Chapter 2 The Spark That Burns

Lilan didn't sleep. Not really.

She closed her eyes, but her mind kept replaying the scene: the car, the crowd, the way his coat moved in the breeze like a cape. She felt ridiculous-obsessing over someone who hadn't spared her a glance. But something about Aidan Voss was different. Dangerous. He made her feel like she wasn't just a girl from nowhere. He made her want more.

By morning, her resolve had hardened. She would get noticed. Somehow.

After classes, she lingered outside the quad, pretending to study while she watched. Aidan always moved with a pack-three boys, all good-looking, all rich. But none of them had *his* gravity. His gaze made people straighten their backs, check their reflections. Even teachers seemed unsure around him.

She learned his schedule within three days.

Literature, philosophy, economics. Private fencing lessons. Late lunches at the bistro on East Row. A coffee order so precise it could've passed as a science experiment. She memorized every detail.

She started making excuses to pass near his classes, brushing too close to his world. She dropped her books near his locker. Once, she left a folded poem under the windshield of his car, unsigned.

He never reacted. Not once.

But Claire noticed.

"Hey, you," she said, appearing beside her during work-study on Friday afternoon. Claire Voss. Aidan's cousin. Popular. Smarter than she let on. "Kitchen duty, right?"

Lilan froze. "Y-Yeah?"

"You're on coffee detail tomorrow morning. Aidan wants his order ready by eight sharp. Triple ristretto. No sugar. Almond milk. Temperature matters."

Claire's tone was bored, but her eyes were amused.

"Got it," Lilan said, heart pounding.

This was it.

Saturday morning came with nerves and caffeine. She arrived at the café at 6:30 a.m., polishing the machine until it gleamed like new. She remade the order three times just to get it right. Triple ristretto. No sugar. Almond milk. Exactly 65°C. The foam had to be smooth, unbroken. It had to be perfect.

At 7:58, the door opened.

He walked in. Alone. Wearing all black, his hair tousled like he hadn't tried-yet still managed to look unreal. He was on his phone. Not looking. Not speaking.

Lilan's throat was dry. Her hand trembled around the cup.

She stepped forward, cleared her throat. "Your coffee."

He looked up.

And there it was-his gaze. Piercing. Cold. Assessing.

Her breath hitched.

He didn't smile. Didn't speak at first. Just took the cup.

"Thanks," he said. One word. Flat. Simple.

He turned away like it meant nothing. But to Lilan, it meant everything.

She stood frozen, replaying the moment like a sacred recording. Her fingers still tingled from where they'd touched the cup he now held.

Outside, he sipped it. He didn't throw it away.

She watched him through the window.

He finished it.

And that tiny, meaningless detail felt like winning a war she hadn't realized she was fighting.

Later that day, she wrote in her journal:

> "He drank it all. Maybe I made something he liked. Maybe I'm not invisible after all."

She closed the book, her cheeks flushed with something close to joy. Hope? Obsession?

Even she wasn't sure.

But she knew this:

Even a second of his attention burned brighter than any moment in her life.

And even a spark could start a wildfire.

And Lilan had never wanted to burn more than she did now.