The faint warmth that had crept into her cheeks still lingered, like a secret she refused to acknowledge. She buried it beneath her usual composure, her stillness honed to a weapon.
When she spoke, her voice was calm enough to cut through glass.
> "Why do you hide behind politeness," she asked, "when your eyes say otherwise?"
Toji didn't answer immediately. He lifted the cup, took a slow sip of his now-cold coffee,After confirming it to had gone cold just like him he set it down with deliberate care.
> "Why does it matter to you what I hide?"
His tone was soft, level. The kind of calm that dares you to dig deeper.
Wednesday tilted her head, gaze unwavering. "Is it wrong," she said, almost clinically, "for a bride to ask her husband?"
The corner of his mouth twitched. At first, it was just a faint smirk — then it deepened, widening, rippling into a chuckle. A sound too sudden, too bright, too wrong. Within seconds it became laughter — sharp, rhythmic, echoing through the small café until Tyler froze behind the counter.
But his eyes — they didn't crease, didn't change. They stayed the same cold slate, detached from the sound spilling out of him. It wasn't joy. It was control.
When the laughter faded, the silence that followed felt heavier than before.
Toji leaned back, still smiling faintly, voice now silk over steel.
> "Careful, Wednesday. Curiosity like that tends to end badly."
Wednesday didn't flinch. Her stillness held, but her pulse betrayed her, fluttering once beneath the calm. She observed him the way she studied storms — from within them, unafraid.
Then the door opened.
A chime. A draft. The spell shattered.
Three boys entered, their laughter loud, misplaced, soaked in rain and arrogance. The smell of wet concrete followed them in.
Toji's laughter stopped as if cut by a wire. His smirk stayed — hollow now — but his shoulders relaxed, a quiet readiness sliding into his posture.
He didn't turn. His reflection in the window caught their every move.
Wednesday's hand, still resting on the table, traced the rim of her cup. The surface of the Bitter Quad quivered — a tiny ripple that betrayed the tension threading through her control.
The leader leaned forward, his grin too sure.
> "Well, look what we've got here. Nevermore's freak show."
Wednesday's reply came soft, measured, and sharp enough to draw blood.
> "You must be mistaken. The freak show requires talent."
The air tightened, brittle as glass before the crack.
Toji reached — unhurried, deliberate — for her cup. Not his. Hers.
He lifted it between his fingers, the gesture intimate in its simplicity, and took a sip.
Steam rose, ghostlike, between them.
> "Bitter," he murmured. "But honest."
When he set it down, the faintest trace of her lipstick marked the rim. His eyes followed it — not with desire, but with understanding. A quiet acknowledgment.
(He desire her lips themself)
Then his gaze shifted past her reflection in the glass — to the three boys now closing in. His posture changed almost imperceptibly, like a tide pulling back before the break.
Tyler looked up from behind the counter, sensing it too — that pressure, invisible but heavy, coiling in the air.
Wednesday spoke without looking at Toji.
> "Try not to destroy the furniture."
A pause. Then Toji's voice, quiet, certain.
> "No promises."
The young black teen leaned on the counter Now, voice dripping with arrogance.Repeating Something similar to what he said when he enter the cafe as if they didn't already heard his annoying voice.
"Didn't know Nevermore freaks were allowed out in public. Guess the rules got soft."
Toji didn't even bother looking up. He stirred his coffee once, slow
slow, the spoon clicking faintly against the cup. His voice came calm, dry, unhurried.
"Strange. I didn't know they let livestock talk indoors."
The laughter around the café stilled. The young black teen blinked, thrown off by the simplicity of it.
"What'd you just say?"
Toji finally lifted his eyes. There was no anger, no heat — just a steady, disinterested stare that made the boy's words sound small.
"You heard me. Though with that forehead, I imagine hearing isn't your strong suit."
Tyler, behind the counter, froze mid-wipe, lips twitching as he fought down a laugh.
Wednesday's expression didn't move, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her — a flicker, brief and sharp.
The boy's face went red. His friend reached out, tugging at his sleeve. "Forget it, man. He's not worth it."
But pride has a way of making fools deaf. The leader stepped closer until his shadow fell across Toji's table.
"You think you're funny, huh? You and your little witch girlfriend?"
Toji didn't even look at him this time. His gaze lingered on the rising steam of his coffee, the faint swirl it made before fading. Then, softly,
"You should put that finger down before you lose it."
The boy barked a laugh. "Or what you gonna do bitch!!!..."
And then immediately decided to punch Toji as if punching a 6ft and 3inch killing machine was a good idea...
The fist came fast, fueled by humiliation and bravado, and landed flush against Toji's face.
The sound that followed wasn't a punch. It was a dull, wet crack.
The boy screamed — loud, desperate — stumbling back with his hand twisted in the wrong directions. His fingers bent like broken hinges.
Toji didn't even blink. His expression didn't change, though his tone softened just a hair, almost sympathetic.
"I told you," he said, voice low, calm, almost a whisper. "You should've put it down."
The two other boys stared, frozen, trying to make sense of what just happened.
Toji sat still, taking another sip of his coffee, unbothered — like a man watching rain fall outside.
Then one of the others cursed under his breath. "Screw this!"
They turned and bolted toward the exit.
But fate, as always, had its timing.
The café door swung open before they reached it — hard, heavy, deliberate. It slammed right into both of them with a clean, satisfying thud. The pair dropped in a heap, groaning.
The little bell above the door chimed cheerfully, an odd soundtrack to the chaos.
Tyler finally broke — laughter burst out of him, helpless, uncontrollable. "Okay, that— that's poetic justice right there."
The man who'd opened the door stepped in, looking down at the unconscious pile with the kind of tired confusion reserved for small-town cops who've seen too much and care too little.
Sheriff Galpin.
He blinked once, then glanced up. "...I leave town for one day."
Wednesday, composed as ever, sipped her quad. "You missed quite the show."
Galpin raised a brow. "You had something to do with this?"
Toji stood then — quiet, graceful — setting his cup down on the counter. "Just finished my coffee," he said simply. "Didn't want to waste it."
The Sheriff sighed. "You couldn't just drink it quietly like a normal person?"
Toji smirked faintly, adjusting his jacket. "I tried. They didn't."
The line hung there, sharp and clean as the sound of rain tapping on the windows.
Tyler still chuckled from behind the counter, muttering, "Man, I'm never getting bored of this café again."