Page 26 of The Scars Within
The door swung shut behind Rhodes as he stopped, staring at me in surprise. He glanced up at the clock on the wall. “Technically, I’m one minute early.”
I shrugged, clicking my tongue as I turned back to the latte I was brewing. “Later than your student. What if I had an emergency?”
I heard the faucet turn on as he started washing his hands. “And what kind ofcoffee emergencycould you possibly have here, Thorne?”
“Hm, I don’t know. But neither would you since you weren’t here first.” I carefully poured the frothed milk over the espresso and walked over to the spice shelf. As I passed Rhodes tying his apron, he glanced over his shoulder at me.
Rhodes took an order for a caramel macchi—something—as I scanned the shelves for vanilla. Finding it, I returned to my latte, adding the syrup with a light stir and leaving it for the customer to mix to their liking.
As I handed the vanilla latte to a third-year cadet, Rhodes called from behind me, “Can you work on Yrene’s caramel macchiato while I grab more sugar from the kitchens?”
I turned to look at him but didn’t respond.
An awkward silence stretched between us, long enough to feel like an eternity.
“Did you hear me?” he asked, his voice edged with impatience.
“Mhm,” I nodded.
Rhodes raised an eyebrow, giving me a look I hadn’t seen from him before. “Can you… work on the macchiato?”
“Say please,” I mocked his tone from yesterday.
His eyes narrowed as if he could set me on fire with his element. The faint blue fleck in his right eye caught the morning light filtering through the windows. He swallowed, the tension clear in his jaw, and after a painful pause, he finally muttered, “Please.”
“Oh, sure,” I said with a smirk, walking over to grab a mug. “All you had to do was ask, Wylder.” I threw his sarcasm from yesterday back at him.
As I moved past, I caught a glimpse of him from across the station. His broad shoulders were rigid with tension. I hadn’t realized how much satisfaction I’d get from turning the tables after his attitude yesterday morning—and when I ran into him and Captain Thorne on the rooftop last night.
I smirked as I set the mug on the counter, but my smugness vanished in an instant.
“A caramel—what?” I muttered, though not quietly enough.
I heard Rhodes’s boots click on the stone floor as he turned around. “Caramel macchiato. I’m sure with all yourexperience, you’ve mastered that, right, Thorne?” His voice was dripping with sarcasm.
Heat rushed to my chest and cheeks at his sly tone, provoking me. “Of course I have,” I snapped.
I heard him chuckle softly behind me.
Was he trying to die today?
I started the espresso machine for the macchi—whatever—and grabbed my favorite mug from the pantry while it brewed.
“That mug again?” Rhodes asked.
I glanced at him over my shoulder. He was nonchalantly leaning against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest.
“Aren’t you supposed to be getting sugar?” I shot back.
“I’d rather watch you make a caramel macchiato,” he said with mock innocence. “You know. So I can learn from your experience.”
I glared at him.
He winked.
Yes. He was definitely trying to die today.
I moved between the coffee pot and the macchi–whatever, pouring milk into the frothing pitcher when Rhodes chimed in. “Too much milk. Macchiatos have less milk than lattes.”
