Snoffy

“I don’t dance,” Zhao yelled above the clamour surrounding them.

“Neither do I!” Zuko laughed, “But fuck it, we’re here so we might as well!”

They’d been pushed right in the middle of the mass of writhing bodies, but somehow Zhao can only pay attention to Zuko. He watched the reflection of the lights in molten gold eyes, the playful smirk that danced across pink lips, the challenging quirk of his one remaining eyebrow.

For all the strict rules and regulations that have surrounded them their entire life, dance had never been part of their curriculum. Zhao had never cared for it before, and he didn’t think he ever would. He remembered, sometimes, that his father would mention having been forced to learn a few traditional dances to sate the nagging of his own parents. And if Zhao recalled correctly, his father had thrown his head back, laughing boisterously as he claimed that he possessed two left feet.

Remembering such a detail did not boost Zhao’s confidence in the impromptu dance he was about to be dragged into.

He didn’t have time to think about it; Zuko threw his arms around his neck, tugging him into the beat of the music. Zhao doesn’t know where to place his hands, so he covertly glanced around them for guidance. Eventually he settled them across the small of Zuko’s back.

He didn’t even know where to start. How to start. His joints were stiff, limbs awkward and still, petrified to stone. He took solace in the fact that Zuko had no idea what he was doing either. Out of instinct, they both shot looks around them, seeking some sort of instruction, some sort of reassurance that they weren’t making fools of themselves and were indeed on the right track.

Then again, searching the twisting forms around them, there was no strict guideline to adhere to; not when everyone else was dancing freely, picking up movements and motions as they came to them, disorder more apparent than order.

“Stop overthinking it,” Zuko said, and Zhao had to lean in to catch the words over the clanging instruments, the orchestra of whoops and laughter.

But fine. Sure. He let impulsivity lead the way, attempting to loosen his limbs from the entrapment of self-consciousness and just…

It was awkward. They fumbled and stumbled and generally got into each other’s way with every turn they made and every step they took. More than once one of them has to flail their arms about to regain balance after tripping over the other’s foot. They nearly crash into other dancers more times than they can count and have bumped into people just as many times.

Their efforts are pathetically abysmal compared to the seasoned dancers or even amateurs that populated the city centre. Uncoordinated, clumsy, doltish.

But it’s the most fun they’ve had in a long time.

And suddenly they don’t care they accidentally step on each other. The elbow that catches the other in the side doesn’t throb dully. The startled yelp as they avoid someone else sounds like any other joyful cry.

At the climax of the music he picked Zuko up and twirled him around in a circle. The prince threw his head back and laughed, and Zhao thought he’d never seen anything so beautiful.

Because that was what Zuko was, is, will be: beautiful.

In every sense of the word, with all its meanings and subtleties.

And as Zhao looked up at the prince, at the wide smile, the crinkle of mirth in the corner of his eyes, heart lodged in his throat, lungs caught mid-breath, he couldn’t help thinking he was looking at the sun in all its blazing glory.

The music stopped and they came together again. There was something tugging at him like how the tides called – a siren’s song that attempted to beguile him into closing those few inches between their faces and press their lips together.

But the song screeched to a halt at its crescendo, hesitancy reaching out, grasping the notes, breaking them down into rests and stops until the melody had disintegrated, fading back into the usual clamour of a festival, sizzling cooking stations and chattering crowds overtaking the golden moment they shared in a world spun out of fairy tales.

He doesn’t take the plunge and the moment passes, but he doesn’t miss the slight flush stained across the prince’s cheeks nor the way he avoids his gaze as if to meet it is to spell his doom. Then again, it could’ve been the exertion forcing the heat to rise in their cheeks, the uncertainty of what to do after they let go of each other’s bodies that causes them to shuffle awkwardly, unsure of what to do or what to say now that they’ve finished their dance.

“I think I saw candied cherry tomatoes over in the back.” Zuko blurted out, eyes darting towards Zhao. The blush was gone, replaced with a tentative smile. “I didn’t know the Earth Kingdom had them. Wanna go try them out?”

“Right. Sure.” Zhao cleared his throat, as if to chase away the memory of that timid look on the prince’s face. He’d never seen an expression like that on Zuko before. Normally so hot-headed and impulsive, it was a startling change from the usual scowl seemingly permanently carved into his mouth.

The glaze ended up being too thick, the cherry tomatoes not as flavourful as those in the Fire Nation, but Zhao couldn’t bring himself to care. Not if it kept pulling laughter out of Zuko when he caught sight of Zhao’s grimace as he tried to dig sugar out of his teeth.

