The bell above the café door rings.
I don't look up. Not at first. I'm too busy pretending to read something on my phone while my cigarette burns in the ashtray beside a half-drunk espresso. I'm already on my second, or third. Whatever. The bitterness helps more than the caffeine.
It's quiet here. Tucked away near the arts building, where people wear berets and heartbreak like accessories. I come here when I want to be invisible.
Then I feel it.
That shift in the air.
That soft, careful silence that only belongs to one person on this entire goddamn campus.
I lift my eyes slowly.
And there he is.
Atlas Reed.
In his soft gray hoodie, rain still clinging to the fabric like it wants to stay close to him a little longer. Jaw sharp, glasses fogged slightly. A textbook in one hand. Vanilla-scented coffee in the other.
Of course he'd pick this place.
He sees me. Pauses. Like he didn't mean to. Like his legs brought him here before his brain did.
My lips curl around the cigarette. I take one long drag, watching him through the haze of smoke like he's a bad idea I've already committed to once.
His eyes drop to the blue dress I'm wearing. Knee-length. Silk. Expensive. Stolen, technically—from my mother's closet while she was passed out.
"Blair," he says, quietly.
It's that voice. The one that makes people listen in class even when he whispers. The one that sounds too sincere for someone like me.
I don't let him say anything else.
"You shouldn't be here," I say flatly.
"I didn't know—"
"Well, now you do. So walk away, Reed. Run back to your spreadsheets and… virtue."
He blinks, like he wants to say something smart. Something that could fix the hundred shattered versions of me.
But I don't want fixing.
Not from him.
Not now.
"You smell like—"
"Smoke and sin? Yeah, I know." I lean back in the chair, flicking ash into the tray like it's punctuation. "Don't worry. I don't bite… unless you ask nicely."
He looks at me like I'm a foreign language he's still learning.
"Blair—"
"No," I snap, sharper this time. "Don't say my name like it's a prayer. You don't get to be kind. Not after the world decided I'm the villain and you're the boy they'd rather see me ruin."
His jaw tightens.
I stand up.
Tall. Taller than most people expect. Not him though. He still towers.
But in heels, in a silk blue dress with smoke in my lungs and fire in my chest, I almost feel like I can reach him.
"You think you want to know me?" I whisper. "You don't. You want the version of me that dies the moment you try to hold it."
I brush past him.
My perfume—dark berries, danger, and defiance—clashes with the warm vanilla of his coffee.
And as I walk out, I say without looking back:
"Next time, pick another café, Professor Perfect."
The bell rings again.
And I disappear like smoke.
Like I was never real to begin with.
---
The café was supposed to be quiet.
I came for the solitude. For the soft rain on the windows and the smell of fresh-ground coffee and peace.
Not her.
God, not her.
She's sitting near the window, legs crossed, cigarette between her fingers, like a sin waiting to be confessed. Hair pulled up in a messy bun, a bottle of something definitely not coffee beside her half-finished espresso.
She's wearing blue today.
Not ripped jeans. Not black leather. Not her usual warpaint.
A silk blue dress that drapes over her like poetry. Expensive. Maybe stolen. Maybe not. With Blair Maddox, you never know which version of the truth you're meeting.
My chest tightens.
I should leave.
But my feet betray me—just like they always do around her.
She looks up. Eyes locked on mine before I can even blink.
Cigarette perched on her lips, she smirks like she expected me to show up, like I'm just another punchline to her private joke.
"Blair," I say, quietly.
She doesn't say hello.
She doesn't smile.
Her tone slices like glass. "You shouldn't be here."
"I didn't know—"
"Well, now you do. So walk away, Reed."
Reed. She only ever uses my last name when she's trying to build walls. And it always makes me want to tear them down.
"You smell like—"
"Smoke and sin?" she interrupts, exhaling a thick cloud between us. "Don't worry. I don't bite… unless you ask nicely."
God.
Why does she do that?
Why does she act like she's untouchable and then throw herself off emotional cliffs just to see who won't catch her?
"Blair—"
"No," she snaps. Louder this time. More real. "Don't say my name like it's a prayer. You don't get to be kind. Not after the world decided I'm the villain and you're the boy they'd rather see me ruin."
I feel it in my stomach. That strange mixture of guilt and fury. Like I've already failed her without ever being given the chance to try.
She stands.
In heels, she's almost eye-level.
And when she looks at me—really looks at me—it's like she's daring me to break the rules for her.
"You think you want to know me?" she says softly. "You don't. You want the version of me that dies the moment you try to hold it."
Then she's gone.
Walking past me with a scent that burns—smoke and vanilla, ruin and rebellion.
She says without turning back:
"Next time, pick another café, Professor Perfect."
And the door closes behind her.
But she's still here.
In the fog on my glasses.
In the smell on my hoodie.
In the part of my chest that won't stop aching every time she looks away.
And I realize something terrifying.
I don't want to pick another café.
Not if she's in this one.