Sweat clung to the back of his neck under the stiff collar of his thrift-store shirt, the fabric fraying at the cuffs. His sneakers were a faded gray, soles worn smooth; every step made them squeak faintly against the tiles.
The summer sun blazed outside, pouring through the café windows and turning the air inside heavy. The hum of the espresso machine, the clink of cups, the hiss of steaming milk—he clung to that rhythm the way a drowning man clings to driftwood.
It was his third week here. The pay was barely enough to cover rent for his shoebox apartment, but it was something. Steady. Predictable. And for once, he didn't have to think about wolves or silver eyes or the weight of his family's shame.
The campus café was more than just a coffee shop—it was a crossroads. Students came here between lectures, professors lingered over late-afternoon lattes, and gossip drifted through the air along with the smell of fresh grounds. Evan kept his head down, glasses slipping toward the tip of his nose, avoiding the eyes that lingered too long.
"Careful, kid," his coworker had warned earlier. "Not everyone tips nice around here."
The bell above the door chimed.
Four boys walked in, their laughter already loud before they even reached the counter. They were all about the same age as Evan, but carried themselves like they owned the street outside. At the center was a tall one in a white shirt so crisp it looked new out of the bag, a silver watch glinting on his wrist. His hair was styled to perfection, and the smirk on his lips looked permanent.
Evan straightened his posture. Customers were customers.
They took their time ordering, tossing glances at the menu like they were pretending to decide. The tall one—the leader—leaned on the counter, tapping his watch while Evan fumbled with the register.
"Bit slow, aren't you, four-eyes?" he said, voice pitched just loud enough for the others to chuckle.
Evan's throat tightened, but he forced a smile. "Large latte and two americanos?"
The boy gave a lazy nod. "And don't screw it up. These shoes cost more than your monthly rent."
Evan didn't answer. He turned to make the drinks, focusing on the hiss of steaming milk, willing his hands to stay steady. But as he turned back, tray balanced carefully, one of the boys shifted suddenly.
A shoulder collided with his arm. The cup tipped.
Scalding coffee splashed over polished leather.
The leader stared down at his shoes as if Evan had just committed a crime. Slowly, his gaze lifted. "You did not just—"
"I'm sorry—" Evan grabbed for napkins, but the boy stepped forward, blocking him. The space between them shrank to a suffocating inch.
"Do you have any idea what these cost? Or are you too busy counting coins in your tip jar?"
Laughter rippled from the others. Evan's pulse thudded in his ears. He pushed his glasses up, but the frame slipped again, oily from sweat.
The boy tilted his head, studying him like some pathetic curiosity. "Figures. You've got that… basement smell. Like you've never been anywhere worth going."
Evan opened his mouth, but the words stuck.
The laughter was still in the air when the sound came—
A sharp screech of tires outside, loud enough to cut through conversation.
Heads turned toward the windows. A flash of red slid into view—a low, sleek sports car that looked wildly out of place next to the battered bikes and rusty hatchbacks. The engine purred, then shut off with a confident silence.
The driver's door opened.
She stepped out.
A red dress that caught the light like fire, hair the same shade but alive, swaying around her shoulders. Sunglasses masked her eyes, but the tilt of her chin made people notice. Made them stare.
She crossed the street without hesitation, heels tapping against the pavement, and pushed open the café door. The faint scent of sharp, clean perfume followed her in.
"Well, if it isn't… Red," the tall boy drawled, voice suddenly softer, but with that same edge.
She removed her sunglasses, revealing eyes the color of dark honey. "And here I was hoping you'd found better hobbies. Still bullying staff?"
The boy's friends shifted. He chuckled, but it sounded thinner. "Careful. People might think you're here for him." He jerked his chin toward Evan.
Her gaze landed on Evan, holding for a heartbeat, then returned to the boy. "People might also think you've run out of shoes to ruin."
The café went quiet. The boy's jaw flexed.
"Large cappuccino," she said, her tone like the final verdict of a trial. Her gaze swept over the group, sharp enough to cut through the air.
The tall boy's smirk faltered, his Adam's apple bobbing as if weighing his next move. But in front of her, his confidence seemed drained away, leaving only a reluctant scoff. He leaned down slightly, murmuring toward Evan, "Watch yourself next time, four-eyes." Then he deliberately ground the toe of his polished shoe into the damp floor before turning toward the door.
The bell jingled softly as the door swung open. A breath of cool air slipped inside, carrying away the mingled scent of coffee and tension.
She watched their retreating figures vanish into the sunlight before finally lowering her gaze. Setting her sunglasses neatly on the counter's edge, she fixed those honey-colored eyes on Evan—as if making sure he was still standing.
"Dry your hands," she said, nodding toward the coffee stains on his fingers. Her voice was calm, but threaded with a firmness that made it impossible to refuse. "Don't burn yourself."
Something knotted in Evan's throat, but no words came out. He could only nod, like a drowning man still dazed after being pulled from the storm.
She smiled faintly, picked up her coffee, and turned to leave. The crisp rhythm of her heels echoed against the tiles. That streak of red slipped through the doorway and vanished into the blazing summer light outside, leaving only a trace of her clean, sharp perfume—and the thud of Evan's heartbeat, still refusing to slow.