Adrian arrived at The Grind fifteen minutes early, which gave him plenty of time to second-guess everything about his appearance. Was his blue button-down too formal? Should he have worn the gray henley instead? Did his hair look okay, or did it look like he'd tried too hard?
He ordered a cappuccino and claimed a table by the window, the same spot where he'd tried to study while Dante watched him from across the room three days ago. He pushed that memory away. This was about Isabella. This was about his fresh start.
She arrived exactly at two, wearing a cream-colored sweater and jeans, her hair down in loose waves instead of the ponytail. She smiled when she saw him, and Adrian felt some of his nervousness dissolve.
"Hey," she said, dropping into the chair across from him. "Sorry, did you wait long?"
"Just got here. I ordered already—did you want something?"
"I'll grab it. Be right back."
Adrian watched her join the line at the counter, exchanging friendly waves with at least three different people. Isabella seemed to know everyone, moved through the world with an ease Adrian envied.
She returned with an iced chai latte and immediately launched into a story about her roommate's disastrous attempt to cook pasta in their dorm microwave.
"I'm talking full-on smoke alarm situation," Isabella said, laughing. "The RA came running, my roommate's crying, and there's this smell of burnt marinara that lasted for three days. We had to Febreze everything we own."
"How do you even burn pasta in a microwave?" Adrian asked, genuinely confused.
"Right? That's what I said! Apparently, she forgot to add water. Just put dry noodles and sauce in a bowl and hoped for the best."
"That's—wow. That's impressive in the worst way."
"She's brilliant in chemistry though. Like, scary smart. Just cannot figure out basic cooking to save her life." Isabella took a sip of her chai. "What about you? How's dorm life treating you? You mentioned you have a roommate?"
Adrian's stomach tightened. "Yeah. Dante. We actually went to high school together."
"Oh, that's nice! It must be good to have someone familiar."
"It's... complicated."
"Complicated how?"
Adrian hesitated, not sure how to explain without sounding obsessive or bitter. "We were kind of rivals back home. Competed in a lot of the same things. It's weird living with someone you've been competing against for years."
"I bet. Are you still competing? Or are you guys able to be friends now?"
"I don't know what we are, honestly. He's been acting really strange since we moved in. Different from how he used to be."
"Different good or different bad?"
"Different confusing." Adrian realized he was talking about Dante during his coffee date with Isabella, which was exactly what he'd promised himself he wouldn't do. "But enough about that. Tell me about your pre-med stuff. You said you're doing research?"
Isabella's face lit up. "Yes! I'm working in Dr. Martinez's lab—she studies cellular regeneration. It's fascinating. We're looking at how certain proteins can trigger healing responses in damaged tissue."
She talked about her research with genuine passion, explaining complex concepts in ways that made them accessible. Adrian found himself leaning forward, actually interested, asking questions that made her eyes brighten even more.
"Most people's eyes glaze over when I talk about this stuff," Isabella said, looking pleased. "It's nice to have someone actually engage with it."
"Are you kidding? This is cool. You're literally figuring out how to help people heal faster. That's like superhero work."
"I don't know about superhero work," Isabella laughed, "but thank you. What about you? You said you're interested in stories. Are you writing anything?"
"Just journal stuff right now. Nothing serious. I keep thinking I should try to write something real—like a screenplay or a play—but it's scary putting actual creative work out there, you know?"
"What's scary about it?"
Adrian considered the question. "I guess the idea of trying something and failing at it. Of putting yourself into something and having it not be good enough."
"But how do you know if you don't try?"
"That's the logical answer. The actual answer is that I'm kind of terrified of being bad at things."
"Why?" Isabella's question was gentle, curious, not judgmental.
"Because—" Adrian stopped himself before he said because I've spent my whole life being second best. "Because I want whatever I do to matter, I guess. I want it to be good."
"I think that's the trap though," Isabella said thoughtfully. "Waiting until you're sure something will be good before you even start. Sometimes you just have to make bad art first. That's how you learn."
"When did you get so wise?"
"I'm pre-med. We're required to dispense wisdom. It's in the handbook." She grinned. "But seriously, I think you should write something. Even if it's terrible. Especially if it's terrible."
They talked about freshman orientation mishaps—Isabella's story about accidentally walking into the wrong building and ending up in an advanced organic chemistry lecture was particularly funny. Adrian shared his own horror story about getting lost on campus and ending up in the groundskeeper's storage facility.
"I thought it was the science building!" Adrian insisted. "They look similar!"
"They absolutely do not look similar. One has windows. The other is literally a shed."
