Zaire hated mornings. They always wanted too much—clarity, patience, actual conversation. Today, he got all three, plus a mess of ink-stained papers and a girl who looked like she was built from daydreams and a complete lack of coordination. He stared at the coffee bleeding through his notes and let out a sigh.
Niah was still apologizing, her words tumbling over each other, eyes fixed on the ink like it might leap up and bite her. She'd thrown herself into the work with the energy of a hurricane trying to alphabetize a filing cabinet. He almost smiled. Almost.
Then—
Knock, knock, sounding almost musical.
The girl who walked in was taller than Niah, with wild curls, dark lipstick, and eyes that could probably see through walls. Zaire stared at her blankly. She had a basket of croissants like she was offering a truce, and she scanned the room like she was tallying up the chaos.
Her gaze landed on him. "So, you're the one who makes her break stuff, huh?"
Zaire blinked. "Uh…, What?"
Niah groaned from her chair. "Jules, can you please behave?"
"I'm always on my best behavior." Jules shot Niah a look, then turned back to Zaire. "You must be the infamous Zaire Castellan."
Infamous? Zaire's eyebrow twitched.
"Word gets around so fast," Jules said, stepping closer and holding out a croissant. "I'm Jules. Niah's best friend. Chaos control. Emotional damage cleanup crew"
He took the pastry, eyeing Niah. "You did not say she was this… chatty."
"She's worse when she likes someone," Niah mumbled, cheeks going pink.
Zaire froze, and his eyes narrowed at the word likes?
Jules flopped down next to Niah, snagging a croissant for herself. "So, what's your deal?"
"My deal?" Zaire echoed, deadpan.
"Yeah. You. The moody trench coat. The way you hover like some kind of literary vampire."
Niah nearly choked. "JULES."
Jules shrugged. "Hey, it's not a bad look. Just… oddly specific."
Zaire tilted his head, not sure if he should be offended or laugh. "Guess I did not plan on being haunted by ink and sarcasm today."
"Every day's a plan with her," Jules said, nodding at Niah. "You're just part of it now."
He glanced at Niah. She was hiding behind her hands, groaning. But the blush on her face said more than any apology ever could.
And Zaire, damn him, was still thinking about the way her fingers brushed his when she handed him the ink bottle. The way she flinched when he called her Esme. The way she didn't deny it. There was something there. He could feel it, like a loose thread he wasn't supposed to pull but couldn't leave alone.
Jules stretched and stood. "Well. You two have fun with your weird little ink-flirt tension. I've got stuff to do."
"Jules, you're not helping," Niah hissed.
"Never said I would." Jules winked and slipped out.
Silence dropped over the room. Zaire leaned back, arms folded. "Your friend's… a lot."
"She's just observant."
"That's a dangerous combo."
They stared at each other across the table, the battlefield between them marked by ink stains and awkward tension.
Zaire cleared his throat, voice softer now. "Esme."
She looked up, sharp. "It's Niah."
"No," he said quietly. "It's both. Isn't it?"
Her face changed, just for a second, like someone had knocked the wind out of her. And just like that, the wall between them cracked.
Zaire glanced at the smeared parchment, then back at her. "You don't remember yet," he murmured, mostly to himself.
Niah straightened. "What do you mean, yet?"
But he didn't answer. Not until he was sure. Not until the name stopped shaking the air between them like thunder before a storm.
* * *