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Chapter Two: Sparks in the Smoke
Maya didn't sleep that night. Every time she closed her eyes, the rooftop replayed itself. The way the guy's gaze had cut through her, sharp and unyielding. The way Rhea's smile had lit something inside her, quick and disarming.
By morning, she convinced herself it hadn't meant anything. Just a strange night, nothing more. Except—she caught herself scanning the cafeteria, half-expecting a flash of copper hair. She cursed under her breath when her heart dropped at every near-miss.
Get a grip, Maya.
She was halfway through a lukewarm sandwich when the room shifted. Conversations hushed. Heads turned. And there he was—Mr. Untouchable himself, walking through like he owned the air people breathed.
The hot guy.
He carried a kind of weight that parted crowds without trying. Maya's throat tightened. And then—like fate tipping the balance—she saw Rhea trailing behind him, earbuds dangling around her neck, backpack slung carelessly. Her laughter slipped into the room, quicksilver and alive.
Maya froze mid-bite.
Rhea spotted her first. A flicker of recognition. And then—worse—a grin. Not polite, not distant. Real.
"Hey, Rooftop Stranger," she called, loud enough that several tables turned.
Maya nearly choked. She wanted the floor to open and swallow her whole. Instead, she lifted a hand in a weak wave, cheeks burning.
The hot guy—Ezra, she remembered hearing someone whisper—slid into the seat beside Rhea with a fluid ease. His gaze swept the room, sharp as ever, but didn't linger on her. Not yet.
Rhea, however, didn't let Maya off the hook. She abandoned her tray, crossing the cafeteria in long, confident strides. She plopped down across from Maya like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"You disappeared last night," Rhea said, chin resting on her palm. "Guess the rooftop wasn't big enough for all three of us?"
Maya blinked. Words refused to assemble properly. "I—uh—didn't want to intrude."
"Intrude?" Rhea laughed softly. "You actually made it less boring. Ezra's allergic to conversation."
Across the room, Ezra looked up, as if he'd heard his name. His gaze found Maya this time—steady, unreadable. A silent dare.
Maya's stomach twisted. She felt caught between two forces: one like gravity, heavy and inevitable; the other like fire, sudden and alive.
"So," Rhea continued, eyes dancing, "tell me something about yourself, Maya. Besides the fact that you hoard rooftops."
The way she said her name—it was too much. Warmth slid down Maya's spine, unfamiliar and terrifying.
She scrambled for something—anything—to say. But before she could, Ezra rose from his seat and began walking toward them.
Each step deliberate. Each second stretching longer than it should.
Maya's breath hitched.
Rhea only smirked, unfazed. "Well. Guess the villain's joining us."
The table trembled as Ezra sat down beside her. His cologne was smoke and spice, unsettling in its nearness. His eyes pinned Maya like he could see past her skin, down to every secret she hadn't admitted, even to herself.
Rhea leaned closer, her shoulder brushing Maya's, voice dropping low and conspiratorial.
"Don't look so scared," she murmured. "He only bites when you ask him to."
Maya's heart thundered, caught between smoke and fire.
And she couldn't tell which one would burn her first.
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