"A very large shed. It could have been a building."
Isabella was laughing, really laughing, and Adrian felt a warm glow of satisfaction. This was going well. This was exactly what he'd hoped for—easy conversation, genuine connection, someone who seemed to actually like spending time with him.
Then the café door opened, and Adrian's entire body went on alert.
Dante walked in.
Adrian knew it was him before he even looked, that involuntary awareness he couldn't shut off, that radar that had been calibrated to Dante's presence for eighteen years.
Dante froze in the doorway when he saw them. His dark eyes went immediately to Adrian, then to Isabella, then back to Adrian. Something flickered across his face—surprise, hurt, something sharper that Adrian couldn't name.
For a moment, Adrian thought he might turn around and leave.
Instead, Dante walked to the counter, deliberately positioning himself with his back to their table. He ordered coffee—black with two sugars, Adrian's brain supplied automatically, and he hated that he knew that, hated that some part of him had cataloged this information without permission.
"You okay?" Isabella asked, noticing his distraction.
"Yeah, sorry. I just—my roommate just walked in."
"Oh! Do you want to invite him over?"
"No," Adrian said too quickly. "I mean, he looks busy. We shouldn't interrupt."
Isabella glanced toward the counter. "Is that him? The tall guy in the gray hoodie?"
"Yeah. That's Dante."
"He's cute."
Adrian felt something twist in his stomach. "I guess."
"You guess? Come on, he's objectively attractive. Those eyes? That bone structure? If you can't admit your roommate is good-looking, there's something wrong with your vision."
"Okay, fine. He's attractive. Can we talk about something else?"
"Touchy," Isabella teased, but she let it drop, launching into a story about her pre-med advisor's terrible taste in office decorations.
Adrian tried to focus on her words, really tried, but his attention kept drifting to Dante waiting for his coffee at the counter. Dante's shoulders were tight, his jaw clenched, and he was radiating tension so thick Adrian could feel it from across the café.
Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.
Dante received his coffee and turned, and for a brief second, their eyes met across the crowded space. Adrian saw something burning in Dante's expression—something intense and almost desperate that made Adrian's breath catch.
Then Dante looked away, starting toward the door.
He made it three steps before it happened.
A loud crash shattered the café's comfortable buzz. Ceramic exploded across the floor near Adrian and Isabella's table—mugs from the display shelf, at least a dozen of them, shattering into countless pieces.
Everyone in the café jumped. Conversations stopped. Heads turned toward the source of the noise.
Dante stood near the wreckage, coffee cup still in his hand, looking at the mess on the floor with wide, shocked eyes.
"Oh my god," he said, his voice carrying across the now-silent café. "I'm so sorry. I didn't—I must have bumped the shelf. I'm so sorry."
The barista hurried over, assessing the damage with a pained expression. "It's okay, accidents happen. Just—everyone be careful of the broken pieces."
"Let me help clean up," Dante insisted, already setting his coffee down and kneeling to gather the larger fragments. "I'll pay for the mugs, obviously. I'm really, really sorry."
Adrian watched this unfold with growing suspicion. Dante was coordinated, had been playing basketball since elementary school, had reflexes that college coaches called "exceptional." He didn't just accidentally knock over entire displays.
As if sensing Adrian's scrutiny, Dante looked up from the floor. Their eyes met across the chaos of broken ceramic and spilled coffee.
And Adrian saw it—something deliberate burning in Dante's dark eyes, something calculated and almost possessive that made Adrian's pulse spike with a feeling he couldn't name.
This wasn't an accident.
"Oh no," Isabella said, standing up and brushing some ceramic fragments off their table. "That's so much mess."
"Yeah." Adrian couldn't look away from Dante, who was helping the barista sweep up the wreckage with careful, practiced movements. "So much mess."
The café slowly returned to normal volume as the immediate drama faded. More staff came out to help clean. Customers returned to their conversations.
Isabella checked her phone and made a small sound of dismay. "Oh shoot, I have to go. Study group in twenty minutes across campus. I'm so sorry to cut this short."
"No, it's fine. Don't be sorry."
"This was really nice though." Isabella smiled, gathering her bag. "We should do it again sometime."
"Definitely. Yeah. That would be great."
"Text me? We can figure out another time."
"I will."
She touched his shoulder briefly before leaving, weaving through the crowd toward the exit. She passed Dante on her way out, giving him a friendly smile that he didn't quite return.
Adrian sat alone at the table, surrounded by the lingering chaos of broken mugs, watching Dante finish helping with cleanup. The barista tried to wave him off, insisting it was fine, but Dante stayed until every piece of ceramic was swept up and disposed of.
