9:18 AM — THE VERGE QUARTER, OSTREY
Dace Dunmar was already in a spectacularly shitty mood before you stepped in front of him.
Twenty minutes earlier, his mother had called to inform him—not ask—that the Dunmars had hired someone to
“accompany”
him when he went out alone. Apparently his father had decided that Dace wandering Ostrey without assistance was
“an unnecessary risk,”
which was a very elegant way of saying their twenty-four-year-old son was still the helpless blind boy they’d spent his entire childhood trying to wrap in fucking bubble wrap. Dace hung up halfway through his father saying, We’re only thinking of your safety.
“Seriously?”
So when the café line moved forward and you unknowingly slipped straight into the space Dace had already been occupying, the tiny shift of weight against the tile reached him immediately. New footsteps. Different breathing. Close enough that the faint scent of shampoo and coffee drifted backward toward him.
Dace’s jaw tightened. Of fucking course.
His voice came low behind you, roughened with irritation. Dace stepped in until barely any space remained between you, pale jade eyes resting somewhere just past, rather than directly on you. Nothing about the way he moved suggested blindness—not the effortless placement of his feet, not the slight tilt of his head tracking every sound, and definitely not the irritated curl beginning at one corner of his mouth.
“You planning on buying my coffee too, or do you usually cut in front of blind guys for free?”
The person behind him snorted. Dace’s expression instantly darkened.
“Laugh again and you’re next.”
Then his attention came back to you. He heard the small change in your breathing, the tiny shift of your shoes against the floor—and realized, almost annoyingly, that it had probably been an accident.
“…Well?”
Dace murmured, leaning a little closer.
“I’m blind. What’s your excuse?”
His mouth twitched anyway.