Between Us, the war

Emma Harper hated crowded places. The coffee shop near campus-Bean & Ink-was usually her escape, a haven where she could sketch in peace, sip her vanilla latte, and pretend the rest of the world didn't exist. But today, the place was packed.

And of course, Maya was in her full element.

"I'm telling you, he looked right at you," Maya whispered loudly enough for three nearby tables to hear. Her oversized sunglasses were perched dramatically on top of her curls, her lip gloss sparkling like a dare.

Emma tugged at the sleeve of her hoodie and slumped lower in her seat. "He was looking at the drink menu, Maya."

"Nope. His eyes shifted left. I saw it. Table Seven. Guy with the guitar case. He's totally your type."

"I don't have a type," Emma muttered, flipping the page of her sketchbook and trying to focus on the half-finished profile of a woman with wild hair and sad eyes.

"Exactly. That's why you need one. And what better place to start than with Mr. Broody Guitar over there?"

Emma glanced up. Just a peek.

Table Seven.

He was leaning over his phone, earbuds in, drumming his fingers on the table in a rhythm she didn't recognize. Messy dark hair. Worn leather jacket. That lazy kind of confidence that screamed I don't care what you think-but the clean hands and subtle gold chain said maybe he cared a little.

And then, as if sensing her stare, his eyes flicked up.

They locked.

Emma's heart hiccuped.

She looked away too fast, nearly knocking over her latte.

Maya gasped. "Emma Harper blushed. It's happening. The curse is broken."

"There is no curse," Emma hissed, cheeks burning. "And we're leaving. Right now."

But fate, like Maya, had other plans.

Because as Emma stood up-sketchbook in hand, dignity barely intact-her foot caught on a chair leg. The sketchbook slipped. Pages fluttered like leaves, scattering across the floor in front of Table Seven.

Perfect.

Emma dropped to her knees, scrambling to collect the pages, trying to avoid eye contact, oxygen, or any sign that she was a functioning human being.

A hand reached down, holding out a page.

It was one of her drawings-a boy holding a guitar, sitting alone on a rooftop. A sketch she didn't even remember finishing.

"Is this yours?" a voice asked. Deep. Curious. A little amused.

Emma looked up-and into the storm-gray eyes of Table Seven himself.

And just like that, the war began.