Then Dante picked up his coffee and walked toward Adrian's table.
Adrian's heart started hammering.
"Sorry about ruining your date," Dante said, his voice flat, controlled in a way that suggested a lot of effort.
"It wasn't a date. We were just talking."
"Right. Just talking. That's why you've been planning it for three days."
"How do you—" Adrian stopped. "Have you been listening to my phone calls?"
"The walls are thin. I didn't have to try to listen. You were literally discussing outfit choices with Sage at midnight."
Adrian felt heat rise in his cheeks. "That's—you shouldn't—that was private."
"Then maybe have private conversations somewhere private." Dante took a sip of his coffee, jaw tight. "She seems nice. Isabella. Really nice. Perfect, probably."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. It doesn't mean anything. I hope you're very happy together."
"We're not together. We're getting to know each other. As friends."
"Sure. Friends." Dante's laugh was hollow. "That's definitely what that looked like."
"Why do you care?"
The question hung between them, sharp and dangerous.
Dante's knuckles went white around his coffee cup. "I don't. Care. I don't care at all. Why would I care?"
"That's what I'm asking you."
"Well, I don't. So there's your answer."
"Then why are you acting like this?"
"Like what?"
"Like—" Adrian gestured helplessly. "Like this! Showing up everywhere I am, watching me constantly, knocking over displays when I'm having coffee with someone. This isn't normal behavior, Dante. This isn't you being competitive. This is something else."
Dante stared at him for a long moment, something warring behind his eyes—anger, fear, frustration, maybe all three. His chest rose and fell with quick, shallow breaths.
"You don't know anything about what's normal for me," Dante said finally, his voice low and tight. "You think you know me because we've competed for eighteen years? You don't. You have no idea."
"Then explain it to me. Tell me what's going on."
"Why? So you can add it to your list of ways I've wronged you? So you can feel even more justified in hating me?"
"I don't—" Adrian stopped, frustrated. "I don't hate you."
"Really? Because you've made it pretty clear that being around me is torture for you. That living with me is some cosmic punishment. That my entire existence is just an obstacle in your way."
"That's not fair."
"Isn't it though?" Dante's voice cracked slightly. "You can't even stand being in the same room with me. You literally fled last night when I didn't have a shirt on. You can barely look at me. And now you're here with Isabella, who's perfect and uncomplicated and doesn't come with eighteen years of baggage, and I'm supposed to—"
He stopped abruptly, jaw clenching so hard Adrian could see the muscle jump.
"Supposed to what?" Adrian pressed, leaning forward.
"Nothing. Forget it." Dante backed away from the table. "Enjoy your friendship with Isabella. I hope it's everything you want."
He turned and walked out of the café before Adrian could respond, leaving his full coffee cup on the table and Adrian sitting there with his thoughts spiraling in every direction.
This wasn't normal competitive behavior. This wasn't Dante trying to beat him at something or steal some victory. This was possessive. Territorial. Desperate.
The rules of their rivalry had fundamentally shifted, and Adrian had no idea what the new game was, what the stakes were, what Dante actually wanted from him.
He pulled out his phone and typed a message to Sage.
Adrian: Something is really wrong with Dante.
Sage: Wrong how?
Adrian: I don't know. But it's not normal. It's not like before.
Sage: Maybe that's a good thing?
Adrian: How is this a good thing? He just sabotaged my coffee with Isabella.
Sage: Or maybe he's trying to tell you something and you're not listening.
Adrian stared at that message, something cold settling in his stomach.
What if Sage was right? What if this wasn't sabotage at all, but communication—desperate, messy communication from someone who didn't know how else to reach him?
But what was Dante trying to say?
Adrian looked at the abandoned coffee cup, still warm, black with two sugars, exactly how Dante had ordered coffee for years. He picked it up without thinking, wrapping his hands around the ceramic, feeling the residual heat from Dante's grip.
You don't know anything about what's normal for me, Dante had said.
And Adrian realized, with uncomfortable clarity, that Dante was right.
He didn't know. He'd never asked. He'd been so focused on competing, on losing, on feeling second-best, that he'd never actually tried to understand the person he'd been competing against.
He'd never wondered what Dante wanted. What Dante felt. What kept Dante awake at 3 AM sitting alone on a roof under stars.
The stakes had shifted, but Adrian didn't know to what.
He sat in the café for another hour, Dante's coffee growing cold in his hands, trying to figure out what game they were playing now.