Fire blazed past the prince’s face, a hair’s breadth from skimming scarred flesh. His reaction was like that of a spooked animal, cringing away, fear shuttering over his features in the briefest flash before the prince’s eyes squeezed tightly shut.

“Do not flinch,” Zhao barked. “You think the enemy will take it easy on you? They’ll see your scar and pick it out for what it is – weakness. You can’t afford that.”

Prince Zuko’s lips thinned. “I know.”

Without warning, Zhao fired another plume of pure heat. This time, the prince did not flinch. Instead, he dropped, letting the fire sail over him, and struck with a swing of his arm, fire hurtling in an arc towards Zhao’s face.

Zhao dissipated it easily enough, and as the prince rose from his crouch, he couldn’t help smirking, meeting those golden eyes that were teeming with unbidden ferocity.

Perhaps there truly was something of the royal line in the prince, after all.

“What’s the first rule of medicine?”

Katara startled mid-step, but recovered swiftly within the next second, schooling her face into placidness before the doctor could pick up on it.

Show no weakness, the senior medical students had whispered to her, eyes darting around as if the doctor was about to manifest out of the shadows at the first hint of badmouthing, right then and there in the secluded walls of the university.

But it didn’t matter, because the doctor’s eyes fixed on her fumble like a hawk, and the slightest downturn of the severe line of his mouth told her that as far as first impressions went, Katara had already made a blunder.

Was he talking about the Hippocratic Oath?

“I believe it’s about respecting the scientific gains of those before us –” she began.

“No,” the doctor cut her off. “Not the Hippocratic Oath. What do you think is the first rule of medicine?”

Katara’s brow furrowed. Was there such a rule? For all the minute details and idiosyncrasies they had learnt throughout their first few years of medical school, this wasn’t exactly something they’d covered.

Patient-centred care? Ethics and morality? Research-based treatments?

They reached the door to the clinic, and the doctor swung it open, gesturing for her to enter first. Katara entered, taking in the sterile smell of the room, the white walls, and posters of the cardiopulmonary system tacked around.

The doctor shut the door again and turned around with a flourish.

“The first rule of medicine,” he announced, sharp eyes boring into hers, “is you can’t save everyone.”

Katara blinked. “Pardon?”

The doctor’s mouth twitched into something that was almost a wry smile.

“You can’t save everyone,” he repeated, a heavy exhaustion laden in his eyes. “What will you do when you come out of surgery, bow your head to the patient’s family, and tell them that all your efforts weren’t enough and now they must say their goodbyes? What will you do when you stand there, biting your tongue as they scream at you, calling you every name in the book, threatening to sue you?”

Katara remained silent.

“We are not miracle workers,” the doctor said, his voice softening ever so slightly. “And at the end of the day, you pick yourself up, and you move on to the next task. But if you’ve done the best you could’ve done, then that is all you can aspire to. Remember that when you come into the OR with me next week.”

Katara forced herself to nod.

“Right,” the doctor clapped his hands together. “Now stop looking like your pet died. We have patients to see, and I don’t want a sulky-looking intern being the first thing they see when they come in. Stay on your toes, and you might make it through this rotation relatively unscathed.”

Waspish, snappish, and ironically far more grumpy-looking than Katara could be ever be, it was like every glimpse of that softened doctor had completely disappeared.

“Yes, Doctor,” she said, trying not to sound too flabbergasted.

Yue wrinkled her nose at him and brought out a reusable coffee cup from under the counter, setting it in front of him.

“Here,” she said. “I’ve been trialling these. They’re cute, aren’t they?”

It was cute. Not that he’d ever admit it even under torture. Cartoonish koi patterned the baby blue cup, the same koi that were featured in the café’s logo. It was sickeningly cute, and if Jee saw him using it, he’d never let Zhao live it down.

Zhao was going to paste a name label on it, wasn’t he?

“How much?”

Yue waved him off. “Bring it the next time you come here for coffee, and it’s on the house.”

.

He still had the cup. It had been weeks, and he still had it. Yue had been beyond pleased with him, as if managing to not lose a cup was some insurmountable achievement. It certainly had nothing to do with the happy little smile she would proffer whenever he came by with cup in hand.

No, it most certainly did not have anything to do with that.

