a/n— okay so?? this chapter really said "let's introduce sideswipe and make toria question her entire reality" and honestly? here we are. also yes, our girl is still slightly high during this whole interaction which is probably not helping her process the whole "these men move like robots" situation also dylan o'brien as sideswipe is just *chef's kiss* and you can fight me on this. like the way he and bee just radiate "we're totally normal humans nothing to see here" energy? beautiful. thank you guys so much for all the love on this fic??
By the time I looked back, the Camaro wasn't idling on the curb anymore, but something about the engine noise lingered—the pier still busy for Friday, but different somehow. More charged.
"Toria! Table 11 menus!" Mom called from the back, her eyes ever watching the front door like she'd been doing since Mission City. My head swiveled toward the table, counting heads automatically.
Three menus in hand, I headed over, forcing the fake customer service smile on my face and praying my eyes weren't still red. "Hey guys," I set the menus down before I actually looked at the people sitting in the booth.
Oh. Oh fuck.
Oh fuck.
He was here. Looking exactly the same kind of beautiful as before—that engineered perfection that my high brain had definitely not been exaggerating. Even his hair was exactly the same, not a strand out of place. Those impossible blue eyes watched my movements like he was cataloging data, tracking how I wrung my hands behind my back.
I snapped back into work mode as I looked over the rest of his group. A college kid, wiry and looking slightly strung out—kind of how I probably looked an hour ago, if I was being honest. The other guy had that same level of uncanny perfection as Brooks, but with sharp cheekbones and a jawline that looked designed rather than natural. His buzzed hair somehow made his features more striking, and that grin—playful but predatory—matched the dangerous grace in his movements. His eyes were that same impossible blue as Brooks'—deeper in color, but just as bright and just as wrong for a human face.
"Can I start you guys off with waters, coffee?" My customer service voice came out steadier than I felt.
Buzzcut cut off the strung-out kid, "He'll have a water, I'll have a coffee." He gave me a grin—knowing, like we shared a secret I definitely wasn't in on.
"Whatever you recommend." I couldn't make eye contact with Brooks as I nodded, but his voice shot through me anyway. I couldn't help stealing a glance as I walked to the bar, my artist's brain already itching to capture the way light bent wrong around all of them.
I busied myself at the coffee station, trying to focus on normal things like water glasses and coffee mugs instead of the way both perfect strangers moved in sync when they'd shifted to let strung-out kid into the booth.
"You good?" Rosa appeared beside me, making me jump. "You look like you've seen a ghost. Or three really hot ghosts."
"I'm fine," I said automatically, even as I poured Brooks the café's specialty roast—the one Dad used to say had 'character.' "Just... table 11. The blonde one? That's the guy who helped with my car yesterday."
Rosa peered over my shoulder, not even trying to be subtle. "Oh honey," she whistled low. "No wonder you've been weird. He looks expensive. They all do. Well, except for the twitchy one."
"They look wrong," I muttered, then caught myself. Maybe I wasn't as sober as I'd thought.
"Wrong hot though," Rosa grinned. "Want me to take the drinks over?"
"No," I said too quickly. "I mean, they're my table, so..."
I balanced the drinks carefully, definitely not thinking about how I could feel Brooks tracking my movement across the room. Buzzcut's grin widened as I approached, like he could somehow tell I was slightly high and thoroughly unsettled.
"Water for you," I said, managing not to slosh it as I set it in front of the twitchy kid. "Coffee, black," for Buzzcut, who was still grinning like he knew all my secrets. "And..." I finally met Brooks' eyes as I set down his coffee. "Our house specialty."
"Perfect choice," Brooks said softly, and something about his tone made me wonder if he wasn't just talking about the coffee.
"Ready to order, or do you need a minute?" Please say you need a minute. Please give me time to process whatever is happening here.
"We know what we want," Buzzcut leaned forward, those impossible blue eyes dancing with amusement. "Don't we, *Brooks*?" The way he said the name made it sound like an inside joke.
"Actually," Brooks cut in, his voice carrying an edge that made Buzzcut's grin widen, "we need a minute."
I nodded maybe too enthusiastically. "Great! I'll just... come back. Later. With... yeah." Real smooth, Toria. Real professional.
I was halfway back to the safety of the coffee station when I heard Buzzcut say something that sounded suspiciously like "So this is why you've been distracted lately" followed by what might have been a kick under the table.
I practically dove behind the coffee station, immediately busying myself with wiping down already-clean surfaces.
"Girl," Rosa sidled up next to me, pretending to restock napkins. "The sexual tension at that table could power half of North Beach. What's the deal with you and Mr. Perfect Hair?"
