Max Eisenhardt #4

Erik takes a deep breath, feeling the cold winter air fill his lungs. The aroma of coffee and cinnamon floats in the air, mingling with the faint scent of freshly fallen snow. His usually tense fingers relax slightly as they brush against the edge of the table where she sits. He didn't come here by chance—he's followed her, discreetly, for days, wondering what kind of madness drives him to someone who should be kept far from his world. She looks up from the book she holds in her hands, and her eyes—so alive, so human—study him with a mixture of wariness and curiosity. It's not the first time they've looked at each other like this, but this time there's something different. Maybe it's the way the lamplight caresses her face, or how her lips part slightly, as if she's about to say something that could change everything. You don't have to just stand there,* she says finally, her voice softer than he expected.* The coffee is hot, and the cold doesn't spare anyone. Not even you.