And he didn’t care if it was some Pavlov conditioning thing because it was not, it was simply him making use of the gift because if he didn’t, it would be a waste, and he didn’t like waste. There was no other reason, none at all, because he was all about pragmatics and not fixating on pretty smiles or cheerful anecdotes or watching someone putter around with their nose scrunched up in concentration as they experimented with enough syrups and flavourings to make his head spin.

“Do you mind helping me keep record of what I’m doing?” Yue asked distractedly, pushing a notepad and pen in his direction. “Sorry. I’d usually try do it myself, but it’s a lot easier with two people.”

“Of course,” Zhao said, because he was a pragmatic person up to the task and would not get distracted by anything as ridiculous as a dollop of whipped cream adorably adorning Yue’s nose.

Frankly, it was ridiculous. How was he to know that over time, somewhere between all the coffee and pastries, he’d find himself sitting here writing notes about how many pumps of hazelnut syrup she’d dumped into a cup when he knew for a fact that he still had to write three letters to his patients’ GPs.

But he didn’t care. He was too busy dutifully jotting down the dashes of cinnamon and cocoa she was sprinkling into the drink.

Caramel drizzle.

Sprinkles?

Whipped cream.

Conclusion, Zhao wrote, she has produced a sugary monstrosity.

Yue’s face suddenly appeared next to his, her wide blue eyes examining the notepad.

“Did you get everything?”

“Yes,” Zhao said, handing it over.

She took the notepad, tilting her head as she scanned his writing, her brow furrowing more and more with every second.

And then her face broke out into a grin.

“Oh my,” Yue said gleefully. “You have terrible doctor handwriting!”

She turned the notepad towards him, and Zhao couldn’t help cringing at the sloppy, slanted mess that was scribbled along the lines. He should’ve slowed down, he knew. But he had been distracted by the deft flicks of her hands, the way she’d scrutinise between two different syrups, and how she deliberated between toppings by tapping a slender finger against her chin.

He must’ve looked a little too downtrodden, as Yue softened, patting his shoulder.

“It’s fine. Honestly, it’s still legible. I can read it.”

He wasn’t offended, not really. He was more surprised that he’d gotten so distracted by Yue that he’d forgotten everything else that had been happening. It was then that the strange, squirming feeling in his gut suddenly made sense.

His mouth was already moving before his brain could form a semblance of logical thought, and much to his mortification, the words that came out of his mouth were:

“My digits are usually fine, though. Maybe I could give you my number instead?”

If there were ever a merciful higher being, they should have taken pity on him and put him out of his misery. A comet could come careening through the sky, hurtling towards him to smear him into atoms, and he would be grateful.

He’d have to find a new favourite café. And maybe a new favourite barista too. There were many coffeeshops around the hospital, after all. Or, if the shame were to follow him everywhere, he could put in a request to transfer to a different hospital. Or he could go private. There was no shortage of work for surgeons.

Or he could take an extended vacation. When was the last time he’d went on proper leave?

Yue started giggling. Then outright laughing. She muffled her mouth with a hand, but there was a delighted glint in her eye, a rising flush evident even against her tanned skin.

“I think,” she said with a wide grin once she’d composed herself, “I’d like that very much.”

Mermaids.

Every region of the world hosted them. Even in the bitter poles, they were there. Somewhere out there, at least.

Sometimes, Yue wondered if they led much more different lives than their land-dwelling counterparts.

Or, at least, Yue thought, as she clasped the betrothal necklace chained around her throat, if they led easier lives.

.

Ever since her engagement had been announced, Yue found herself wandering to the edge of the city to stare at the sunset, as if to count down the days of relative freedom she had left. It was peaceful outside of the towering walls, and the waters had always looked so pretty under the light of the setting sun.

“It’s my duty,” Yue said unconvincingly to the lapping waters. “I have to marry him. If I don’t, it will cause strife within the tribe. I have to. I must.”

The waters didn’t reply, of course.

“We can cooperate,” Yue continued. “My father wouldn’t have approved the betrothal if Hahn was unreasonable. I’m sure, at the very least, we can unite our interests in protecting the city.”

Below the waters, Yue thought she saw the shadowy mass of a seal animal flit briefly.

“The only reason my father would break the engagement is if Hahn did something truly terrible or if… I don’t know, he was accidentally killed during a hunt.”

A splash, and gentle ripples spread in a circular pattern. Yue smiled slightly. So she was correct; there had been an animal lurking within the waters.

“I shouldn’t say that,” Yue chided herself. “That’s horrible.”

.

