The bell above the door of the Grounds Keep jingled for what felt like the thousandth time, its cheerful sound a stark contrast to Amelia's leaden fatigue. It was 8:55 PM. Her shift was a graveyard of spilled milk, complex syrup orders, and the lingering smell of sour coffee grounds. All she wanted was to crawl back to her dorm, shower, and fall face-first into her pillow.
She was wiping down the steam wand with a kind of grim finality when the door jingled again. She didn't even look up. "We're closing in five," she called out, her voice flat.
"Perfect timing, then."
Her head snapped up. Adrian Vale was leaning against the doorframe, his silhouette outlined by the soft glow of the campus lights behind him. He wasn't dressed in his usual uniform of casual luxury. He wore a simple, dark crewneck sweater and jeans, and he looked… tired. The effortless aura was dimmed, the usual glint in his eyes replaced by a subdued gravity.
"What are you doing here?" The question came out more accusatory than she intended.
He raised an eyebrow. "We had a study group. Or did the tyranny of the espresso machine wipe your memory?"
Amelia stared at him, the damp cloth forgotten in her hand. She had assumed his offer, made in the heat of their library debate, was a vague, polite gesture. She never actually thought he'd show up. And certainly not here, at her place of work, five minutes to closing.
"You're serious?"
"Deadly," he said, but the joke fell flat. He shoved his hands in his pockets and glanced around the empty shop. "Unless you've changed your mind. I can go."
Ethan, who was counting the till in the back, peered out. He saw Adrian, then shot Amelia a look that was equal parts curiosity and warning. She gave him a tiny, helpless shrug.
"No," she heard herself say. "It's fine. Just… let me finish closing up."
She worked with frantic efficiency, her tiredness replaced by a buzzing nervous energy. She wiped counters, stacked chairs, and mopped the floor with a speed that made Ethan whistle.
"Easy there, Reed. You'll wear a hole in the tile," he murmured as she passed him with the mop bucket.
"He actually came," she whispered back, her voice tight.
"I see that. You want me to stick around? Be a chaperone?"
"No," she said, too quickly. "It's fine. It's just studying."
Ethan didn't look convinced, but he just nodded. "Alright. I'm done here. Lock up tight?" He grabbed his backpack, gave Adrian a long, appraising look, and left, the bell jingling his exit.
The shop was silent. The only sounds were the hum of the refrigerator and the frantic beating of Amelia's heart. Adrian had taken a seat at a small table by the window, his backpack on the floor beside him. He was staring out at the darkened campus, his profile sharp and pensive.
"Okay," Amelia said, pulling out the chair opposite him. She unloaded her own heavy backpack, the thud of her books breaking the quiet. "Let's get this over with."
A faint smile touched his lips as he turned from the window. "Your enthusiasm is infectious."
They spread their books and notes out on the small table. For the first twenty minutes, it was all business. They compared thesis statements, argued over secondary sources, and divided up the key themes they needed to cover. It was productive, efficient. But the entire time, Amelia was acutely aware of the strange intimacy of the situation. They were alone in the warm, dimly lit coffee shop, an island of light in the dark, sleeping campus. This wasn't the public library or the loud cafeteria. This was her territory, but his presence had transformed it.
The professional facade began to crack when Adrian tried to explain a particularly dense piece of critical theory.
"No, you're reading it wrong," Amelia said, frustration edging her voice. She reached across the table, her finger tracing the lines of text in his book. "See? He's not dismissing the author's intent; he's arguing that the narrative structure itself subverts it."
He was quiet. She looked up from the page and found he wasn't looking at the book at all. He was looking at her hand, then at her face, his expression unreadable.
"What?" she asked, pulling her hand back self-consciously.
"Nothing," he said, his voice quiet. "It's just… you're the first person who's ever told me I'm reading something wrong."
Amelia blinked. "That can't be true."
"It is." He leaned back, running a hand through his hair. The gesture was weary. "Most people just… agree. Or they get flustered and change the subject. My high school tutors, my… friends. They all just nod along." He met her eyes, and the vulnerability there was so stark it stole the air from her lungs. "You don't. You never have. Not since you told me you'd prefer a root canal."
The memory of their first meeting flashed between them, now stripped of its anger, leaving only a raw, startling honesty.
"I… you were being obnoxious," she managed, her defensive walls trembling.
"I was," he agreed without a hint of defensiveness. "I am, a lot of the time. It's easier." He looked away, out the window again. "This…" He gestured vaguely at the books between them. "This is harder. But it's real."
The confession hung in the air, simple and devastating. Easier. Real. Two words that hinted at a universe of pressure and performance she could only dimly perceive.
Amelia's carefully constructed image of him—the spoiled, arrogant heir—shattered. In its place was something far more complicated: a boy who was lonely, who was trapped by the very privilege she resented, who was genuinely, startlingly brilliant, and who was sitting in a closed coffee shop with her because she was the only person who challenged him.
The silence stretched, thick and meaningful.
"Adrian," she said softly.
He turned back to her, and the mask was completely gone. He just looked young, and tired, and real.
"Don't," he said, a plea in his voice. "Don't look at me like I'm some tragic figure. I'm not. I just…" He sighed, a long, slow exhalation. "I liked arguing with you in the library. I liked that you didn't care who my father was. I just wanted to do it again."
Amelia's heart performed a slow, painful somersault. All her defenses, all her witty retorts, deserted her. There was only the truth of the moment.
"I liked it too," she whispered.
The air between them was electric. The books, the essay, the entire world outside the coffee shop windows, ceased to exist. He was just a boy. She was just a girl. And for the first time, there was no lie between them, no performance, no masquerade. There was only the crackling, terrifying, exhilarating truth of a connection that had been forged in spilled coffee and sealed in the quiet of a library, finally acknowledged in the dim light of a place that smelled of beans and honesty.
The first crack in her armor wasn't a wound. It was an opening. And as she looked at him, truly looked at him, she knew nothing would ever be simple again.