Atticus rolled on his bed; he couldn't sleep. He kept recalling Sophia's words.
"I don't take just anyone's contact—"
He sat up angrily. "How dare she," he said. He looked up at the painting at the other end of the room, close to the fireplace, his eyes filled with anger.
He pulled out of bed, grabbed a glass of wine, and walked to the fireplace, staring into her eyes.
He took a long sip of the wine and frowned.
"Are you serious? Me? You won't let me take your contact, huh?" he said. He bit his lower lip.
"Why would you say that, huh?" he asked. "Answer me," he barked as he pointed at her.
"Oh, you don't want to answer me, huh? How dare you look at me like that," he shouted, his gaze locked on Sophia's unyielding, stone-cold eyes.
A slow smirk curved his lips. "Ah, I see—so you want a staring contest. Very well. Challenge accepted. And mark my words, I will win," he declared, holding his eyes wide open without a blink, daring her to look away.
The room fell silent, broken only by the faint ticking of the clock from downstairs. Atticus's face flushed red as he locked onto her eyes, intense and unblinking. His hand clenched his thigh, and his vision blurred slightly, watery from the effort of holding his gaze.
"Argh," he groaned when he finally blinked.
"Why do you always get to win, have the final say," he frowned.
He let out a heavy sigh, sinking onto the edge of the bed. His gaze remained fixed on her, tracing the calm enigma in her eyes. She looked so serene, yet the thought of her rejecting him gnawed at his pride, a sharp sting he couldn't ignore. Her presence pulled him into a dark, endless place he didn't know, and he hated that he couldn't turn away—even as every part of him wanted to.
"Mumph," he scoffed. "You are something, aren't you," he said as he gulped the wine. He placed the glass on the table and walked out of the room and down the stairs.
The whole place was dark, and the only source of light was the moonlight entering the house through the windows.
He entered his study. He saw a figure in the dark moving around the room.
"A ghost," he thought as he walked toward the switch, grabbing a vase.
Flink! BAM!
He turned on the light and swung at the figure's head, but it quickly dodged it. The figure fell back as it avoided the object.
"Argh," the figure groaned.
Atticus looked closer. "Thomas," he muttered.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Thomas asked as he held his arm, wincing in pain.
"I—" Atticus paused. "Wait, what are you doing here? Why are you in my study?" he continued.
Thomas eyes widened as he blinked countlessly, "Huh… emm… I'm here to arrange the table," Thomas answered.
Atticus raised his brow. "Who does that in the middle of the night, and who does that in the dark," he asked.
"Me, the best secretary in the world," Thomas exclaimed.
Atticus glanced at the table; a glass of wine was on it.
"And you were drinking wine as you were doing it," he asked.
"Emm… emm… well, the wine is for you. I was bringing it to you," Thomas stammered, he stood up and grabbed the glass, handing it to Atticus.
"You—" Atticus pointed as he looked down at the wine.
"No! And secondly, why are you here? Aren't you supposed to be in bed?" Thomas asked.
Atticus sighed and sat on the chair, placing the wine in the table. "I couldn't sleep," he replied.
"Why? Did you have another dream?" Thomas asked as he walked closer. Atticus glared at him. Thomas scoffed.
Atticus ran a hand through his hair. He frowned, pacing a short circle before stopping and muttering, "No… but why won't she let me take her contact? I just don't understand it."
"Oh, we are still on that conversation," Thomas hissed as he took the glass of wine on the table.
"Yes, we are," Atticus replied.
Thomas tapped his fingers lightly on the glass, his eyes narrowing as he considered the question. Finally, he took a slow sip of the wine and said, "Maybe… because she's not the social type. She's quiet, reserved, and a private person."
"But why," Atticus asked as he pondered on Thomas words—
"Leave that first. You're asking for her number, but you don't have a phone. How would you reach her?" Thomas asked.
"I… I… I don't know," Atticus replied in a low tone.
"You have to get a phone first before you can ask for someone's number," Thomas said.
"Oh really…" Atticus murmured, his tone curious as if this was entirely new information. He paused, letting it sink in, then muttered, "Okay then, let's get a phone."
"Good," Thomas nodded as he stood up, yawning. "Alright then, goodnight," he said and turned.
"Where are you going?" Atticus asked.
Thomas turned. "To bed," he replied.
"Let's go get my phone," Atticus said, smiling.
"It's late in the night, I'm sleepy, and secondly no shop opens in the night," Thomas replied.
"Let's go get my phone," Atticus shouted and hissed as he walked out of the room.
"Ahhh, shit…" Thomas hissed, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "This is insane—who goes out hunting for a phone at this hour?"
Thomas started the engine. "Where are we going to get a shop that sells phones at this hour? It's past 1, everywhere is dark, and I want to sleep," he protested.
"Drive. We must find a shop," Atticus replied.
Thomas frowned as the car started moving. "Now I see why ma'am Sophia didn't want to give you her contact. You're like a dog who just drank a whole beer—stubborn, tipsy with excitement, and absolutely impossible to stop," he mumbled.
"What did you say?" Atticus asked.
"Nothing," Thomas replied.
Atticus nodded, a wide, almost mischievous smile spreading across his face, his eyes sparkling with excitement as he watched the world pass by outside the window.