Day after day, she returned to the waters, sometimes sitting in silence, sometimes talking about her day. More often than not, she’d unspool her thoughts about her impending marriage to Hahn. And without fail, the same animal she’d spotted that day would accompany her. She never managed to discern what animal it was, but she’d spy hints of it, from the dark mass travelling beneath the ice to the ripples and splashes it would make as if to agree with her words.

It was likely a large animal if the size of the splashes were any indication. She knew little else. Of its colouring, of its shape, of anything that could’ve given a hint as to what she was spilling her thoughts to.

One day, Yue had brought along a piece of raw meat, curious to see if it was a carnivorous animal. She’d tossed it into the water close to where she had seen the last indication of a splash before she returned home.

What a surprise it was to see the meat sitting on the ice the next day, completely untouched. As soon as she peered over the edge of the ice, a large splash caught her right in the face, the sound of a tail slapping against the water the only confirmation that it was the creature clearly miffed by her offering.

Raw seaweed? Tossed back.

Seal blubber? A tentative nibble taken out of a corner before it was left on the ice as well.

Finally, she brought a bowl of soup, setting it next to the water’s edge as if in offering.

The next day, an empty bowl greeted her.

It was amusing, in a way. Though Yue had to wonder what sort of high-intelligence animal had been keeping her company.

“What are you?” she finally asked after a week of leaving plated meals. “Who are you?”

A splash, and in the sunset, Yue stared, wide-eyed, as a long tail arched out of the ocean, water sluicing off glimmering crimson scales. It was nothing she had ever seen before. An indescribable beauty, almost otherworldly…

And then it was gone, slipping back into the water silently.

“Mermaid…” she breathed.

.

It was her secret, and it was supposed to remain her secret. Though the mermaid never fully revealed themselves, they seemed to be more comfortable with showing off their tail, lazily flicking it above the waves every so often or even giving her a glimpse as they dove into the depths.

Sometimes, if she was very lucky, she’d even see a flash of pale skin.

But she should’ve known that Hahn would grow curious. He’d been curious for a while, asking – no, demanding – to know where she ran off to at the end of every day.

She just hadn’t anticipated that he’d follow her.

“So this is what you’ve been doing every day?”

Yue paled, turning around to see Hahn pinning her with a fathomless stare.

“You’re giving our food to some animal?” Hahn scoffed. Then he seemed to remember himself, and a sickly-sweet smile spread across his face. “Sorry. I just meant, Yue, surely if you wanted to feed the animals, it’d be better to give them scraps instead?”

“They… have different tastes,” Yue managed.

“They’re just animals,” Hahn sighed. “They’ll be happy with bones. Besides, all animals are good for is for food and clothing. You know this, Yue.”

“They’re not…” Yue bit her lip. “Never mind.”

“Come on, let’s go.”

Yue reluctantly turned to head back with her fiancé, though not without gently setting the bowl of stew on the ice.

.

A week before the wedding, Hahn followed her out onto the ice again, this time with a spear.

“What are you doing with that?” Yue asked warily, hesitant to peer over the edge as she usually would.

Hahn smirked, flicking his hair out of his face. “Hunting. The wedding is in a week, and I’m supposed to provide the centrepiece of the banquet.”

“Right,” Yue said guardedly. “What are you planning on hunting?”

Her heart sank when Hahn approached the edge of the ice, the gleaming edge of the spear made sharper yet under the rays of the setting sun.

“I came out the other day at noon,” Hahn grinned. “And I saw something move underwater. It must’ve been your little friend. Red scales, too. There isn’t anything here that has red scales. Something that exotic would make our wedding the wedding of the century.”

“You can’t!” Yue protested. “That’s not a simple-minded animal, it’s… it’s…”

“It’s what, Yue?” Hahn asked, scanning the waters. “Come on, you can’t possibly think it’s a pet.”

“No,” Yue grabbed his arm, “but trust me when I say you can’t. Please, don’t do this. There are other animals that you can hunt, just not this one.”

Hahn’s eyes hardened. “Let go, Yue. You don’t know what you’re talking about. I knew I should’ve brought this up with your father. Do you even know what animal it is?”

“It’s not an animal,” Yue admitted. “Hahn, you can’t kill them.”

“Them?” Hahn echoed.

He was to be her husband, wasn’t he? It made sense to trust him, to divulge her secrets. How else was a relationship supposed to work? But reluctance stayed her hand, and she found herself at a loss for words.

“You can’t,” she repeated weakly.

And then, a trill.

