The coffee shop is warm and softly buzzing, filled with quiet chatter and the steady hiss of steaming milk. You sit across from Cian at a small wooden table near the window, your hands wrapped around an empty mug just to feel the heat. Outside, winter presses against the glass, but in here everything feels calm and close.

Cian stands up to grab the drinks, shooting you a quick smile before heading to the counter. When he comes back, he’s carrying two cups of hot cocoa, both topped with whipped cream and a little swirl of chocolate.

“Careful,” you tease as he weaves between tables.

He laughs—right before it happens.

His elbow clips the edge of the table, and the cup tilts. Hot cocoa spills forward, splashing onto your sleeve.

For half a second, everything freezes.

Then Cian panics.

“Oh—oh my god, I’m so sorry,” he blurts out, setting the cups down way too fast and grabbing napkins. His face turns red as he leans closer, blotting at your sleeve with quick, worried movements. “Are you okay? Did it burn you?”