"There is no deal," I hissed, even as my phone buzzed in my apron pocket. "He just... helped with my car. And maybe sent some cryptic texts. And possibly had it fixed. And—"
Unknown Number: Sorry about Sean. He's protective of family.
I nearly dropped my phone when I glanced up and caught Brooks watching me, that almost-smile playing at his lips while Sean—with his sharp features and knowing smirk—elbowed him. They could have been brothers, both carrying that same dangerous grace, though Sean's buzzed hair and more relaxed posture made him seem slightly more... human? If that was even the right word.
"No deal, huh?" Rosa peered at my phone. "Because that looks like some quality flirting from a guy who definitely isn't just a mechanic."
"I don't know what he is," I muttered, then froze as Mom appeared.
"Vittoria, those men in booth 11..." She lowered her voice. "They look like they're from the base. Like the ones who worked with your father."
I nodded, trying to look normal. Whatever 'normal' was when you were slightly high and serving coffee to impossibly perfect maybe-military guys. "Yeah, they're... from the base. The blonde one helped with the Chevelle yesterday."
Mom's expression did something complicated—worry warring with curiosity. "Be careful, tesoro."
I grabbed my order pad, heading back to the table before she could say more about the base, about Dad, about any of it.
"Ready to order?" My customer service voice was back, even if my hands weren't quite steady.
"The kid'll have the carbonara," Sean said before Sam (was that his name?) could speak, that knowing grin still in place. "I'll take whatever's spiciest."
Brooks looked up at me, those impossible blue eyes somehow both intense and gentle. "Chef's choice."
I scribbled down their orders, hyperaware of how they all moved in sync, how their attention felt weighted. Like they were something else just wearing human shapes.
"I'm, uh, going on break after I put these in," I said, not sure why I was telling them this. "But Rosa will take care of you guys."
"Enjoy your break, Toria," Brooks said softly, and something about the way he said my name made me want to grab my sketchbook and try to capture it.
I ducked into the alley behind the café, fishing out my cigarettes with shaking hands. At least I'd managed to borrow a lighter from Rosa this time.
"Okay," I told the brick wall as I lit up. "Let's review. Hot maybe-military guy shows up at your work with his equally hot friend who's definitely in on... whatever this is. They both move like they learned human behavior from a manual, they've got the same impossible blue eyes, and—"
"You shouldn't smoke," Brooks' voice came from the alley entrance, making me jump so hard I nearly dropped my cigarette. "It's bad for your health."
He stood there looking like something out of a dream—or maybe a government experiment gone impossibly right—the setting sun catching his edges in ways that didn't quite make sense.
"Jesus," I pressed a hand to my chest. "Do they not teach knocking in secret agent school?"
Sean's voice carried from somewhere behind Brooks, though I couldn't see him. "Told you she was funny."
"Sean," Brooks' tone held a warning, and I heard something that sounded suspiciously like someone being shoved around the corner.
"Right, right. 'Give them space.' Got it." A laugh, followed by retreating footsteps that sounded too precise to be natural.
I took another drag, trying to calm my racing heart. "So," I gestured vaguely with my cigarette, "is this the part where you tell me to stop drawing classified things, or the part where you explain why you're really here?"
Brooks moved closer, each step measured like he was trying not to startle me. "Can't I just want coffee?"
"Sure," I laughed, only slightly hysterical. "You and your perfectly engineered friend just happened to want Italian food at my specific café. Totally normal. Nothing weird about that."
His lips twitched into that almost-smile. "You're very observant."
"Yeah, well," I stubbed out my cigarette, suddenly needing something to do with my hands. "Art school teaches you to notice details. Like how you guys move too smooth. Or how your eyes glow sometimes. Or how—"
I stopped as he stepped closer, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. Close enough to see that his skin really was too perfect, like something rendered rather than grown.
"Or how you both say human things like they're lines in a play," I finished quietly, my back pressed against the brick wall. Not backing away felt like the bravest thing I'd ever done. Or the stupidest.
That almost-smile widened slightly, showing perfect teeth. "Is that what we do?"
"You're doing it right now," I pointed out, artist's brain cataloging how the shadows fell wrong across his face. "Being all... cryptic and—"
"VITTORIA!" Mom's voice shattered the moment. "ORDERS UP!"
Brooks stepped back with that mechanical grace, but his eyes stayed fixed on me. "We should talk. After your shift."
It wasn't quite a question, wasn't quite a command. Like he was still learning the difference.
"Yeah, because that doesn't sound ominous at all," I muttered, pushing off the wall. "Very normal invitation from a very normal guy who definitely isn't—"
"Toria." The way he said my name made me stop. "Please."