Melodic, deep, crooning. Yue had heard many a song in her life. The greatest musicians in the Northern Water Tribe had sung at grand celebrations, fantastic orators reciting poems and stories of old. And yet none of them could compare to what she was hearing.

Hahn, on the other hand, was completely entranced. Enthralled in a way that was unnatural. Certainly not in the way he dropped his spear, stumbling closer to the edge, his eyes fixated on something in the water.

“Hahn,” Yue tugged at his arm, trying to shake off the reverie. “Hahn, get away from the water.”

“No,” Hahn murmured. “No. Let me go. I… I need to go to… I need to…”

Something, someone, crested out of the ocean. A head of brown hair, amber eyes, a proud nose. A man.

A man? Human?

No. A smattering of red scales crawled up the man’s neck, as crimson as the tail Yue had seen over the past few weeks.

Mermaid?

The man opened his mouth, revealing sharp teeth.

And then he sang.

Hahn tore himself out of Yue’s grip, diving into the water in a mad scramble. She shouted in alarm, reaching out for him, but her hand missed him by miles, and with a resounding splash, Hahn started desperately swimming towards the man.

And the man… the merman, dove towards Hahn, still trilling that haunting melody. It happened faster than Yue could comprehend. One moment Hahn was bobbing in the water, and the next, he was gone, dragged into the depths, not even a spread of blood in the water to indicate he was ever there.

Neither Hahn nor the merman resurfaced again.

.

She blamed it on a piranha shark.

Her father accepted the explanation after one look at her tear-streaked face. The rest of the tribe too believed her story after Hahn’s corpse was fished out of the ocean the next day, several bites taken out of him, piranha shark teeth embedded into the open wounds.

Too ambitious, she heard the warriors sigh as they dressed his body. He shouldn’t have tried to hunt a piranha shark. Land animals would have been easier. At least he’d have more of a chance on the tundra.

Two weeks later, Yue returned to the ice edge.

She hadn’t even needed to wait a minute before the man appeared before her, resting his arms on the ice. Amber eyes peered at her curiously, surprisingly warm for someone who clearly had no qualms drowning a person.

“Why did you do it?” Yue asked.

The merman lifted a brow in amusement. “He wanted to kill me.”

His voice was deep. It had no underlying musical quality to it, unlike that night. But Yue still remained wary, making sure she was more than an arm’s length away from the water.

“I was going to stop him.”

The merman hummed, tail flicking behind him. His fins were broad, powerful, sending a strong ripple with such a lackadaisical action. “Hmm. I’m sure.”

“I didn’t know mermen could be so violent,” Yue admitted.

At that, he perked up, grinning as if she had unwittingly told a joke that only he understood.

“Merman,” he repeated, chuckling. “How quaint.”

Then he trilled once more, and the same thrall from that night overtook her. But before she could attempt to shake it off, he vanished into the waters, leaving her alone once more.

She had an epiphany, then. The trills, the singing, the drowning…

She paled. How could she forget? Mermaids dominated the fantastical tales she adored, but there were other creatures out there. Other creatures that did not possess nearly the same innocent reputation mermaids did.

No, not merman, indeed.

“No idea who this guy is, but he puts me to sleep – not because he’s boring or anything! Although, heh, okay, fine, I don’t always understand what he’s talking about. He’s into a lot of niche topics. Anyway! I know you’ve been looking for new podcasts, and this guy has a really soothing voice. You’ll know what I mean.”

She’d been curious the first time. Late in the night, having submitted her assignment at 2:32 AM, her fingers aching and her brain in a fog. She was a night owl anyway. But even so, the adrenaline-fuelled wave that had carried her through her mad dash to get her assignment completed hadn’t yet subsided.

Without anything else to do, she’d looked up the podcast her friend had recommended and selected the most recent one. The description had told her it was on the Old Farmer’s Almanac and how it differed from the modern versions. It seemed to be an incredibly dry topic, but Yue had thought to give it a chance when she noticed that the podcast had a surprisingly high following.

It started there. When the host began talking about how the changes in weather patterns could be chalked up to climate change and how the constellations had differed in position since then because of a natural phenomenon called precession, Yue found herself finishing the episode in the blink of an eye before mindlessly scrolling back down and starting from the very first one.

The Knowledge Seeker was what the podcast was called. An apt name, she thought, when the host would discuss topics she’d barely, if ever, given thought to at all. It almost became a game to figure out who this guy was just from listening to his voice and picking apart the topics he’d chosen. He likely had a military background, given the familiar, knowing way he’d spoken about the origins of naval slang, and how the insight he had when talking about past battles was unparalleled.

