Heart That Flame Across The Stars

Chapter 1: Coffee, Conflict, and Coincidences She pushed open the glass door of Café Tiamo, the tiny corner coffee shop near her internship downtown, and there he was again—blocking the entrance like he owned the place. He wore the same smug grin as always, his dark curls tousled as if he had woken up late and didn’t care. As usual, he was standing there texting, oblivious to the world around him. “Excuse me,” Emilia said, shouldering past him with her messenger bag and an exaggerated sigh. He looked up, his blue eyes glinting with amusement. “You again? Do you ever not scowl?” “Do you ever not stand in the doorway like a traffic cone?” she shot back. The barista behind the counter cast them both a look—half tired, half amused. They were becoming regulars in more ways than one. Emilia ordered her usual iced caramel latte with oat milk, no whip. She was in a rush. Her summer internship at a boutique graphic design studio started in twenty minutes, and she still had to dodge downtown traffic. She grabbed her drink and turned only to nearly bump into him again. “For the love of—” “Whoa, hey,” he said, holding up both hands as if she were at fault. I was just getting napkins. Well, maybe do it without bodychecking people, she snapped. He gave a lopsided grin. “You always have this much fun in the morning, or just with me?” I save my worst behavior just for you. He winked. I’m honored. Emilia stormed out, her cheeks burning not with embarrassment, but with frustration. Or at least she told herself that. She didn’t even know his name. All she knew was that he was older, maybe in his early twenties, and always at Café Tiamo right before her. He dressed like someone who didn’t care about rules: paint-smudged jeans, thrifted jackets, and band T-shirts. Some kind of artist. The annoying kind. He was the worst part of her mornings—and the weirdest part of her thoughts. She hated that. Three days later, it happened again. She walked into Café Tiamo, and he was there. This time, he opened the door for her. “Don’t faint,” he said. “I’m reserving the right to still hate you,” Emilia replied, brushing past him. He laughed. Not a sarcastic chuckle, but something genuine and loud that made her pause. “What?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. He grinned. “You’re funny when you’re mad.” “And you’re consistently in the way.” “I’m Theo,” he said, offering his hand as if it weren’t weird at all. She stared at it. “Congratulations?” she replied. He pulled his hand back, chuckling. “Suit yourself.” Later that afternoon, Emilia’s boss called her into the meeting room. “We’re bringing in a freelance muralist for a collaboration on the city arts project,” she said. “You’ll be assisting him with the digital layout.” “Cool,” Emilia said, flipping her notebook open. “What’s his name?” Her boss smiled. “Theo Rivera.” Emilia’s pen froze mid-word. No. No. No, no, no. Not coffee-shop-doorway Theo. “Problem?” her boss asked. “Nope,” she lied, forcing a smile. “Excited to work with him.” Her heart screamed the opposite. Monday morning, Emilia stood in the company’s open-plan design studio, arms crossed, watching Theo unpack a crate of paint supplies like he’d done it a thousand times. His black hoodie had a bleach stain on the sleeve, and his jeans looked like they had been through a battle with a rainbow. She couldn’t believe this was the “talented freelance muralist” everyone was hyped about. He looked up and spotted her. “Oh, look who it is,” he said, flashing a grin. “If it isn’t Scowly McLatte.” “And if it isn’t Mr. Doorway himself,” she replied, trying to sound disinterested. Their boss clapped her hands. “Glad you two know each other! This should make collaboration easy.” They both faked polite smiles. “So,” Theo said, once they were left alone, “looks like we’re stuck together.” “For two. Whole. Weeks,” Emilia said, emphasizing each word like it was a prison sentence. “Careful,” he said, tapping his brush on the table. “You might end up enjoying my company.” “I’d rather walk barefoot on Legos.” He laughed. “Still funny when you’re mad.” Their first work session was chaos. Theo sketched rough drafts for the mural, all wild lines and abstract motion. Emilia digitized them, trying not to comment on how messy everything was. “You’re supposed to follow the grid,” she said, pointing to the digital draft on her tablet. “I don’t do grids,” Theo replied. “They kill the vibe.” “You know what kills the vibe? Winging it.” He leaned over her desk, close enough that she caught a hint of paint and cinnamon. “Guess we’ve got a vibe killer among us,” he whispered, smirking. She nearly choked on her breath. He was infuriating—and maybe a little magnetic. No. Nope. Not. Two days later, Emilia walked into the studio and found Theo painting the base layer of the mural on the main wall. He had earbuds in, music blasting. He didn’t hear her come in. She should have just walked by. Instead, she stopped and watched. His brush moved with purpose—fast, confident, reckless, and free. He painted like he felt everything. Even in chaos, there was rhythm. And even if she hated to admit it, it was beautiful.