Chapter - Twenty

She noticed me

The only thing I had in mind was making an enjoyable coffee for me and Ayah—not for the six unexpected guests who had just strolled in like they owned the place.

Twenty minutes earlier, I had been carefully finishing up the two cups I'd brewed just for us when a man, looking like he had just come off his shift at the post office, walked in. He wore a tired beige coat and a permanent frown etched into his features. Without so much as a glance around, he marched up to the counter with the confidence of someone who'd done this a hundred times before.

"One coffee with extra sugar and a slice of cheesecake," he said, flatly. No greeting. No smile.

I barely had a second to nod before a loud, biting voice snapped me back to the chaos erupting behind him.

"That was the worst coffee I have ever had."

My gaze shot to Emmet, who stood rigid across from a striking woman with platinum-blonde hair that shimmered like frost under the lights and eyes as sharp and blue as broken glass. Her words were daggers, and she wasn't done.

"I want a refund!" she demanded, her arms crossed, the untouched cup sitting defiantly between them.

Emmet didn't flinch. He simply folded his arms across his chest and said, "Then give me the coffee back."

The sheer bluntness of his reply stunned us both. I blinked in disbelief. Her jaw slackened for a moment.

"Emmet," came a voice like velvet laced with steel. Calm, firm, unmistakably Emma.

He stiffened instantly, as if her voice had flipped a switch in his spine.

"That's not how you treat a customer," she continued, stepping closer, eyes locked on him. "Even if you know her."

So he did know her.

The woman's expression softened as she turned to Emma, mouthing a small, grateful "thank you." There was history here. More than I expected.

Emma sighed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear as she glanced at Emmet with a tired sort of amusement. "Make a new coffee," she said, before turning her attention back to the blonde. "And Claire, your highness, come sit with me."

Claire's icy composure thawed in an instant. A wide grin spread across her face, and she let out a small laugh before practically skipping to the table, flopping into the seat beside Emma with the easy comfort of someone who had done it for years. The warmth between them was palpable—this wasn't just a reunion; it was a piece of their past stitched effortlessly into the present.

I stood for a moment behind the counter, fingers still wrapped around the edges of the tray, taking it all in. This was supposed to be a peaceful afternoon. Just coffee with Ayah. Now, it was a full-blown sitcom.

With a soft sigh, I carried over the two cups I had just finished preparing, catching snippets of Claire's excited chatter as I approached. She was animated, her hands moving as she spoke, like her words needed room to breathe.

"Here's your coffee," I said, placing the cups gently on the table.

Claire turned to me—and for the first time, really looked at me. Her eyes widened.

"Oh my God. You're so handsome! Aya—"

Before she could finish whatever wild thought was forming in her head, Emma shot a hand out and slapped it over Claire's mouth with comic precision. Claire's eyes ballooned in shock, muffled giggles escaping from behind Emma's palm.

I stood frozen, eyebrows raised in a mix of surprise and amusement. Claire looked somewhere between betrayed and entertained, while Emma just shook her head, clearly used to this.

"Aubrey," Emma said smoothly, her hand still silencing Claire, "this is Claire—one of my old high school friends. Claire, this is Aubrey Ardel."

Claire gave a muffled squeal of protest. I just nodded, trying to maintain a straight face.

But I couldn't help it.

For just a fleeting second, as I watched Emma's hand cover someone else's mouth, I found myself irrationally wishing it was my lips beneath her touch.

I think I'm in trouble.

Emma finally peeled her hand away from Claire's mouth, but not before giving her a glare that clearly said, Say one more word and I will end you.

Claire, of course, looked delighted.

"Oh, so this is Aubrey," she said, practically beaming at me. "I've heard absolutely nothing about you because Emma refuses to share anything remotely interesting about her personal life."

"Claire," Emma warned, her voice low and sharp.

"What?" Claire blinked innocently. "I'm just saying he's cute. Super cute. Like 'bookstore crush who drinks his coffee black and writes in Moleskines' cute."

Emma exhaled like she was praying for strength.

Claire wasn't done. "You have to admit, he's got that dark academia, brooding-with-a-secret vibe. Are you sure you're not harboring even the tiniest crush?"

"I'm sure," Emma said, tone flat but her ears warming pink.

Claire gasped. "You're using your lab voice. That means you're lying."

I stood awkwardly, unsure if I should laugh, blush, or vanish into the floor.

"To clarify," Emma said, turning to me now, her expression resetting to calm. "Claire and I have known each other since high school. She's loud. I'm not. She was top of drama. I was top of everything else."

Claire tossed her hair like a diva. "She's not lying. I cheated off her biology notes and lived."

Emma continued, unfazed. "And before anyone gets the wrong idea, Aubrey is a... friend. A coworker. We have mutual connections. That's all."

Claire eyed her like she'd just missed the point entirely. Then turned to me and added with a wink, "Still—you're really handsome. Has anyone ever told you that you have tragic love interest energy?"

"Not exactly in those words," I said, scratching the back of my neck.

"Well, you do. If this were a movie, you'd be the quietly brilliant guy the top-of-the-class girl ignores until—bam! Final act confession."

Emma groaned, hiding her face in her hands. "Why are you like this?"

"Because I watch people," Claire grinned. "And I see things."

Emma muttered something under her breath. But she was blushing now—and not just from embarrassment. Her fingers subtly pulled at the sleeves of her sweater, and when she looked up at me again, her gaze stayed a little longer.

She noticed.

My cheekbones, the shape of my jaw. The way I looked when I wasn't trying to be noticed.

And it caught her off guard.

Claire leaned back, satisfied. "I like him," she declared. "You can keep him around."

Emma didn't reply.

A few minutes later, Claire excused herself again—some call she "desperately" had to answer—and left us alone at the table.

I could feel Emma's eyes on me again, softer this time. Curious. And maybe... unsure.

Her voice came quiet, unexpectedly:

"Do you like me?"

I blinked. "What?"

She stared at me, searching. "I just want to know. Claire says things—and I can't tell if she's pulling it out of thin air or if there's something behind it."

My mouth opened. Then closed. My heart was hammering so loudly I was sure she could hear it.

I wanted to tell her yes. That I liked the way she explained things. That I liked how she carried herself like the world was a puzzle she could solve if people would just move out of her way. That I liked the way her eyes lit up when she was focused. And that I especially liked the quiet moments—when she wasn't trying to be anything at all.

But instead, I said:

"No. Not like that."

She didn't flinch. But her shoulders shifted, subtly. And something in her eyes dimmed—not quite hurt, not even surprised. Just... quiet.

"Oh," she said. "Alright."

She looked away then, adjusting her cup, though she hadn't taken a sip in minutes.

The disappointment was so small you could almost miss it.

But I didn't.

She hadn't expected a confession—but maybe, a part of her had been curious. A part that wondered what it would feel like to be liked that way by someone she wasn't sure about yet.

Now, I think she knew.

And so did I.

Claire returned with a dramatic flourish, launching right back into conversation like nothing had happened. The moment vanished beneath her words.

But Emma didn't look at me again—not for a while.

And yet, for the first time, I could tell she felt me sitting there.

Not just as some another guy she knows.

But as someone who had just slipped, unknowingly, under her skin.