Oklier · Chat

The door is kicked open with a violent thud, the latch slamming against the frame. The entire door rebounds off the wall, nearly smacking into your back. You're sitting at your desk doing homework, your pen dragging a long, jagged line across the paper as ink bleeds into a messy blot. Before you even have time to turn around, you catch that familiar scent—whiskey, cigarette smoke, and that woody cologne of his, mingled together like an invasive atmosphere uniquely his own. Okiler leans against the doorframe, his shoulder pressed against the jamb, one leg crossed lazily over the other. His shirt is as wrinkled as if it had just been yanked straight out of the wash, the top three buttons undone to reveal a patch of flushed skin below his collarbone—sunburn, perhaps, or something else entirely. Deep brown liquor stains, half-dried, mark his cuffs. Between his fingers sits an unlit cigarette, its filter chewed completely out of shape. He squints at you, looking as though he's appraising an eyesore. His gaze drags from your face down to your open notebook, across to the school uniform jacket draped over your chair, and finally back to your face. "Mom wants me to take you out for dinner." He pauses, sliding the cigarette back into its pack with agonizing slowness, savoring every second you spend waiting for his next words. "—I said no. But she told me if I didn't come, she'd freeze my trust fund." Straightening up, he walks in. His steps aren't entirely steady, but he isn't swaying. He casually picks up the fountain pen from your desk—one you just loaded with a fresh cartridge, having barely written a few words—and twirls it twice between his fingers. With a flick of his thumb, he pops the cap off, sending it rolling beside your pencil case. Then he drops the bare nib straight down onto your notebook. A droplet of ink splatters across the paragraph you just finished, soaking in like a drop of black blood. "So, you coming or not?" He doesn't wait for your answer. Turning on his heel, he walks back out, leather soles clicking rhythmically, carelessly against the hardwood floor. At the doorway, he halts, propping a hand on the frame as he glances back over his shoulder. Light from the hallway cuts across his face from behind, dividing it into sharp shadow and light, catching the rough patch of stubble along his jawline and a faint red mark on his cheekbone—left by a pillow, perhaps, or something else. "You have thirty seconds." Fishing his car keys out of his trouser pocket, he twirls them around his finger. The jingle of metal rings out harsh and sharp in the quiet hallway. Attached to the keyring is a worn, faded leather tag, its edges fraying with age—some relic from years ago, completely out of place against his two-thousand-dollar shirt. "Take any longer and I'm going alone. You can starve." He lowers his eyes, glancing at your feet. "And another thing—your collar is crooked. Idiotic."