I stood in the kitchen, still eavesdropping on their conversation. And honestly? I felt petty.
But that didn't stop me.
I leaned ever so slightly toward the kitchen door, careful not to creak the hinges. The soft murmur of Jake and Carl's voices floated in like jazz—low, fluid, easy. I couldn't quite catch all the words, but the occasional phrase slipped through the quiet.
"...she's different, man," Carl said. "Not what I expected."
My breath hitched. Was he talking about me?
Jake snorted. "Yeah, well, she's worked here for a while. Keeps to herself. Anne loves her because she's invisible and trustworthy."
Ouch. Invisible?
Was that how Jake saw me?
I leaned back from the door, heart slipping a little in my chest. All this time, I thought I'd made at least a small impression on him. But invisible? That word had weight. And I wasn't sure I liked how it felt hanging over me.
I sighed and turned away from the door, rubbing the goosebumps off my arms. What was I doing? Why was I pressed against a door, listening to a conversation that didn't include me?
Because I wanted to know Carl.
That was the truth. I wanted to know him.
The way he looked at me made my skin prickle and my thoughts fog. It wasn't the first time I'd been stared at—let's be real, I'm used to the stares. With my curvy body and face that people either envied or hated, I got attention everywhere I went. But Carl wasn't just staring. He was noticing. There was a difference. One that made my chest ache in unfamiliar ways.
I grabbed my phone from the counter and opened Instagram. Jake's profile was already bookmarked—I had stalked him for a year like it was a part-time job—but tonight, my curiosity belonged to someone else.
Carl Summers.
I went to Jake's following list and typed "Carl."
Viola.
Carl. Freaking. Summers.
His profile wasn't private. Thank you, universe.
The moment I tapped on it, I was met with a grid of dangerously sexy pictures—Carl in a gym, Carl in fatigues, Carl on a motorcycle, Carl in a sharp navy suit standing next to a woman with haunting eyes and a man in uniform.
I squinted. Wait...
I zoomed in.
The man beside him had stars on his shoulder. Four. A full four-star general.
The caption read: Proud to call him father. Happy Birthday, sir.
I blinked. No way.
Carl's father was a Major General in the U.S. military.
And judging by the medals, the posture, the way even his smile was stiff with command—it wasn't just a ceremonial title.
Carl wasn't just a soldier.
He was legacy.
I scrolled further.
An older post showed the same woman again—elegant, pale-skinned, with sharp, almost too-perfect features. Jet-black hair, styled into a neat bun. There was something eerie about her stare. Something cold. Distant. She looks like a villain in a European film. My stomach tightened. She was beautiful, but in the way roses were beautiful—with thorns.
His mother?
The caption said: The one who taught me silence is a strength.
Yikes.
Then I saw her.
A girl. Much younger. Maybe eighteen. Light brown curls, dimples, and an oversized hoodie with Carl's name stitched on it. They were sitting on a picnic blanket in what looked like a garden behind a military base.
The caption read: My baby sister. She eats my snacks and beats my high score. I'll never forgive her.
Something about that made me smile. A softer side of him. The way he looked at her—protective, warm—was so different from the intense heat I'd seen in his eyes earlier.
I kept scrolling, deeper into the archives. Every post was like unwrapping a layer of him. There were military trainings, obscure books, boxing gloves, jazz nights, and posts dedicated to veterans. One showed him standing in front of a school, giving a talk. He was wearing a simple white shirt and black slacks, speaking to a room of students.
The caption: The mission starts with education.
Carl Summers wasn't just fine—he was fine and smart and patriotic.
Which made this even worse.
Because now I was spiraling.
I clicked through his highlights—there was one titled "Family" and another titled "Shadows." The "Shadows" one was just grainy black and white photos of alleyways, war zones, and quotes like "Some ghosts don't haunt—they hunt."
I had no idea what that meant, but it gave me chills. Who was this man?
And why did he affect me like this?
I exited Instagram and set the phone down, suddenly overwhelmed. I had only intended to snoop a little, not fall into a black hole of obsession. I wanted to go to my room and lie down, maybe read a book, maybe scream into a pillow. But the thought of walking past Carl again… of him stopping me with those eyes and those hands… I couldn't do it.
I'd been embarrassed enough for one day.
So instead, I did what any self-respecting overthinker would do: I started re-washing all the dishes in the kitchen.
Every plate, spoon, and glass that had already been cleaned earlier—I lined them up like soldiers and began scrubbing them again. One by one. Slowly. Thoroughly.
I wasn't cleaning. I was hiding. I was retreating into familiarity.
The faucet hissed as I turned it on full blast. Bubbles rose up from the sink, and I drowned my shame in them. The sound of the running water helped drown out the noise in my head. But nothing could drown out Carl's voice from earlier.
"Let it go."
Was that his mantra? His challenge?
Was I the only one flustered? Or was he just good at hiding his nerves?
I scrubbed harder, my wrists aching.
Outside, their voices continued, now laughing at something on the TV. Jake's voice rose with excitement.
"That goal was clean! Come on!"
Carl snorted. "It was offside, and you know it."
Their camaraderie was real. Easy. Like they'd known each other forever. And I was just… the housekeeper. The girl Anne paid to scrub the floor, sweep up after people, and keep her secrets.
I wasn't part of their world.
Carl might've smiled at me. Might've flirted. Might've held my hand and looked into my soul—but at the end of the day, I was still staff.
I sighed and rinsed another plate, my fingers wrinkled now from the hot water. My hair was beginning to frizz from the steam.
I should just go to my room.
But I couldn't.
Because if I did, I might have to walk past him again.
And I wasn't ready for what that might do to me.