Chapter 150 It Feels Weird
After parting ways with Detective Wilson, Quinley didn't head straight home. She wandered around aimlessly until darkness fell completely, then finally made her way back to the southern district apartment.
As she passed the security booth, the elderly guard waved at her from a distance.
"Miss! Your boyfriend's been waiting here for you."
Quinley's heart sank. "I don't have a boyfriend."
She picked up her pace, desperate to avoid Zachary. But he was too quick—immediately emerging from the security booth.
"Cindy, wait up!"
He chased her while she ran ahead. Quinley was faster, slipping into the elevator and frantically hitting the up button. But when she reached her door, there was Zachary—back against it, breathing hard, waiting.
He was drenched in sweat but wore a triumphant grin. "Cindy! I finally caught up to you."
"Stop following me, Zachary."
Quinley ignored him, fishing out her keys. But Zachary forced his way inside as she opened the door.
"Why can't I follow you? You promised Lucas you'd take good care of me. Until he comes back, you have to look after me. You can't break your word."
His face flushed as he geared up for an argument.
"Fine, I'm breaking my word. So what? This is my home. Please leave."
Quinley glared at him. He stood there speechless for a moment, puffing out his cheeks and pouting.
She turned toward the kitchen to make pasta. Zachary remained rooted in place, eyes blazing with indignation.
By the time Quinley finished cooking and came back out, tears were streaming down his face. Zachary—who never showed emotion—was sobbing uncontrollably.
"I'm telling Lucas you're being mean to me."
He looked like a wronged child. Quinley chose to ignore the display, sitting down to eat her pasta.
He kept repeating his accusation through tears, the sound making her chest tight and the food taste like cardboard.
Zachary was mentally eight years old. Why was she being petty with a child?
"Do you want some pasta?"
The question came out muffled, but her tone had softened.
Zachary didn't answer. Just kept sniffling, stubborn defiance written all over his face.
Quinley's resolve crumbled. She stood, grabbed some tissues, and approached him.
"Stop crying."
She offered the tissues. He wouldn't take them, turning his head away with that jutting lower lip.
With a small sigh, she took his hand and guided him to the table, then gently wiped the tears from his cheeks.
"Do you know how hard it was for me to get that job? Whether I work there or not should be my decision, not yours to make unilaterally. I know you meant well, but what's the point of throwing your weight around like that?"
Quinley was rational by nature. Always had been. She never focused on just one piece of the puzzle—she looked at the big picture, considering long-term consequences.
"But I didn't want to watch those people bully you. If they want to mess with you, that's not okay."
His voice came out low and serious.
"They weren't bullying me. I messed up, and when you mess up, you face consequences."
"Then I'll have Lucas get you a different position."
"No need." She declined politely.
There was still pasta in the pot. She served him a bowl. Hunger must have kicked in—he wolfed it down eagerly.
After finishing, he started negotiating. "You ditched me twice today."
"Sorry."
The apology sounded perfunctory.
"I don't want sorry. I want to sleep with you tonight."
His demand came out completely shameless.
Quinley shot him a look. "You done eating? Because I'm driving you back to Maple Estate."
"I'm not going back. I'm staying here."
"This is my house. I decide sleeping arrangements."
The pronouncement was final and authoritative. Zachary had no comeback, just sat there with puffed-out cheeks.
Quinley realized that communicating with him meant thinking like a kid herself.
"I cooked dinner. You're doing dishes."
He grumbled but complied. While he was busy in the kitchen, Quinley quickly showered and locked herself in the bedroom.
This time she was smart about it—she turned the deadbolt.
The next morning, though, something hard poking her woke her up. Her head felt foggy as she instinctively reached out to push whatever it was away. Her hand encountered something firm and hot. Very familiar.
She snapped awake instantly, then spotted Zachary sleeping peacefully beside her.
"Zachary! How did you get in here?"
Her roar filled the room.
"There's a spare key. I used it to get in."
Zachary rolled over onto his back. A certain part of his anatomy stood at attention like a tent pole. He seemed completely oblivious while Quinley's face went scarlet.
"Get out!"
But Zachary refused. "No way. I want to sleep in your bed."
Fury bubbled up in Quinley's chest. She grabbed a pillow and hurled it at him—unfortunately with terrible aim. It landed squarely on his morning situation.
He let out an agonized shriek, curling into a shrimp-like position while clutching the affected area and wailing.
Quinley froze, realizing her mistake.
"Are you... are you okay?"
"It hurts so bad! I'm dying! It hurts so much!"
Zachary kept yelling.
"Look, you hurt me! It's all swollen!"
To her horror, he actually started pulling down his pants.
Quinley spun around immediately. "Zachary, pull your pants up!"
"I can't! It hurts too much! I'm dying!"
And then he started crying again. The tears sent Quinley into a panic.
"I'm sorry, okay? I apologize."
She admitted fault, but Zachary wasn't satisfied.
"I want a hug."
Over the past few days, he'd somehow learned the art of manipulation.
Quinley mentally rolled her eyes. Since she was in the wrong, she had to go along with it.
But the moment she opened her arms, Zachary pulled her down onto the bed in one swift motion. Despite his childlike mind, he still had a grown man's body and strength.
One quick flip later, she was pinned beneath him.
"Cindy, you're so beautiful."
Their bodies pressed together as he held her tight, the space between them practically nonexistent.
"Let go of me."
Quinley tried pushing him away, but Zachary whined petulantly, "Don't move. I'm hurt."
His muscular legs trapped her in place. A man and woman, alone in a room, locked in this compromising position.
"Be good. You're crushing me—I can't breathe."
Quinley tried coaxing him patiently. Zachary didn't respond or move. But the way he looked at her was getting hazy, unfocused.
"Cindy, it feels weird down there. Can you help me? Please?"
Eight-year-old Zachary didn't understand what was happening, but twenty-five-year-old Quinley knew exactly what this was.
He grabbed her hand and tried guiding it downward.
Reality crashed over Quinley like cold water. She shoved Zachary away hard.
"I'm running you a bath. Go wash up."
She rushed to the bathroom, filled the tub with cold water—didn't care if he'd catch pneumonia—and forced him into it.
Zachary promptly got sick.