As Long as You Don't Block the View

For a moment, I freeze.
I feel pinned in place by those eyes, like two flashlights trained directly on me.

It takes me a few seconds to react—to remember why I came here. The journalist in me takes over. I raise my phone as fast as I can and try to take a picture of the hill, of the “entity.” Almost as if in on the joke, the moon slips back behind the clouds. The image comes out washed out, blurry. Nothing recognizable.

“Of course…” I think, lowering the phone and slipping it into my pocket.

When I look up again, I can no longer make out the entity itself.
But they’re still there. Those eyes on the hill. I don’t see them clearly anymore—but I feel them.

They’re no longer looking at me.
And yet, it doesn’t feel like rejection. It feels like a shift in focus.

I study the hill. It’s steeper than it looked from below, and the grass is soaked with dew, so I move carefully, grabbing roots and clumps of grass to keep from slipping.

Every few steps, I glance back to where I last saw him. The shape slowly takes form in the darkness. He still isn’t looking at me—his attention clearly fixed on something else. That calms me more than it should. If I don’t interest him, maybe he isn’t dangerous. Maybe Gabriel exaggerated.

I stop halfway up, when the figure becomes clear enough.

Up close, he doesn’t look like an entity at all.
He’s a young man around my age, maybe a little older. Ordinary clothes—cargo pants and a dark turtleneck. Relaxed posture. Sitting with his forearms resting on his knees, like any other spectator watching the match on the field below.

Too normal.
Too ordinary.

Except for the eyes.

Now, without fear or suggestion clouding my vision, I can see them properly. They aren’t “glowing.” They don’t emit light. But they are undeniably golden—dense, warm amber. A solid nine on my scale.

I keep walking toward the top. He looks focused, jaw clenched, like something is worrying him. I swallow.

“Hey…” I say, trying to hide my nerves. “Everything okay?”

“If only it were,” he says, without taking his eyes off the horizon.

My stomach tightens slightly. He gestures toward one of the players on the field.

“That right back is a disaster,” he says flatly.

I blink, incredulous.

“What are you talking about?”

“He’s late to every play. Doesn’t cover either. A complete mess,” he continues, clearly irritated.

Silence. My brain takes a few seconds to recalibrate, to dismantle the paranormal movie I’d built in my head.

“So he’s not a tragic entity,” I think with a sigh. “He’s just a guy watching football.”

The absurdity of the situation gets to me anyway, and I let out a small laugh.

“Do you mind if I come a little closer?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer right away.

“As long as you don’t block the view,” he finally says, without taking his eyes off the field.

I climb a bit higher and stop beside him, keeping a polite distance. Awkward silence.

“I’m Elena,” I say, trying to break the ice. “Communications.”

“I’m Lorcan,” he replies.

Nothing else.

“Do you study here?” I ask.

“No.”

“Then…?”

“I went out to clear my head. And ended up watching football. Or the lack of it.”

Coincidence. I nod, as if that explains everything, and the awkward silence settles in again. The journalist in me starts to resurface.

“And…” I ask, “do you come to this hill often to… get some air?”

“When I can.”

“At this hour? Don’t you have a home?”

He tilts his head slightly and points toward a distant house on the horizon—beyond the hill, past the edge of campus.

“My home is nearby,” he says.

Everyone on campus had heard about that mansion. Always closed, its iron gates swallowed by the forest. You couldn’t see inside from the outside. Gabriel had dedicated two entire podcast episodes to it—recording from outside, camping nearby, waiting for something to happen. I’d never thought it was actually inhabited.

Little by little, I stop paying attention to the match and start studying Lorcan more closely. Sharp features. What looks like a burn scar on his right hand. He’s in good shape, too.

Nine and a half out of ten. Ridiculous.

But what’s hardest to ignore are his eyes. I’ve never seen golden eyes before. Maybe they’re just light brown under good lighting?

“You have very unusual eyes…” I blurt out, realizing too late.

Lorcan lets out a laugh. It sounds genuine.

“I get that a lot,” he says.

“Is it… genetic?”

“You could say that.”

He turns his attention back to the game. The atmosphere feels pleasant. Too pleasant—pleasant enough to remind me why I came up here in the first place. I take out my phone.

“Hey,” I say, trying to lie, “if you don’t mind, I’d like to take a photo of us from up here. To… prove something.”

Lorcan looks at me this time. There’s no threat. No curiosity either. Just a quick assessment.

“That wouldn’t be advisable,” he says.

“Why?”

He sighs. Opens his mouth to speak—then stops. What happens next is… hard to explain.

Lorcan shoves me down with far more force than I expected. The wet grass scrapes my hands as the world slams me into the ground.

The air turns dense. Heavy. As if someone compressed the space itself with their hands.

I catch sight of a ball—it looks like it’s headed straight for Lorcan. I don’t hear the impact. But I feel something like a gust of wind hit it instead. The ball shoots upward at an absurd angle, spinning slowly, suspended in an instant that lasts far too long.

I have time to think that shouldn’t have happened.
I have time to think that something is very wrong.

The ball starts to fall back down—faster than it should.

It hits me square in the face. My head snaps back against the grass. First I see white, then nothing. I let out a strangled groan. The world spins far too fast.

“Shit,” I hear Lorcan say.

Still on the ground, I bring a hand to my nose. My fingers come away red.

“Great,” I mutter. “I always wanted my first paranormal encounter to end in traumatology.”

“There was nothing paranormal,” Lorcan says. “In fact, that was a terrible shot.”

“Oh, sorry. I almost died watching mediocre football.”

He leans in slightly to get a better look at me, frowning. His golden eyes are even prettier up close.

“Seeing double?” he asks.

“No,” I reply. “But if I start seeing two Lorcans, I promise I’ll let you know.”

He doesn’t smile. That unsettles me more than the hit. He helps me sit up.

“I’m taking you to the infirmary,” he states.

“Is that really necessary? I can walk. I think.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“I’ve bled before. I’m pretty good at it.”

Lorcan stays silent. He offers me his arm, without making a big show of it.

“Lean on me. Don’t argue.”

I take a step. The dizziness comes back—brief, but unmistakable.

“Okay,” I concede. “Maybe the infirmary isn’t a bad idea.”

Lorcan kicks the ball back toward the field, and we start walking down the hill toward the infirmary.

“I’m sorry,” Lorcan says after a few seconds. “I’m used to moving alone.”

I look at him. I can feel my face swelling already.

“And that has to do with…?”

“That I don’t always calculate well when there’s someone else nearby.”

He says nothing more. I don’t really understand what he means—I assume it’s the dizziness. I try to lighten the mood.

“No problem,” I say. “Next time I’ll warn you before existing too close to you.”

“That would help.”

I try to laugh. My face hurts.

“I also promise not to climb dark hills at night,” I add. “At least not this week.”

“I appreciate the effort.”

The sounds of the field fade behind us, while my head tries—and fails—to catch up with everything that just happened.