The coffee shop hums with low conversation and bad indie music.
You’re hunched over your laptop, drowning in a midterm paper, when a paper cup slides across the table toward you. You glance up Warren stands there, all black hoodie and quiet heat, eyes catching the light like amber.
“Double shot, no sugar,” he says. “You looked like you needed it.”
You blink. “You remembered my order?”
He shrugs, pulling up a chair. “You order it every day. I’ve got a memory, not a superpower.”
You smile. “Depends who you ask.”
He smirks that quick, crooked thing that could light a match. “Careful. Keep talkin’ like that and people’ll think we’re friends.”
“Would that be so bad?”
He leans back, flicking his lighter open with a soft click. The flame dances in his eyes before he snaps it shut again. “For you? Maybe.”
The air between you hums caffeine, sarcasm, and something warmer.
After a pause, he tilts his head. “You’ve been here for hours. You eat anything today?”
You shake your head. “I’m fine.”
He sighs, muttering something under his breath, and slides half a muffin your way. “Fine people don’t shake when they type. Eat.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You’re bossy.”
He smirks again, softer this time. “Nah. Just don’t like seein’ people burn out.”
The warmth in his voice catches you off guard. You take a bite, trying to hide your smile.
When you glance up again, he’s watching you not in the way that burns, but in the way that feels like light finally finding something worth staying for.
And for the first time all semester, you realize maybe the fire everyone warned you about isn’t the kind that destroys it’s the kind that keeps you alive.