The café opened slowly that morning, more silent than usual, as if the day itself hesitated to start. Aiven placed cups in neat rows, arranging pastries with hands that weren't as steady as he wished. Draven sat near the window, pretending to be relaxed, but his eyes scanned the outside like a trained guard waiting for something to go wrong.
The bell at the door chimed softly, the first customer entering. Aiven forced a polite smile and took their order. Everything felt normal on the surface, but underneath, a storm hummed quietly.
He kept glancing at his phone.
Raze had said he would text once he reached the dorm. But the screen stayed dark.
Ten minutes.
Twenty.
Thirty.
Aiven's heart began to squeeze.
Draven noticed immediately. "What's wrong?"
"He hasn't texted yet," Aiven murmured.
Draven leaned back, arms crossed. "He probably got dragged into vocal practice or makeup testing. Raze gets swallowed the second he walks through that door."
"I know," Aiven whispered, but the unease wouldn't fade.
Then the door opened again, and in walked someone who made Aiven straighten without even thinking.
Zenith.
Tall, composed, wearing a simple mask and dark hoodie, but his aura was unmistakable. He scanned the café briefly before his eyes found Draven—and then Aiven.
A slow, almost amused smirk curved his lips.
"You're early," Draven muttered.
"And you're still here," Zenith replied, removing his mask as he stepped up to the counter.
Aiven tensed, unsure if Zenith was here for him or for Draven or for something else entirely.
"Coffee," Zenith said simply. "Black."
Aiven nodded quickly, preparing it while trying not to stare. Zenith moved with quiet confidence—calm on the outside, but intense beneath the surface. He glanced around, assessing the space, the windows, the street.
Then his eyes flicked to Aiven.
"You're safe here?" Zenith asked.
The question was casual—but the tone wasn't.
Aiven hesitated. "I… think so."
"He got a threatening picture this morning," Draven said flatly.
Zenith's expression sharpened instantly. "Show me."
Aiven's stomach knotted as he handed over his phone. Zenith looked at the message, then at Aiven.
"You've gained the wrong kind of attention," Zenith murmured.
"I noticed," Aiven whispered.
Zenith returned the phone and looked at Draven. "You're not letting him walk home alone again. Ever."
Draven smirked. "Wasn't planning to."
Their eyes locked for a heartbeat too long—silent electricity between them, neither looking away.
Aiven's chest tightened.
Something was growing between them.
Quiet. Slow. Dangerous.
Zenith broke the moment first, taking his coffee. "Tell Raze I checked in."
Aiven blinked. "You… came because of him?"
"Mostly," Zenith said. But then he glanced at Draven again—brief, sharp, meaningful. "Not entirely."
Draven's jaw clenched.
Zenith slipped his mask back on. "If anything else happens, call me. Both of you."
And with that, he left.
The door chimed softly behind him, leaving a silence so heavy that even the hum of the coffee machine sounded distant.
Aiven finally exhaled. "He's… intense."
"He's annoying," Draven muttered.
"You stared at him for like five seconds straight."
"It was three," Draven snapped.
Aiven smiled despite the tension. "Draven… are you sure you don't like him a little?"
Draven glared. "No. Absolutely not. Don't start."
But the faint color creeping up Draven's neck said otherwise.
---
Hours passed. Customers came and went. Aiven handled orders with practiced grace, but his mind kept drifting—to Raze, to Zenith, to Draven, to the growing danger hovering around him.
Finally, during a brief lull, his phone buzzed.
Aiven nearly dropped the mug he was holding as he swiped it open.
Raze:
I'm sorry. Practice started early. I'm okay. Are YOU okay? I'm still thinking about you.
Aiven bit his lip.
Relief washed through him so strong his knees almost weakened.
Another message followed seconds later.
Raze:
Send me a picture so I know you're safe.
Aiven blinked rapidly, warmth flooding his face. He glanced at Draven, who raised a brow.
"He texted?" Draven asked.
Aiven nodded shyly.
"Send the picture," Draven said with a sigh. "He'll call the police if you don't."
Aiven took a quick photo of himself behind the counter and sent it.
Raze replied instantly.
Raze:
Cute.
Aiven nearly dropped his phone again.
Draven groaned loudly. "You two are exhausting."
Aiven hid his face in his hands.
He didn't know how to handle Raze when he was like this—soft, bold, and completely unaware of how deeply Aiven fell with every word.
---
Afternoon drifted into evening. The sunset painted the café windows in soft pink and gold hues. Aiven started wiping tables, ready to close.
Draven stretched his limbs, cracking his neck loudly. "I'll walk you home. Zenith told me to."
"He's not my boss," Aiven laughed.
"He thinks he is," Draven muttered.
Just as Aiven reached the door to flip the "Open" sign to "Closed," a shadow shifted on the other side.
A face pressed against the glass.
A girl.
A teenager.
Eyes wide, filled with obsession—fearful, angry, trembling.
Aiven froze.
Draven was beside him in an instant. "Get behind me."
"What is she—" Aiven whispered.
But she wasn't alone.
Two more fans stepped closer from the darkness of the street.
"Aiven Hale?" one of them hissed through the glass. "You think you can steal him?"
Draven grabbed Aiven's arm, pulling him back. "Call Raze. Now."
Aiven's hands trembled so violently he nearly dropped his phone.
He typed one message with shaking fingers.
Aiven:
Raze. They found me.
The girl outside slammed her palm against the glass, eyes wild.
"You don't deserve him!"
Aiven stumbled backward, breath catching in his throat.
Draven stood between him and the door like a shield.
And in that moment, Aiven realized—
Everything was only getting worse.
But he wasn't facing it alone.