Clarice ran down the block, her heels clicking frantically against the wet pavement. She ducked into the first open door she saw-a coffee shop called The Grind.

It wasn't fancy. It smelled like burnt beans and wet wool.

She found a small table in the back corner and collapsed into the chair. She was soaked. Her hair was plastered to her skull. She ordered a black coffee, just to have something to hold.

"Excuse me! Are you deaf?"

The voice was shrill. It came from the table right next to Clarice.

Clarice wiped her eyes and looked up.

A woman in a red dress was standing over a table. Sitting there was a man.

He was in a sleek, minimalist wheelchair, a dark suit fitting his broad shoulders too well to be off the rack. He had dark sunglasses on, even though it was night. A cashmere blanket was draped over his legs.

He was holding a coffee cup with both hands, staring at nothing.

"I said," the woman in red snapped, "this is a waste of my time. My father said you were a catch. He didn't say you were a cripple."

The man didn't flinch. He just sat there, his face like a statue.

"I spent two hours getting ready for this," the woman continued. She waved her hand in front of his face. "Hello? Can you even see anything? Or are you just staring at my chest?"

Clarice felt a flash of heat in her chest. The sadness from ten minutes ago was evaporating, replaced by a sharp, hot anger.

The man remained silent. He took a sip of his coffee.

The woman scoffed. She grabbed her glass of water. "Maybe this will wake you up."

She pulled her arm back.

Clarice moved before she thought.

She lunged from her chair, her hand shooting out. She caught the woman's wrist just as the water sloshed over the rim.

Cold water splashed onto the back of Clarice's hand. The shock of it was nothing compared to her rage. She didn't let go. She slammed the woman's hand down onto the table. The glass rattled.

"What the hell?" the woman shrieked.

Clarice stood between the woman and the man in the wheelchair. She glared at her.

Clarice opened her mouth, but the fury choked the sound. Instead, she pulled out her phone, her fingers flying across the screen. She typed a single sentence and held the phone up for the woman to see, the glowing white text a stark command:

GET OUT.

"Who are you?"

Clarice typed again, her movements sharp and precise.

"I'm the person telling you to leave before I pour this hot coffee down that dress," the screen read. "He's disabled, not deaf. And you're disgusting."

The coffee shop had gone quiet. Everyone was looking.

The woman in red turned a deep shade of purple. She snatched her purse. "Freaks," she muttered, turning on her heel and storming out.

Clarice let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. She turned to the man.

She looked at him, her expression softening into concern. She gave a small nod, a silent question: Are you okay?

The man tilted his head slightly. He didn't take off the glasses.

"I am fine," he said. His voice was deep, smooth like gravel. "You didn't have to do that."

Clarice shook her head firmly. Yes, I did. She looked at his hands. They were large, with long fingers. They weren't shaking. "She was a bully."

"And you are?"

She took out her phone again and typed her name. Clarice.

"Colton."

He reached for his wallet, his movements stiff. A few bills slipped from his fingers and landed on the dirty floor.

Clarice knelt immediately. She gathered the bills, dusting them off. She placed them back into his hand, her fingers brushing against his palm. His skin was cool.

She gestured to the bill, then to herself, then pointed to her own credit card on the table. My treat. She offered a small, tired smile. Consider it an apology for the scene.

Colton paused. He turned his head toward her.

"You are paying for me?"

Clarice nodded. She sat back down in her chair, suddenly exhausted. She typed on her phone: We both had a bad night. Might as well make one thing easier.

Colton didn't say anything for a long time. He just held the bills she had returned to him.

Clarice's phone buzzed on the table. It vibrated so hard it moved across the wood.

A notification from her bank: INSUFFICIENT FUNDS. Rent payment declined.

Clarice closed her eyes. The anger was gone. The sadness was gone. All that was left was dread.

Chapter 2

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