Chapter105 – Waiting for you
It rang for a while before someone answered—someone who wasn’t William.
“Hello, this is the university lab. Are you calling about Professor William?”
Clarissa’s brows furrowed. “Yes. Is something wrong with him?”
“I’m sorry, we can’t disclose that. If you have a message, we’ll pass it on once he’s available.”
“…Please let him know Clarissa called. And if he’s too busy, just tell him to send a text. Just… let me know he’s safe.”
“Understood.”
The call came around ten. “William?” Her voice was soft, cautious. “What’s going on? You’ve been out of touch for days.”
His voice came through, weary but steady. “There were some issues with a previous research report. Academic trouble. I’ve been working nonstop.”
“Is it serious?”
“It’s manageable. Just a lot of cleanup. Clarissa… I’m sorry.”
“You don’t need to be. Just take care of yourself. Work comes first—but don’t forget to rest.”
“I will. You too.”
She heard someone call William’s name faintly in the background. Clarissa smiled faintly. “Go ahead. Good night.”
When the call ended, she turned back to her laptop, refocusing on the task at hand.
But peace didn’t last long.
.......
The next morning, Clarissa made her way to the parking lot. As she reached her car, she saw a figure standing near the gate of the complex.
It was Atticus. She froze.
There he was—again. He hadn’t missed a single day. He just stood there, under the scorching sun, watching the gate like a guard dog on a leash.
Clarissa marched toward him. “Don’t you have a life? Are you seriously just standing here all day?”
Atticus tilted his head slightly. His voice was calm, gentle, even affectionate. “I could stand here forever, if it means I get to see you every day.”
Clarissa’s breath caught.
She clenched her jaw and barked, “Fine! Fry out here if that’s what you want! You can roast to death for all I care!”
It was nearly 100 degrees outside. The pavement shimmered from the heat; you could probably cook an egg on the sidewalk. No way he’d last out here for more than an hour, let alone a day.
She turned and walked away, forcing herself not to look back.
But that night, when she came home…
He was still there. His shirt clung to his body, drenched in sweat. His hair was soaked. His face was flushed with the red heat of sun exposure, the faint outline of a sunburn already setting in.
Clarissa dropped her bag and stormed toward him. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Atticus met her eyes. “I told you. I’m waiting for you.”
“You stood out here all day in this heat? Are you insane? Do you want a heat stroke?” she shouted.
But he didn’t flinch. His lips even curved, just a little. “Clarissa,” he said softly, “so you do still care about me.”
That stopped her cold.
Before she could respond, Atticus stepped forward, his tone turning raw, vulnerable.
“I know I scared you before. I messed up. I deserve to be punished—however you see fit. Just don’t shut me out.”
Clarissa stared at him, stunned and furious, her emotions tumbling like an avalanche.
“I don’t want to punish you! I want you to go home! You’re not proving anything by turning into a puddle of sweat outside my building!”
Her hands trembled, her temples pounding with rage and heat. This man is going to drive me mad.
She drew in a long, shaky breath… and suddenly dropped her hands to her sides.
“Fine,” she said coldly. “You want to cook yourself out here like an idiot? Be my guest.”
Without waiting for his answer, she turned and stormed up the steps, disappearing into the building with a whip of her hair.
Clarissa stepped out of the shower, her skin damp and flushed from the heat, hair wrapped loosely in a towel. She padded barefoot into the living room and flopped onto the couch, too tired—and too emotionally spent—to cook.
As usual, when she was alone, she ordered takeout. Something quick. Something that didn’t require her to think.
But the food was fifteen minutes late.
When the doorbell finally rang, the delivery guy was already spilling apologies before she'd even spoken.
“I’m so sorry! I really am! It started pouring out of nowhere. I got totally soaked.”
Clarissa took the food with a soft sigh, brushing damp hair back from her face. “It’s okay,” she said gently. “Safety first.”
The guy gave a relieved nod and turned to leave.
But Clarissa’s voice stopped him again. “Wait.”
He froze mid-step, heart visibly leaping into his throat. “Y-Yes? Did I… forget something?”
“Is it really raining that hard out there?”
The man nodded quickly. “Yeah. And the forecast says it’s going to last all night. A real downpour.” Then he dashed off into the storm.
Clarissa lingered at the door a moment longer, clutching the warm box of food against her chest. Her gaze drifted to the curtained window.
Something twisted in her gut. She crossed the room and pulled back just a corner of the curtain.
The faint rumble of thunder echoed in the distance. Wind lashed the trees. Rain streamed down the glass.
And there—just outside the gates—stood a shadowy figure.
Clarissa’s heart seized. He’s still there.
A crack of lightning lit the sky, and she caught a clearer glimpse—drenched, shirt plastered to his body, hair dripping down his face, eyes locked on her window.
Clarissa drew the curtain closed and turned away, her pulse racing.
“Fine. Stand there all you want. I don’t care. I’m done with you.”
She sank into her seat and began eating, but the food was already cold. She threw it into the microwave, then forced a few more bites down.
It tasted like nothing. Just soggy starch and salt.
She pushed the tray away and stared around the room. Her home.
She had once shared an entire building with her mother and Atticus. There was always noise—clinking dishes, laughter, footsteps. Life.
But now…
The silence was a different kind of unbearable.
A good home, gone. Again.
Habit really was a terrifying thing. It made you miss people you shouldn’t miss. It made you long for things that hurt.
Clarissa threw the remains of her meal into the trash, wiped her hands with a sigh, and retreated to her bedroom.
Sleep didn’t come easy. She tossed and turned beneath the sheets, the rain tapping like tiny fingers against the windowpane.
Eventually, she drifted off—but her dreams didn’t let her escape.
In the haze of sleep, she saw Atticus. But not the man who haunted her doorstep.
This Atticus was younger—twelve or thirteen at most. But something about him was off. The boy didn’t smile. His expression was cold, his eyes vacant, like ice locked in glass. There was no innocence. No spark.
Only emptiness.
Then she noticed the shackles on his wrists. The stark orange of a juvenile prison uniform.
A cage surrounded him, narrow and suffocating.
Not a boy anymore. A dangerous animal locked up. And then he turned. Slowly. Like he’d felt her watching.
His dead eyes landed on her.
“Atticus!” Clarissa gasped in the dream.
She shot upright in bed, drenched in sweat, hands clammy and trembling.
It took several seconds for her breathing to steady. She hugged herself tightly, trying to stop the shaking.
It was just a dream. But the fear clung to her skin like a second layer.
She’d had this nightmare before. The last time had been years ago.