Over time, she slowly familiarised herself with his speaking habits. The confident drawl of his words, the thoughtful pauses between sentences, the way he enunciated every syllable, forming each word with clarity and precision. He spoke like he was used to speaking to large crowds, the cadence of his voice mesmerising and compelling her to hang onto his every word.

Yue had no idea when or how her obsession started, but the podcast became her solace on bad days, a balm to her weariness, and a release from the stress of studying.

“… animals have long played a role in military settings,” the host was saying in this week’s episode, several months after she had first subscribed. “In fact, and this is a personal story of mine, I suppose I should divulge the meaning behind this podcast’s name.”

Yue straightened up, setting down her pencil. Whoever the host was, he was a reclusive man, rarely letting slip of anything about his personal life.

“When I left the navy, I left with, um, PTSD. About a year after I left, my friend called me and said he was bringing something over to me: a puppy he’d found in a box behind the public library. I was in a bad state at the time and reacted poorly to the news. But, stubborn bastard he is, he brought the dog over and, well, I guess the dog grew on me because he’s still with me now. In fact, he’s currently sitting on my feet because holding me hostage is apparently his favourite way of taking a nap.”

A chuckle, and Yue was not ashamed to admit she’d replayed it several times over.

“His name is Seeker. He’s the cutest fucking thing in the world as well as the most spoilt thing. I suppose the latter is on me. I never learned how to say no when my friend brought him over, and I never managed to learn after that.”

Yue couldn’t help cracking a smile. Somehow, she couldn’t imagine him as a doting pet owner, but here he was, rambling on about his dog’s annoying habits with an obviously fond voice. Eventually, he must’ve realised that he had gone off on a tangent, as he abruptly cleared his throat and returned to discussing messenger birds.

.

She was standing directly behind a man at one of the local coffeeshops, wondering if she should try sneak a photo of his adorable dog. It looked like a Shiba Inu, curled tail wiggling excitedly as it rested its front paws against the counter wall. A red collar was barely visible around its neck, buried by a thick scarf of fur.

Yue really wanted to sink her fingers into that fur.

“Black coffee and a little something for your pupper,” the barista’s voice broke Yue out of her canine reverie as she looked back up just in time to see the man accept his cup of coffee along with a smaller cup filled with whipped cream.

“Thank you.”

His voice was deep, honeyed and warm. There was something familiar about his voice, but Yue couldn’t put her finger on it. Maybe she’d heard it in passing one time on campus. This was a coffeeshop beloved by students, after all. Although, the man did sound like he was older. Maybe a professor?

She didn’t catch any glimpse of his face. Only the slope of broad shoulders, a ramrod straight back, and neatly combed brown hair. But what truly caught her attention was when, as the man stepped out of the coffeeshop, he clicked his fingers at his dog and said –

“Come on, Seeker.”

The world seemed to slow around her as Yue whipped her head back towards the man, craning desperately to see if she could, just for a moment, catch sight of his face. But it was too late. A swarm of students passed by, swallowing up man and dog from view.

Oh, come on.

Yue internally cursed at herself. Figures the one time she did manage to coincidentally stumble upon the elusive podcast host, she failed to recognise his voice despite listening to it almost every night. For who else could it have been? She’d practically engrained his voice into her head, and yet – and yet…

“Coffee’s ready, miss.”

Yue jerked her head up, meeting the friendly gaze of the barista who plonked her sugary concoction onto the counter.

“Oh – thanks,” she stuttered. “Sorry, I was lost in thought.”

The barista winked. “The dog?”

Yue stubbornly denied the heat clawing up her neck. “Yes, the dog.”

“He comes in every Friday afternoon,” the barista said slyly. “Always with his dog. You should say ‘hi’ sometime. He’s grumpy, but he means well.”

“The dog, you mean?” Yue said somewhat drily.

The barista’s smile broadened.

Yue was about to say something else, when, catching sight of the clock on the wall, her heart nearly jolted to a stop.

“Thanks for the drink,” she said hurriedly, snatching her frappe. She had five minutes before class started, and the lecture theatre was on the other side of campus. There was no time to be thinking of cute dogs and cute men right now.

No, not cute men. She didn’t even see his face.

Yue ducked out of the coffeeshop to join the teeming mass of students, picking up the pace as the minutes started ticking down.