chapter 2
1054 Words
Chapter 2 – Coffee, Fire, and Glass Walls
London rain hadn’t stopped since the gallery night. Adrian sat at his office desk two days later, surrounded by models of buildings and blueprints sprawled across polished wood. Everything was clean, aligned, ordered. The opposite of Elena.
And yet, she was still in his head.
He had tried focusing — on the high-rise proposal due next week, on contracts waiting for signatures — but every time his pen hit the paper, he saw her paint-stained fingers instead.
A buzz on his phone broke his trance.
Unknown number.
If you’re the serious type who pretends he doesn’t want chaos in his life, don’t text back. If you are secretly curious, coffee. Today. 4 p.m. The Wild Bean Café. – Elena.
Adrian stared at the screen. He should delete it. Ignore her. Go back to the clean lines of his architectural models.
Instead, at 3:59, he was pushing open the glass door of a small café in Shoreditch.
---
Elena was already there, of course, sitting by the window. She wore a loose white shirt tucked into ripped jeans, sleeves rolled up, paint still faintly smudged near her wrist. Her hair was piled messily on her head with strands escaping everywhere.
She spotted him and grinned wide, lifting her coffee cup like it was champagne.
“Mr. Hale! I was beginning to think you were going to ghost me.”
“I don’t ghost,” Adrian said as he sat opposite her. His tailored coat contrasted sharply with her casual chaos. “I’m usually… punctual.”
“Ah.” She leaned back, hazel-brown eyes sparkling. “So the man of straight lines shows up early. I respect that.”
He glanced at her cup. “You already started.”
“Of course. I don’t wait for men to order my coffee. Feminism and all that.” She smirked. “But I did order you one. Black, no sugar. Guessing.”
Adrian arched an eyebrow. “Lucky guess.”
“No.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “I just looked at you and thought, that man doesn’t allow sweetness in his life unless it sneaks in uninvited.”
For some reason, the words cut through him sharper than they should have.
---
The waiter brought his cup. Adrian wrapped his hands around it, grounding himself in the heat. “And what about you?”
“Double shot latte with caramel. Because life is bitter enough,” Elena said cheerfully, sipping.
Silence lingered for a moment, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. She kept watching him, unashamed, as if she were sketching invisible lines across his face.
“You stare,” he finally said.
“I paint,” she corrected. “Staring is part of the job.” Her lips curved. “Besides, you’re not exactly easy to look away from.”
Adrian felt a pulse in his chest. “You’re very direct.”
“Should I be indirect? Bat my lashes? Play shy?” She fluttered them dramatically, earning his first real laugh.
The sound surprised both of them.
---
Elena’s grin widened. “There it is. Proof that Mr. Architect isn’t secretly carved from marble.”
“Don’t get used to it,” he said smoothly, though his lips still tugged upward.
“Too late. I like it.” She leaned closer, her elbow on the table, chin resting in her palm. “So, Adrian Hale, tell me something no one knows about you.”
He hesitated. “I don’t share easily.”
“Wrong answer.” She tapped the table with a painted nail. “I gave you coffee. Payment is a secret.”
He thought for a moment, then finally said, “When I was ten, I wanted to be a pianist.”
Her brows rose. “Pianist? You? I pictured you building skyscrapers out of Lego, not sitting at a piano.”
“My father thought music was impractical. Architecture was… acceptable.”
“And do you still play?”
“Not in years.”
Elena’s eyes softened, just for a moment. “You should. The hands that build buildings should know how to build music too.”
The way she said it made his chest tighten.
---
“Your turn,” he said, deflecting.
She grinned. “Fine. When I was sixteen, I lit my kitchen on fire trying to make crème brûlée.”
Adrian blinked. “On purpose?”
“Accidentally. Mostly.” She shrugged, unapologetic. “It made the most beautiful flames. I got grounded for three months, but it was worth it.”
He shook his head slowly. “You’re chaos.”
“And you’re order,” she countered instantly. “Which is why this is fun.”
---
They talked for hours. About buildings that touched the sky and paintings that bled color. About control versus freedom. About whether passion should be contained or let loose.
At one point, Elena reached across the table and casually brushed a crumb from his sleeve. Her touch lingered just slightly too long.
“You really are made of glass walls, Adrian,” she whispered. “But I see cracks already.”
His gaze locked with hers. “And if you fall through one of those cracks?”
Her lips curved, daring. “Then I’ll set fire to the whole structure.”
The tension between them was electric, dangerous, unspoken.
---
When they finally stepped outside, the rain had slowed to a drizzle. Elena tilted her face up, letting droplets land on her skin, uncaring about her messy hair.
“You hate rain, don’t you?” she asked suddenly.
“I don’t… hate it.” Adrian adjusted his coat. “But it’s inconvenient.”
She laughed, stepping closer. So close that he caught the faint smell of turpentine and vanilla clinging to her. “That’s because you’ve never danced in it.”
“I don’t dance.”
“You will,” she said with absolute certainty.
Before he could reply, she pressed a paint-smudged hand against his chest lightly, right over his heart. “See you soon, Mr. Hale.”
Then she walked away, leaving a handprint on his immaculate suit — bold, messy, impossible to ignore.
Adrian looked down at the smudge, his jaw tightening, but deep inside, something else stirred.
Something dangerously alive.
---
- Writer