"VITTORIA MARIE!"
"Coming!" I called back, already heading for the door. I paused with my hand on the handle, not looking back. "My shift ends at eleven."
I felt rather than saw him smile. "I know."
I burst back into the kitchen, face flushed and probably looking exactly like someone who'd just had a weird alley encounter with an impossibly perfect.
"There you are!" Mom thrust a tray at me. "Table 11's orders. And tesoro?" She caught my arm. "You look... bothered. Everything okay?"
"Fine!" My voice came out too high. "Totally fine. Just, you know, normal Friday stuff."
I balanced the tray carefully, very aware that three sets of eyes tracked my approach to their table—two impossible blue, one nervous brown.
"Carbonara," I set Sam's plate down first, noticing how the other two shifted slightly, almost protectively. "Extra spicy arrabiata," for Sean, whose grin somehow got wider. "And..." I hesitated at Brooks' plate, "Chef's special. Mom's experimenting again, so... good luck."
"Experiments can lead to interesting discoveries," Brooks said, and somehow it sounded meaningful.
Sean snorted into his pasta. "Subtle, Brooks. Real subtle."
I pretended not to hear that, or the sound of what was definitely another kick under the table.
I was stress-eating Mom's latest tiramisu creation at the counter (actually decent this time—crisis baking had its perks) when I heard the commotion from table 11.
Sam was half-standing, looking like he'd seen a ghost, while Sean and Brooks moved in perfect sync to block him from other customers' view. Their movements were too fast, too coordinated.
"Everything okay over here?" I approached cautiously, catching fragments of their whispered conversation.
"—can't just say that here—"
"—he's seeing them too—"
"—Brooks, we need to—"
Sam's eyes met mine, wild and panicked. "The symbols," he blurted out before Sean could clamp a hand over his mouth. "Do you see them too? In your dad's—"
"That's enough," Brooks cut in, his voice carrying an electrical undertone I'd never heard before. His eyes met mine, almost apologetic. "Just a caffeine reaction. He's... sensitive."
"Right," I said slowly, watching how they flanked Sam like bodyguards. "Caffeine sensitivity. Totally normal reaction to espresso. Definitely not concerning at all."
Sean's grin was strained now. "Maybe we should get the check."
"On the house," I heard myself say, not sure why. "Just... maybe get him some air?"
Brooks nodded, that perfect mask slipping just enough to show something ancient underneath. "Thank you, Toria."
"Wait, what—" Mom appeared as they practically carried Sam out, moving with that synchronized grace that definitely wasn't human. "Vittoria, you can't just comp meals without—"
"Trust me, Mom," I watched through the window as they loaded Sam into a yellow Camaro that definitely hadn't been there a minute ago. "It's better this way."
Sean caught my eye through the glass, giving me a two-fingered salute that somehow managed to look both playful and warning. Brooks... Brooks just looked at me, his impossible blue eyes promising something I couldn't quite name.
I went back to my tiramisu, but now it tasted like classified secrets and government cover-ups.
"So," Rosa slid next to me, "want to explain why the hot government boys just rushed out like a SWAT team, or should I pretend I didn't see Mr. Perfect Hair basically eye-fucking you through the window?"
"I think," I stabbed my fork into the innocent dessert, "the kid was having some kind of episode about... symbols?" The same word Dad used to mutter in his sleep after long days at the base. The same patterns I kept seeing in my dreams since Mission City.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: Still meeting after your shift?Unknown Number: Some things are easier to explain in person.
The rest of my shift passed in a blur of coffee orders and glances out the window, but no more yellow Camaros appeared. No more impossibly perfect men with glowing eyes. Just normal Friday night tourists asking if we had gluten-free pasta.
"You're distracted," Mom said as I wiped down tables for closing. "More than usual."
"Just tired," I lied, definitely not thinking about my upcoming maybe-date with a maybe-human. "Long day."
She touched Dad's ring through her shirt—a nervous habit we shared. "Those men... they reminded me of before. Of when your father would bring his colleagues home. Always so... precise."
I paused mid-wipe. "What do you mean?"
But she just shook her head, already retreating to stress-organize the pastry case. Some things were easier not to talk about, I guess.
By 10:45, the last customers were gone and the café was as clean as it was getting. Mom had finally gone home after only three reminders to text her when I got in, and Rosa had left with a suggestive wink and a "don't do anything I wouldn't do."
Which left me, alone, watching the clock tick toward eleven and wondering if I was about to make a huge mistake.
My phone buzzed one last time.
Unknown Number: Look outside.
