The Coffee that burned
The only thing I had in mind was making an enjoyable cup of coffee for me and Emma—not for the six unexpected guests who had just strolled in like they owned the place.
Twenty minutes earlier, the café had been silent except for the hum of the espresso machine. I was carefully finishing two cups—one for her, one for me—when the door chimed and a man in a worn beige coat trudged in. He looked like he'd just clocked out of a double shift at the post office, exhaustion stitched into every line of his face.
He didn't bother to look around. He walked straight to the counter and said flatly,"One coffee with extra sugar and a slice of cheesecake."
No greeting. No smile. Just… command.
I barely had time to nod before chaos shattered the quiet.
"That was the worst coffee I have ever had."
The voice was sharp enough to cut through concrete.
I turned to see a striking woman with platinum-blonde hair and glacier-blue eyes glaring daggers at Emmet, who stood stiff and unamused behind the counter. Her untouched cup sat between them like evidence in a courtroom.
"I want a refund," she snapped, folding her arms with practiced drama.
Emmet didn't even blink. "Then give me the coffee back."
I choked back a laugh.The sheer bluntness of his reply froze her in place. For a heartbeat, her perfect expression cracked in disbelief.
"Emmet," came a voice like velvet drawn across steel.
Emma.
He went still instantly. The tension in his posture softened, but his eyes stayed wary.
"That's not how you talk to a customer," she said, stepping closer, calm but edged. "Even if you know her."
So he did know her.
The blonde blinked, her tone softening immediately. "Thank you, Em."There was history in that familiarity — old, complicated, and unspoken.
Emma sighed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Make her another coffee," she said, then turned to the woman. "And Claire, your highness, sit down before you melt the espresso machine with that glare."
Claire's icy façade dissolved into a grin. "Still bossy," she said, and practically bounced toward the nearest table. She dropped into the seat beside Emma with the casual intimacy of someone who had done it countless times before.
I stood behind the counter, tray still in my hands, watching the scene unfold like an accidental comedy.
This was supposed to be a quiet afternoon. Coffee. Company. Maybe a moment of peace.Now it was turning into a live sitcom.
Sighing, I picked up the two cups I'd just made and walked over to their table. Claire was in full monologue mode—hands flying, eyes bright, her laughter spilling over like champagne.
"Here's your coffee," I said, setting the cups down carefully.
She turned—and for the first time, really looked at me.
Her jaw dropped."Oh my God. You're so handsome! Aya—"
Before she could finish, Emma's hand shot out and clamped neatly over her mouth.
I blinked, torn between amusement and mild terror. Claire made muffled noises of betrayal beneath Emma's palm. Emma just sighed, shaking her head like this was her daily cross to bear.
"Aubrey," she said smoothly, her hand still silencing her friend, "this is Claire — one of my old high school friends. Claire, this is Aubrey Ardel."
Claire made a sound that could only be described as a delighted squeal.
I nodded politely, though the corner of my mouth betrayed me with a small smile.
And in that fleeting second—watching Emma's hand cover Claire's lips—I had a thought so absurd it startled me:that I wished it was my mouth beneath her touch.
I think I'm in trouble.
Emma finally released her, though not before giving Claire a glare sharp enough to flay paint off the walls.
Claire, of course, looked thrilled.
"Oh, so this is Aubrey," she said, grinning like she'd uncovered a secret. "Emma's told me absolutely nothing about you. Which, by her standards, means you're interesting."
"Claire," Emma warned.
"What?" she said innocently. "I'm just saying he's cute. You have to admit it—he's got that whole 'brooding artist with an unspeakable past' thing going on."
Emma closed her eyes like she was praying for divine intervention.
Claire leaned toward me, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "You'd be the tragic love interest in a film. The one who doesn't realize he's already falling for the heroine."
"Claire," Emma repeated, sharper this time.
"Oh, come on," she laughed. "Don't tell me you haven't noticed. Look at him! He's like if coffee were a person—dark, complicated, and probably bad for you."
"Claire!"
Claire threw up her hands. "Alright, alright. I'll stop embarrassing you."
She didn't.
Instead, she winked at me. "I like him. You can keep him around."
Emma pressed her lips together, somewhere between exasperation and something else—something she wasn't ready to name.
A few minutes later, Claire's phone rang and she excused herself dramatically, promising to "come back with juicier gossip."
Silence followed. Heavy, but not awkward.
Emma's eyes drifted toward me, softer now, curious.Her voice, when it came, was quiet."Do you like me?"
I froze.
"What?"
She met my gaze, steady but searching. "Claire says things… and I just wanted to know if any of them are true."
My throat went dry. My heart was beating like it wanted out.
I could have told her yes. That I liked her way of thinking. Her laugh. The tiny crease between her brows when she concentrated. The way she carried the world like a secret and never let it crush her.
But I didn't.I couldn't.
So I lied.
"No," I said. "Not like that."
She didn't flinch. But the air changed.
Something in her shoulders shifted—a subtle drop, almost imperceptible. Her fingers tightened around her cup. The sound of porcelain against porcelain filled the silence as she adjusted it, though she didn't drink.
"Oh," she murmured. "Alright."
She looked down. Not embarrassed. Not angry. Just… quiet.
And that was worse.
Because it meant she hadn't expected a confession, but maybe—just maybe—she'd wondered.And now, that wondering had been put to rest.
I wanted to take it back.Every word.
But I didn't.
Because the moment was already gone, swallowed whole when Claire burst back in like a hurricane.
Her laughter filled the space, sweeping away whatever fragile truth had almost bloomed between us.
But when I looked at Emma again, she wasn't laughing. She was staring at her reflection in the window, lost in thought.
And for the first time, I could feel it—the quiet pull between us.A tension neither of us wanted to name.
It wasn't love. Not yet.It was something far more dangerous.
It was the beginning.