Isaia: Chapter 4

Iwake up to something warm and wet smothering my cheek.

My eyes flutter open, and there’s Luna, my overzealous basset hound, tongue out, determined to lick me into consciousness.

“Ew, Luna, seriously?” I groan, gently nudging her away. “It’s too early for your brand of enthusiasm.”

She whines softly, her tail thumping rhythmically against the bed, like she thinks she’s doing me a huge favor. As if slobbery dog kisses are part of some heroic morning ritual.

“I don’t owe you a thing,” I mutter, wiping my face with the sheet, already planning to swap it out for fresh ones later.

Luna moves and promptly decides that sitting on me is the next best way to start the day. Not beside me. Not at my feet. On me.

All fifty-five pounds of stubborn basset hound plops directly onto my stomach like she’s making some grand statement.

“Really?” I huff, laughing despite myself. Her droopy eyes give me that pitiful look—fake innocence at its finest—like she’s completely unaware that she’s crushing my lungs.

I wriggle beneath her, pushing against what feels like a very determined sack of potatoes.

“Okay, fine, you win.” I flop back, officially defeated.

She shifts her weight slightly, but it’s clear—Luna’s not moving anytime soon.

As I lie there, pinned by my dog, my mind drifts back to yesterday and my run-in with him.

Isaia.

Who trips over a dog leash?

Someone like Isaia, apparently—dark, brooding, like he belongs in some kind of mob movie. And there he was, wrapped in Luna’s leash like some absurd yet amusing irony.

I smile at the memory.

His face, though—he looked like Luna had just cursed him with some incurable disease. Meanwhile, I was rolling on the grass, laughing like it was the most hilarious thing I’d seen in weeks.

Isaia, serious and stiff, and me, finding it hilarious. Talk about opposites.

Apparently thinking her job here is done, Luna finally decides to move off me and plop beside the bed.

I stretch out, still thinking about how Isaia’s entire vibe screamed “stay away,” but I couldn’t help being drawn to him, and the whole scene that played out.

He was so serious, so intense, like he’s been sculpted out of marble and hasn’t smiled in a decade. And yet, there he was, tangled in Luna’s leash, trying to act like it wasn’t the most embarrassing thing ever.

It was like watching a Greek god get knocked down to human level, and I had a front-row seat to the comedy.

But the way he looked at me—those melted chocolate eyes, there was something under all that seriousness, something that made me feel like I’d brushed against a live wire. His gaze was so intense, as if searching for something, like he didn’t trust any of it.

I shake off the thoughts and shuffle into the kitchen, Luna’s paws tapping behind me to her short-legged rhythm.

Coffee first. Always.

I fill the kettle, grab my favorite mug, and while the water heats, I scoop some kibble into Luna’s bowl. She’s already sitting there, her eyes wide and hopeful. At least someone is easy to please in the mornings.

Once my coffee’s brewed, I take a sip, glancing around the living room.

Half-packed boxes are scattered everywhere—my life summed up in cardboard and bubble wrap.

No pictures on the walls, save for that one cheap painting of a sunset I picked up somewhere. It’s temporary—just like me.

Always in transit. Always moving. Never staying too long.

My life feels like a series of half-packed boxes and half-hearted goodbyes, and I’m used to it. I tell myself it’s easier that way—no roots, no ties, no complications. Just me and Luna, bouncing from one place to the next.

Not because I have to, because I choose to.

My mom always said I was a free spirit—a shifting wind that couldn’t be held down. Or maybe I was just trying to not be her by settling. People make wrong choices when they search for stability too desperately, become complacent as freedom fades.

Isn’t it ironic? A rolling stone like me, bouncing from place to place, came from a woman so rooted that she let herself wither in the very soil she clings to.

Maybe that’s why I’ve made a habit of never staying too long. Every time I unpack fully, it feels like a piece of me is getting buried, like I’m inching closer to becoming her.

I won’t become her.

I won’t settle and sell my soul in the process.

My phone vibrates with a message from Molly. She’s the new friend, the one I work with at a local coffee shop, the one I’ll swap stories with, laugh with, drink with, and cry with the day I leave. It’s a familiar cycle, one that can be equal parts bitter and freeing.

I smile as I read her message.

She’s right.

There’s a reason I chose to work at quaint little coffeeshops. I’m a total coffee addict, but I have standards. The stuff they sell at the supermarket doesn’t come close to a perfectly brewed java.

