0005:Mr. Grumpy Pants

ANGELA’S POV

A boy—no, not a boy. It was a man, though not much older than twenty—stood in front of me with his arms folded tight against his chest. Ripped jeans sagged a little around his hips, loose enough that they swayed against his long legs, and his T-shirt clung to him like it was the last clean one he owned.

His short hair was a dark mess, falling across his forehead in that I-don’t-care kind of way that probably took hours to get right.

He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t even trying. His eyes—a deep green, looked, restless, with something simmering just below the surface—clung to me like I was trespassing in his world. Maybe I was.

He had the kind of body that wasn’t built for lounging or comfort—it was the kind that came from hard labor, the kind that looked meant for chasing, hunting, surviving. His presence alone pressed against me, heavy, like the air thickened just because he was breathing the same space.

I swallowed. My voice betrayed me before I could think. “Who… who are you?”

He said nothing. Not a word. Just the weight of his stare, burning, as though my question didn’t matter. As if I didn’t matter—or worse, as if he already knew me in ways he had no right to. There was this strange aura about him, something dark and dangerous. Every instinct in me screamed run, screamed get out, screamed this is not safe.

But another part of me—the scarred, defiant one that had been burned before and kept crawling back for more—leaned in instead of out.

His mouth curled, finally, but not in a smile. His voice came sharp, impatient. “Who are you, and why are you stomping through my uncle’s crops like some lost cattle?”

I blinked at him. Excuse me? Cattle?

My lips parted, ready to bite back something vicious, but then my eyes dropped—and my stomach sank. Oh God. I was ankle-deep in crushed stalks, torn leaves clinging to my shoes like accusing hands. Dirt smeared across my skirt. In my frantic dash from Julius, I hadn’t even noticed.

Heat flared to my face. I scrambled back, brushing off soil that only smeared deeper. “I—I didn’t mean—”

“Yeah, well,” he cut in, tone clipped and dripping sarcasm, “your apology’s not gonna bring them back, is it? They’re dead.”

Dead? He said it like I’d shot his dog.

My brows knitted. “It was an accident. I said I’m sorry. That should count for something.”

His jaw clenched. His eyes, sharp slits now. “Sorry’s cheap. Next time, try watching where you throw yourself. Might save a few innocent plants from their funeral.”

My blood sparked, hot and fast. Was this guy seriously guilt-tripping me over vegetables? “It’s just crops,” I snapped. “Not the apocalypse. Quit acting like a sour cream.”

That hit him. I saw it—the twitch in his jaw, the flash in his eyes like I’d struck a nerve. His gaze turned venomous. “Spoken like a spoiled brat who’s never planted a damn thing in her life.”

I froze. My mouth dropped open, shut again. He didn’t just—? Oh, he did.

Anger roared through me, all heat and sharp edges. He didn’t know me. He didn’t know anything. My hands fumbled into my bag, clinking coins as I yanked them free and shoved them at his chest. “Here. For the damages. Happy now?”

He didn’t take them. Didn’t even flinch. Just crossed his arms tighter, leaned back against nothing like he was untouchable, and sneered. “Wow. Must be nice. Throwing money at your problems until they vanish. Do you always pay your way out of guilt?”

That snapped the last thread. Before I could think, I grabbed his collar, yanking him down until his green eyes were a breath away. His breath caught—barely, but enough.

“You don’t know a damn thing about me,” I hissed, my voice shaking with the fury clawing in my chest. “So before you play judge, jury, and executioner, maybe ask yourself why you’re so desperate to assume the worst in people. Maybe that says more about you than it does about me.”

For the briefest second, his mask cracked. Something softer slipped through—surprise, maybe guilt, maybe a regret he didn’t want to carry. Then it was gone, shuttered, hidden like it had never been there.

I shoved him back and spun on my heel, storming away, throat burning and eyes stinging with tears I refused to let fall. Who the hell was he to talk to me like that? Who gave him the right?

By the time I reached Mr. Smith’s house, the fire in me had dulled into embers, though my pulse still drummed against my ribs. I smoothed my skirt, forced my breathing steady, and knocked.

No answer. I raised my hand again, then heard the footsteps. The door creaked open—And the universe laughed in my face.

There he was. Mr. Crops-Are-Sacred himself, framed in the doorway, his brow arched like he’d been expecting me. “Are you following me?”

I let out a short, sharp laugh. “Please. If anything, you’re the one stalking me.”

Before round two could ignite, another voice broke through.

“Angela!” Mr. Smith’s face appeared behind him, glowing warm, his tone full of genuine delight. “Come in, come in!”

Relief swept me like cool water. I slipped past Mr. Rude Vegetables himself—my shoulder brushing his with just enough pressure to make my point.

Inside, the familiar comfort of Mr. Smith’s home wrapped around me. Old books stacked precariously, the faint sweetness of cinnamon clinging to the air, the cozy armchair that looked like it had stories etched into its cushions. Safe.

“Angela, this is Aaron,” Mr. Smith said, closing the door with a quiet thud. “He’s staying with me for a few days. A family friend.”

Family friend. Of course. Figures the sweetest man alive would somehow know the rudest one.

“Oh, I’ve met Mr. Grumpy pants already,” I muttered, more to myself than anyone.

Aaron leaned lazily against the doorframe, a ghost of a smirk curling his lips. “You could just call me Aaron, you know.”

I shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “Then maybe act like someone worth calling by name.”

Mr. Smith cleared his throat, smoothing his sweater like it could iron out the tension. “My apologies on his behalf. He’s not usually this…” He hesitated, searching. “…direct.”

I forced a polite smile, though my hands still clenched at my sides. “It’s fine. I’m not exactly intimidated.”

Mr. Smith offered tea. I declined—my throat was too tight to sip anything. Instead, I sank into the chair, trying to pretend Aaron’s eyes weren’t tracking me from the corner like he was memorizing my every move.

“So,” Mr. Smith said gently, settling across from me, “what brings you here? You after a new book collection?”

I hesitated, glanced at Aaron. He was still there, still watching, his green eyes holding something unreadable.

My chest squeezed. No. This wasn’t for him.

“It’s… a private matter,” I said, pinning my words sharp enough that Aaron would feel them.

His brow quirked, but for once, he didn’t push. He sighed, almost dramatically, and pushed off the wall. Without a word, he walked out the front door. It clicked shut behind him.

Finally. I turned back to Mr. Smith, hands trembling as I clasped them together. My voice dipped low, almost a whisper.

“Okay,” I breathed, meeting his kind eyes. “I need your help. And it’s about something… from before.”