Chapter 8: Stray with a Job
"Do you want to know your job?"
Bright glanced up from the couch, one eyebrow raised.
Emily stood in front of him, arms crossed, looking far too smug for someone who hadn't done a single productive thing all day.
He blinked slowly. "I'm sorry... what job?"
Emily's smirk widened.
"The one you already agreed to."
Bright frowned. "When the hell did I agree to that?"
"You said you'd think about it."
"Yeah, and I'm still thinking."
"Too late." She stretched, cracking her neck like she was about to give him the worst offer of his life.
"You're officially hired. Driver, butler… maybe bodyguard. We'll figure it out."
Bright sat up, mouth half open.
"That's not how jobs work."
Emily tilted her head, pretending to consider. "Maybe not. But I'm the boss."
Bright groaned, flopping back onto the couch.
"This feels like some rich kid power trip."
"Welcome to capitalism."
---
The next morning, Emily shoved a thick stack of paperwork into his hands.
"Driving school."
Bright blinked at the forms. "You're serious?"
Emily took a long sip from her coffee. "You need a license if you're going to drive me around."
Bright snorted. "Or... you could hire an actual driver."
Emily's lips curled.
"Where's the fun in that?"
---
Driving school was a disaster.
Bright stalled the car at least five times during his first lesson. The instructor looked like he aged ten years by the end of the day.
Emily rode in the back seat, sunglasses on, feet kicked up like she was on vacation.
"Turn left."
Bright clenched the wheel. "I know."
"You're about to miss it."
"I know."
"You missed it."
Bright gripped the wheel tighter. "I hope you choke on your coffee."
Emily grinned behind her sunglasses.
---
Somehow—by sheer luck or divine pity—Bright scraped through his driving test. The instructor handed him his license like he was reluctantly giving a knife to a toddler.
Bright beamed, holding it up for Emily to see.
"Proof I'm a functioning member of society."
Emily snatched it out of his hand, inspecting it.
"Huh. I honestly thought you'd bribe him."
Bright scowled, snatching it back. "You're the rich one, not me."
---
Life got… weird after that.
Bright drove Emily around in one of her ridiculous cars—sleek, black, way too expensive for someone who used to sleep in abandoned buildings.
Half the time, he didn't even know where they were going. Emily just handed him keys, climbed into the passenger seat, and said, "Drive."
They went to places Bright had never even seen before—gyms tucked away in glass towers, high-end restaurants where the napkins probably cost more than his entire life savings, and quiet alleys where nobody asked questions.
Emily knew everyone.
Not exactly friends—Emily didn't seem like the "friend" type—but people. Businessmen who always spoke in half-sentences. Rich kids who wore designer clothes and looked bored doing it.
There was Liam, the smooth-talking lawyer who could charm the socks off anyone and still somehow steal their wallet.
There was Rina, the chain-smoking fashion designer who made everything sound like a threat. She'd somehow convinced Bright to model for one of her suits once—an experience he was actively trying to repress.
Every time Bright asked how Emily knew these people, she just shrugged and said, "I know people."
He figured that was code for "Don't ask."
---
Despite himself, Bright started getting used to it.
The weird little routine they'd fallen into.
Driving. Errands. Gym sessions where Emily tried (and failed) to whip him into shape.
Bright still couldn't do a pull-up.
Emily still roasted him for it daily.
"You're hopeless."
"You're sadistic."
"I'm building character."
"You're building trauma."
---
Nights were always the best.
They'd end up on the balcony more often than not—Emily flicking her lighter open and closed, Bright nursing sore muscles and half-empty energy drinks.
They never talked about anything deep.
No tragic backstories. No grand confessions.
Just random stuff—like which one of Emily's neighbors was definitely having an affair or how Bright was statistically more likely to crash her car than successfully parallel park.
Then she will sometimes go to her place or just sleep in the same house.
It was stupid.
It was easy.
It felt… normal.
---
One night, after Emily had absolutely destroyed him at the gym again, they sat side by side on the balcony, the city lights flickering below.
Bright leaned back against the wall, half-dead.
"You're actually trying to kill me."
Emily flicked her lighter open. Click. Shut. Click.
"If I was trying to kill you, you'd know."
Bright smirked faintly.
He still didn't know what game Emily was playing or why she'd dragged him into it.
But for once, he didn't feel like running.
Maybe—just maybe—he could get used to this.
---
The catch had to be coming.
It always did.
But until it showed up—
Bright figured he'd just enjoy the ride.