The Liar and the Flame
I was a liar.
The moment the bells above the café door chimed and she stepped inside, the world I had known just seconds before shattered into embers. Every thought, every doubt, every remnant of composure burned away beneath the sheer gravity of her presence.
If she had asked me to confess to crimes I'd never committed, I might have done it.Because deep down, I already knew—I was being undone.
But love? No. Love was too vast a word for what I felt then. It wasn't fire; it was a spark. Not devotion—just curiosity, laced with danger. A crush, maybe. But if something as fleeting as this could make me feel drunk on sight alone, I dared not imagine what true love might do.
That would destroy me.
As she walked in, the café itself seemed to shift. The light caught in her hair, a halo of gold that moved when she did. The air thickened—warmer, denser, as if the universe itself held its breath for her. She burned, not with heat that consumed, but with light that revealed—radiance that made the mundane holy.
And I, helpless in her orbit, already knew: if she asked me to follow her into ruin, I would.
When our eyes met, it was like being struck.A spark—sharp, electric, cruelly alive—shot through my chest.
Hazel eyes, soft yet unreadable. Eyes that carried a thousand secrets and one warning: don't get too close.There was something regal in her calm, something that made me want to bow—or run.
She approached slowly, each step deliberate, controlled. But beneath that precision, I saw it: exhaustion. A weight she carried too carefully. Whatever this life was, it was draining her—and I hated it.
Then again, I couldn't blame her. Anyone working beside Emmet's burnt-coffee crimes would look like they'd survived a war.
"Hey, Aubrey." Her voice, low and tired, still managed to warm the air. "Didn't expect to see you here."
Her lips curved into a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
My throat tightened. "Couldn't resist the charm of this place," I said lightly.
Her gaze flicked to the cup on my table. "Ah," she teased, "so you're here for the coffee."
I lifted it in mock salute. "Best in the city."Then, because I was an idiot, I took a sip.
It was agony.Bitter enough to peel paint off the walls.
She chuckled softly. "You don't have to lie to spare my feelings."
Before I could stop her, she slid into the seat beside me, close enough that I could smell her—citrus and rain, faintly sweet. Then her hand brushed mine as she reached for the cup. Just a fleeting touch. Barely contact at all. But my pulse stumbled, tripping over itself like it had forgotten how to move.
She plucked the cup from my grip, her voice soft but steady. "Let me make you a new one. Anything Emmet makes is an act of war."
I should've let her go.
Instead—"Wait."
The word slipped out before I could catch it.
My hand moved on its own, fingers curling gently around her wrist. Not forceful. Just enough.Her skin was warm—too warm.
She froze, her eyes flicking down to where I touched her, then back up.
Realizing what I'd done, I let go, heat crawling up my neck. "Sorry," I muttered. "I just meant—you look exhausted. Really. It's fine."
She tilted her head, amusement softening her fatigue. "You don't have to drink that to prove a point."
My voice dropped, too low for her to fully catch. "For you, I'd drink it a thousand times."
Her brows furrowed. "Sorry, what was that?"
"Nothing." I coughed into my fist, trying to sound casual. "But if you're insisting on making me a new cup, at least let me make it myself."
She blinked, startled. "You?"
I raised a brow. "Think I can't?"
Her lips parted in a soft laugh—a tired sound, but real. "Honestly? I'd pay to see that."
That laugh.It was sunlight breaking through smoke.
I could've sworn the world got quieter just to make space for it.
"Then take a seat," I said, standing. "You've earned a break."
Her gaze lingered on me as I moved. I could feel it on my back—soft, steady, burning.
When I reached the counter, Emmet didn't even try to hide his horror."Where's the fire?" he asked flatly.
"Right here," I said, flashing him a grin. "Where's the apron?"
He glared. "And when did you start working here?"
"Since you started serving war crimes," I replied, nodding toward my abandoned cup.
He groaned, clearly debating whether to throw me out or poison me. Then, catching sight of Emma watching from her seat, he muttered a curse, pulled out an apron, and shoved it into my hands.
"Don't burn the place down."
"No promises."
I slipped it on, tying the strings with exaggerated precision, feeling her eyes on me the entire time.
When I turned, she was leaning on the table, chin propped on her palm, smiling.
"Enjoying the show?" I asked.
"Very much," she said.
Her tone was soft, teasing, but there was something else beneath it—something watchful, searching.
The silence between us stretched thin. Electric. Dangerous.
For a fleeting second, I wondered what would happen if I reached out again—not for her wrist this time, but her hand.Would she let me?Or would she pull away like before, polite but distant?
Either way, I already knew the answer.
I was too far gone to stop now.