Urban System in America

Rex was half-slouched in his chair, phone in one hand, fork in the other, eating like any regular teenager killing time. Except, of course, he wasn't regular. The occasional glance he got from the staff, the lingering stares from nearby tables, especially the girls… it was the kind of attention he had started to recognize as background noise.

A few of them even looked like they were psyching themselves up, rehearsing some cheesy opening line in their heads, as if this café was about to turn into the first chapter of a terrible romance novel.

In their heads, it was probably the start of one of those cheap, mass-produced romance novels that polluted every bookstore shelf. You know the type… handsome stranger sitting alone, exuding mystery and loneliness, waiting for someone bold enough to walk up and "heal his heart." Cue the dramatic lighting, the syrupy narration about destiny, and of course, the never-ending chatter about alphas, betas, gammas, and whatever other Greek-letter nonsense authors cooked up to mask the fact that their stories were all the same.

And naturally, the lead character was always packing some "indispensable" ten-inch weapon in his pants, because apparently that was the key to true love.

Sadly, he was not the protagonist described in all those clichés. He was just a guy eating lunch and texting. No brooding mystery, no tortured past to be healed, no secret wolf-blooded alpha genes lurking beneath his skin. Just Rex, a little too handsome for his own good.

He was used to it by now, the attention, the whispers, the stares that tried to turn him into something out of a paperback fantasy. Alas, what could he do? It wasn't his fault he was this unfairly good-looking.

So, he ignored it all, focusing instead on Monica's messages that lit up his screen, their playful banter softening the wait.

The café's bell chimed, breaking his rhythm. Rex lifted his gaze lazily, then immediately straightened when he saw Aren push through the door. He tucked his phone away, reluctantly typing a quick goodbye to Monica, and raised his hand.

"Over here!"

His voice cut across the low hum of the café, and for the first time since stepping in, Aren had a direction to move toward. He moved through the crowd with a kind of heavy stiffness, weaving past chairs and murmuring voices before sinking into the seat across from Rex.

They exchanged a quick greeting, nothing too formal, and for a moment Rex simply studied him.

He was different. Last night, even in a simple waiter's uniform, Aren had looked neat, almost sharp, as if wearing clean lines could hide the strain behind them. But now, dressed in his regular clothes… or what was left of them after being worn thin, he looked far from put together. The contrast was jarring. Miserable, that was the word, though Rex kept it locked in his mind and nowhere near his tongue.

Instead, without a word, he casually raised a hand to stop the passing waiter and ordered another plate of the same breakfast he was having. He didn't bother asking Aren what he wanted, no point in that. He already knew the answer would've been a polite refusal, maybe even a stubborn one. Pride had its own rules, and men carried it like armor, even when that armor was cracked and falling apart. Sometimes offering a choice was the fastest way to get a rejection.

And just by looking at his appearance Rex could tell the story without needing to ask. Aren hadn't had breakfast… that much was obvious. His skin carried that pale, hollow look that only came from running on empty, and the faint cracks in his lips hinted at thirst too. But what really gave him away were the eyes. Those glorious black circles beneath them, dark enough to look like bruises, told the whole tale: he hadn't slept last night, not properly, maybe not at all.

It didn't take a genius to connect the dots. No sleep meant no breakfast, and even if he'd forced something down, Rex doubted it had been anything substantial. Probably a stale piece of bread, maybe leftover scraps from the restaurant, whatever he could get his hands on. Certainly nothing that could pass for a meal. The kind of diet that kept you alive, but didn't let you live.

Still, Rex found himself oddly satisfied as he watched him. Of course, not pleased at Aren's suffering, no, but at what it implied. That kind of exhaustion, that worn-out state, it didn't come from laziness. It came from dedication, from grinding at something until there was nothing left to give. Aren wasn't slacking off; he was throwing himself headfirst into the film prep, burning through sleep and meals just to keep going. Reckless? Sure. Miserable? Definitely. But in Rex's eyes, it was proof, a proof of his dedication.

It didn't take more than a few minutes for the waiter to return, balancing the plates with practiced ease. He set one down in front of Aren, the aroma of warm bread and eggs rising instantly between them. Aren didn't move at first, but his stomach betrayed him with a low, audible grumble that slipped out before he could mask it.

Rex caught the sound, lips twitching into the faintest smirk. "Eat first," he said, voice steady but not unkind. "We'll talk later."

Aren hesitated, fingers tightening against the edge of the table as if unsure whether to give in or keep up the act. His hands hovered, caught between reaching for the fork and pretending he wasn't hungry. Pride… stubborn as ever. But hunger was a relentless enemy, and eventually it won. Slowly, he picked up the fork, breaking the silence with the faint scrape of metal against porcelain as he began to eat.

Rex leaned back, scrolled through his phone randomly, so as to not make him feel embarrassed. From the corner of his eye, he watched Aren chew with careful restraint, each bite reluctant but necessary, then finally broke the silence with a line that sounded more casual than it really was.

(End of Chapter)