I push myself off the worn-out couch, deciding that a fresh cup of coffee that doesn’t taste like burnt charcoal dipped in aloe is worth the effort.

That rich caffeine boost may be my only real addiction, but its force is strong enough to stir my otherwise wanderlust-infused existence into motion.

I send a short reply.

I tug the white dress down over my hips, the fabric light and airy against my skin. As I shift, it catches the air just enough to sway, grazing mid-thigh. The long sleeves drape loosely, adding a subtle flair with every movement.

I drape the rust-colored scarf softly around my neck, its texture a comforting contrast to the lightness of the dress. The warm, earthy tone breaks the monotony of white, pulling the whole look together.

The suede of my boots brushes my legs as I step, the fringe at my knees swishing with a soft rhythm. There’s something satisfying in the way they move—free, relaxed, like the day I’m dressing for.

I sling my worn leather bag over my shoulder, grab my inhaler, and shove it inside.

I inch closer, staring at the reflection of my mismatched eyes.

As if having asthma isn’t bad enough, I was also gifted with one hazel and one green eye. It’s like the gods decided to experiment with me, unleashing their creative whims just for fun. A mix-and-match of color, a reminder that even when you think you’ve seen it all, life throws you something strange, something that stands out.

Heterochromia iridis. Complete Heterochromia.

It only affects like one percent of the population, and I’m one of the lucky ones. Or not.

I used to hate it, but now? It’s what makes me who I am.

Isaia’s reaction to them yesterday was priceless. He froze, like he wasn’t sure whether to be curious or cautious. I’ve learned to embrace it, though—I stand out, and I’m okay with that.

At the front door, I crouch and fluff Luna’s ears. “I don’t know how he can call you a menace. You’re so damn cute.” I lean down, kissing her head. “Try not to wreck the place while I’m gone.”

She lets out a dramatic sigh, like it’s the most challenging request in the world, and I can’t help but snicker as I close the door behind me.

She’s totally going to wreck the place.

The morning air is cool, with just enough warmth to hint at the day ahead.

As I walk down the street, the light fabric of my dress moves with the breeze, and I feel the sway of my scarf around my neck. There’s a certain freedom in it—like the day holds a promise of something different, something good.

I reach the corner coffee shop, and Ember & Bean’s doorbell jingles softly as I step inside. The warm scent of freshly roasted coffee beans mingles with the subtle hint of smoky wood, a nod to its name.

I weave through an eclectic mix of furniture—plush armchairs in shades of burnt orange and forest green, and mismatched vintage chairs circling dark wooden tables.

In the corner, an old bookshelf leans slightly, stuffed with worn paperbacks and hardcovers, some of them clearly touched by time.

Overhead, industrial-style pendant lamps hang low, casting soft pools of light that create quiet, intimate corners, perfect for vanishing into a book or losing yourself in conversation.

It’s a little slice of peace amid the city’s chaos, a place that feels like it’s just a beat behind the rest of the world.

“Your boho ass is late,” Molly chimes from behind the counter, one brow arched.

“Again, it’s my day off.”

“Don’t care. You’re still late.” She winks and smiles.

Her light blonde hair is piled into a messy knot, strands falling loose, framing her face in a way that gives off a kind of effortless charm. There’s always a bit of sarcasm lurking in her eyes, her whole demeanor casual, like she’s perpetually two steps ahead of whatever’s coming.

“I know, I know,” I return with a lazy wave, sliding onto one of the stools, and rest my chin on my palm. “You’ve got to stop needing me so much.”

“This place goes from semi-interesting to completely dead without you around to stir shit up.”

I snort, flipping a stray strand of hair over my shoulder. “Flattery, huh? What, did the regulars not give you a hard enough time this morning?”

“Please,” she says, sliding the steaming cappuccino in front of me. “Edith just tried to tell me about her cat’s diet…again. And don’t even get me started on Rodger and his theories about aliens running the government.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “He still on that?”

“Oh, he’s upgraded. Now the aliens are using coffee to control our minds. So you better be careful.”

“Thanks for the heads-up. Guess I’ll have to ease off the caffeine.”

Molly leans in, resting her elbows on the counter. “You say that every week, and yet…”

“And yet, here I am,” I finish for her, lifting my cup in a mock toast before taking a sip.

She chuckles then straightens, eyes narrowing slightly as she gives me a once-over. “You look…I don’t know, different?”

“Different?”

“Happier than usual. Something happen?”

