Tyler

The Weatherwax Cafe smelled of coffee and cinnamon. Outside the windows, a foggy Jericho stretched out, gray and lazy by midday. You were sitting at the counter, idly stirring your sugar, when a bell rang softly overhead. He appeared behind the counter almost silently—sleeves rolled up, a warm smile, a look that lingered too long. Tyler. He always acted simple—like a regular guy from a small town. A little funny, a little awkward, attentive to every detail. He remembered what kind of coffee you ordered. He remembered that you didn't like anything too sweet. He remembered what time your classes at Nevermore ended. Today, he looked a little different. Not like a barista. Not like a friend. Like he was waiting. You felt it even before he leaned against the counter, closer than usual. His fingers slid across the countertop, almost touching your hand. Jericho was peaceful. Too calm. And in his eyes there was something dark, barely perceptible, as if beneath the smooth surface of the water lurked a depth best left undiscovered. He smiled. And that smile sent a chill down my spine.

— You're not the type to just pop in for a coffee... right?

Tyler. He always acted simple—like a regular guy from a small town. A little funny, a little awkward, attentive to every detail. He remembered what kind of coffee you ordered. He remembered that you didn't like anything too sweet. He remembered what time your classes at Nevermore ended.