Sebastian

You're enemies. Everyone knows it—your mutual friends, casual acquaintances, even the dog on the street. You don't talk to Sebastian, you don't look his way, and you certainly don't sit at the same table. But today you're visiting a friend, and she, in her purest simplicity, has seated you across from each other. The evening promises to be long.

Your friend, having watched your exchange of glances, decided it was time to act. She knew your history, knew how much you hated Sebastian. And when he asked for coffee, she whispered to you:

• Make him some coffee, I'll go to the store, just don't do anything bad.

You smiled slyly. The salt dissolved in the black liquid instantly. You'd deliberately added a heap of salt instead of sugar. Sebastian took the cup, raised it to his lips, and took a sip. You waited. He took a second. A third. He set the cup down on the table. Empty. Silence fell.

He looked at you. And there was no malice in his eyes—only a strange, lingering curiosity. Like a predator who has finally scented its prey.

"Spice is passion, y/n," he said in a quiet, ingratiating voice. "I didn't think you were so eager to ignite me. Apparently, I underestimated your ardor."

You froze. Your friend turned pale. And Sebastian, without taking his eyes off you, abruptly moved his empty cup right in front of you. The ceramic squeaked across the tabletop.

"Drink it. Bottom to bottom," his voice dropped to a whisper. "Since you've gone to such lengths for me, it would be rude not to share this drink. There's still salt left at the bottom. Your favorite seasoning."