I wave her off. “Just the usual—life, chaos, dogs tackling strangers in the park.”

Molly’s face lights up. “Strangers? Do tell.”

“Nothing to tell.”

She leans forward, her elbows on the counter, eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Come on, you’re holding out on me. Strangers don’t just get tackled by dogs every day. What happened?”

I roll my eyes, but the smile on my face gives me away. “Fine. So, Luna, being her usual self, runs straight into this guy—tangles him up like a damn rodeo. And he was not the kind of guy who looks like he gets tangled up often. Dark, brooding, intense, like he could be plotting world domination.”

Molly’s brow quirks. “Oh, this just got interesting. Keep going.”

I lean back, folding my arms across my chest. “It was hilarious, but he was so serious about it. Like, he couldn’t decide if he wanted to strangle me or just run away from the chaos.”

“Broody, tangled-up stranger. Does he have a name?”

“Isaia,” I say casually, but the sound of his name still rolls around my head like it’s clinging to something more.

Molly grins. “And? Was there…a vibe?”

I laugh softly, shaking my head. “Molly, not every random run-in with a guy is a romantic moment.”

“Oh, but you want it to be, don’t you?”

I shrug, pretending to be indifferent. “Let’s just say…he wasn’t the easiest guy to forget.”

“Did you give him your number?”

“No.”

“Did he give you his?”

“No.”

“Oh, my God.” She throws her hands in the air. “Amateur.”

“He did ask me to have a drink with him.”

Her eyes go wide with excitement. “And how did that go?”

“Oh, I didn’t go.”

She balks. “What?”

I take a sip of my coffee. “I said no to the drink.”

I’m pretty sure Molly’s eye starts twitching. “You need help. And by help, I mean dick.”

I snort and cough at the same time I’m trying to swallow a mouthful of coffee, and the foam goes everywhere. “Jesus, Molly. You’re as subtle as a trainwreck.” I take the napkin and wipe the oak counter clean. “Anyway, it’s not like I’ll see him again.”

The bells above the door chime, and Molly’s expression shifts instantly—her back straightens, and she glances past my shoulder.

“Holy shit.”

“What?” I ask, turning to follow her gaze, but my heart slams into my ribs the second I spot him.

All the air gets sucked out of the room, my pulse roaring in my ears. There he is—my serious stranger who doesn’t smile, standing by the door, the world shrinking down to only him.

“Isaia,” I murmur barely above a whisper, my stomach flipping like I’m on the edge of a freefall.

Molly’s hand shoots out, grabbing my arm, and she nearly pulls me over the counter.

“That’s the Isaia? The guy from last night?” she hisses, eyes wide.

I nod, unable to tear my gaze away. He looks even more dangerous in the daylight—dark hair swept back effortlessly, framing sharp cheekbones and a jawline that could cut glass.

My hands grip the counter as if anchoring myself because every instinct screams to run—but not away. Toward him.

He’s wearing black jeans that cling to his lean frame, a leather jacket slung over a plain white T-shirt that fits a little too well. There’s something about the way he wears it, casual yet commanding, like he doesn’t need to try.

Everything about him screams control—intense, effortless, and sexy as hell.

But there’s something else.

Watching him move, I notice how the room seems to shift around him. The subtle way conversations lower, the quick glances people exchange. It’s like everyone is aware of him, like they’re holding their breath.

Even the barista, usually a chatterbox, seems to freeze for a moment before carefully turning her back to the counter.

It’s not just his good looks or brooding demeanor—there’s something dangerous about him, something that sets people on edge.

There’s a lethal stillness in the way he holds himself, a control that feels like it could snap at any moment. And the way people instinctively move out of his way, like they know what he’s capable of, sends a chill down my spine.

His eyes, almost black, lock on to mine, and it’s not just the intensity that strikes me—it’s the way they seem to see everything, every detail. Like he’s calculating, always one step ahead.

My skin prickles, heat crawling up my neck. I’m caught in his crosshairs, and the air between us thickens, charged with a tension that’s impossible to ignore.

“What’s happening right now?” I ask, trying to steady my breathing, but my heart pounds harder, my chest tightening as though it’s in sync with the intensity radiating off him.

“Jesus Christ,” Molly curses under her breath. “You need to stay away from him.”

I blink, breaking from the trance he’s pulling me into. “What? Why?”

Molly glances at him again, then back at me, her grip tightening. “Because that man,” she whispers with urgency, “is Isaia Del Rossa.”