'd gotten whatever he wanted out of that moment. "Let me pay."

"I—"

"Not every battle is a war to be fought. Consider it common courtesy. I've been staying here after all."

I didn't get the chance to argue more about the situation because the moment I opened my mouth to speak, a loud knock on the door echoed through the room.

I glanced at Manolo, his face drained of all previous amusement, as he tensed up. I cursed to myself. Was it Boreal? The other guy—Teodoro? Was it Lionel—"

"Wesley?" Bridget's voice cut through my thoughts. "You're in there, right?"

Manolo frowned, staring at me with confusion. "Who is that?"

"Wesley?"

"Be quiet," I hissed and stood up, pulling him with me. I lightly nudged him in the direction of the bedroom. "Go wait in there and don't say a word."

"Why?" Manolo asked, his voice low but laced with irritation. He crossed his arms, clearly not used to being bossed around.

"Because I said so," I whispered sharply, shoving him again. "Just go."

He opened his mouth, probably to argue, but then Bridget knocked again, more insistently this time. "Wesley, I can hear you. Are you okay?"

Manolo's eyes narrowed, his gaze flicking to the door and then back to me. "Friend of yours?"

"Yes, now move," I hissed.

With a dramatic roll of his eyes, Manolo finally relented, slinking toward the bedroom. "This better be good," he muttered under his breath, slipping inside and closing the door just enough to leave a crack.

I ran a hand through my hair, trying to compose myself. I took a deep breath and moved toward the door before pulling it open. Bridget stood in front of me with her blond hair tied into a bun, her arms crossed, and a worried expression on her face.

"...Hi, Bridget."