"Mae." His voice is gentle but firm, cutting through my rambling. "I got it for you. Why would you have to pay me?"
I freeze, my hand still buried in my bag.
"Because... you bought it?"
"For you."
"Right. So I should pay you back. That is how it works."
"Not if I got it for you. As a gift."
I stare at him, genuinely confused by this logic.
People do not just buy you things. That is not how the world works. There is always a catch. Always an expectation. Always strings attached. Always a debt to be repaid in some way.
"Oh," I say slowly, cautiously. "So... it is mine? Like, actually mine? I do not owe you anything? No strings?"
He nods, those storm-blue eyes soft with concern. Or maybe sadness. Like he is realizing things about my life that he did not know before and does not like what he is learning about the world I come from.
"It is yours, ma belle. No strings attached. Just breakfast."
Ma belle.
My beautiful.
He called me ma belle again.
The dam breaks.
I rush forward and throw my arms around him, pulling him into a hug that is probably too tight and definitely too sudden and absolutely inappropriate for someone you have known for less than forty-eight hours. My face presses against his chest, and I can smell his scent even through the fabric of his blazer. Evergreens and old books and kindness.
"Thank you," I mumble into his shirt, my voice muffled by fabric. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."
He stiffens slightly at the unexpected contact, clearly not having anticipated a full-body embrace as a response to breakfast. But after a moment, his arms come up to wrap around me in return, one hand patting my back in a soothing rhythm that makes my eyes sting with more unshed tears.
I look up at him, my chin resting against his chest.
And watch his face flush a deep, gorgeous shade of pink that spreads from his cheeks to the tips of his ears.
He looks away, suddenly very interested in a spot on the wall to his left.
"You are welcome," he mumbles. "De rien, ma belle."
I grin, stepping back from the hug before I can make things any more awkward or start actually crying on his uniform. Then I practically skip to the table, sitting down and grabbing the coffee cup with both hands like it is a precious artifact that might be snatched away at any moment.
The first sip is transcendent.
Rich and bold and perfectly black, just like I asked. It slides down my throat and spreads warmth through my entire body, chasing away the lingering fog of sleep deprivation and replacingit with blessed, beautiful alertness. This is not leftover dregs from a communal pot. This is real coffee, made fresh, purchased specifically for me.
"This is the best black coffee ever," I announce to the room with complete sincerity. "I mean it. This is genuinely the best coffee I have ever tasted in my entire life. I might cry again but for good reasons this time."
Cal is sitting in one of the side chairs, fully dressed now and looking marginally more awake than he did earlier. His amber eyes are fixed on me with an expression I cannot quite read.
"What do you normally eat for breakfast?" he asks. "Like, at your old place. Before here."
I unwrap the bagel, taking a moment to appreciate the cream cheese spread, thick and perfect, before answering.
"Um. Leftover coffee, usually. Whatever was in the communal pot from the night before. Cold, mostly. Sometimes I would microwave it if the machine was working." I take a bite of the bagel, practically moaning at the taste. Real food. Actual real food that someone bought specifically for me. "And cereal if there was any left. Maybe oatmeal if someone left some in the cupboards that had not expired. Once a month the building does this staff appreciation thing for everyone, so there are leftover donuts and pastries for a few days after. Those are the good weeks."
