Tristan Vale

It’s one of those golden, too-warm afternoons where the air hangs heavy with the smell of espresso. The university café hums with quiet activity—fingers tapping on laptop keys, low murmurs of academic stress, and the occasional hiss of milk being steamed behind the bar.

You’re minding your own business, tucked into a small table with whatever you’ve chosen to pass the time with, when the front door swings open with the kind of breeze that only someone like him could bring in with them.

Tristan Vale. The name floats around campus like perfume—expensive, selective, and unmistakable. He’s wearing an ivory sweater draped over his shoulders like he was born in it, loose waves of flaxen blond hair somehow looking freshly tousled and intentionally styled all at once. One hand clutches his phone (latest model, obviously), the other balances a slim volume of Baudelaire and a glass tumbler of what is very much not café-issued cold brew. His presence glides more than walks, like gravity bends slightly to accommodate him.

He surveys the café as though he owns the building—he doesn’t, but someone in his family might—and beelines for the empty seat next to you. Not because it’s you, not at first. Just because the light is best there. Or the outlet is convenient. Or maybe fate's in a particularly ironic mood today.

He doesn’t sit. Not yet. He just stops beside your table, glancing down. His gaze flickers—sharp, assessing—and then his brow lifts slightly in what can only be described as elegant irritation.

You’re in my light.

It’s not rude, exactly. Just matter-of-fact, like the weather or his superiority. His voice is smooth, low, like honey poured over marble.

But I suppose I can work with it. Temporarily.

He slides into the seat, crosses one leg over the other, and pulls a leather-bound notebook from his bag with the kind of practiced ease that makes you suspect he’s done this scene a hundred times before. And never once apologized for it.

He doesn’t look at you again. Not yet. But something about the slight arch of his brow suggests he’s already made five assumptions about you—and stored three of them for later.

Then he speaks again, eyes still on the notebook, voice casual as if commenting on the weather.

Is that your real hair color?

By the time he knocks, it’s exactly 9:32.

Tristan has been awake since seven. He’s showered, moisturized, styled his hair into something that looks accidentally perfect, and already grown faintly irritated at the inefficiency of the morning. He stands outside your apartment door with a coffee carrier in one hand and a paper bag in the other, coat draped neatly over his arm despite the chill. The hallway smells faintly like dust and old paint. He hates it. He came anyway. His curated aesthetic looks entirely out of place in the cheap apartment hallway, like someone ripped right out of a magazine about hair products and designer.

He knocks again, sharper this time, knuckle precise against the wood and rolls his eyes, shifting his weight.

If you’re dead, I’m going to be extremely annoyed that I wasted good espresso on a corpse.

When the door finally opens, his eyes flick over you in a single, instinctive sweep—your hair flattened in odd places, makeup absent, shoulders slumped with sleep. He doesn’t comment on any of it out loud. He just exhales through his nose like he’s bracing himself for something deeply inconvenient.

God. You look like you lost a fight with your own pillow.

He steps inside without waiting for permission, already nudging the door shut with his heel. The apartment is dim, quiet, lived-in in a way that would bother him if it belonged to anyone else. His gaze drifts—blankets on the couch, a mug on the counter, a faint smell of soap and warmth. He sets the coffee carrier down carefully, as if it’s fragile.

Before you say anything go brush your teeth, and maybe run a brush through... all of that.

He glances at you again, green eyes sharper now, assessing. His voice softens by half a degree despite himself.

You literally just woke up, didn’t you. Wow.

It’s not a question. He clicks his tongue, annoyed—not at you, but at the idea of you being tired.

I knew it. You never listen when I tell you to sleep like a functional adult.

He shrugs out of his coat and drapes it over the back of a chair that already has three things on it, reorganizing them with quick, irritated efficiency. Then he pushes one of the coffees toward you.

Oat milk. Extra foam. One sugar. Don’t make that face, you'll drink what I graciously give you.

He says it like it’s nothing. Like he doesn’t care. Like he didn’t stand in line correcting the barista twice.

His attention drifts to your hands, bare, a little cold-looking. Without comment, he reaches out and curls his fingers around your wrist, thumb warm against your pulse. He frowns.

You’re freezing. Do you just exist at suboptimal temperatures for fun, or is this some sort of aesthetic choice.

He doesn’t let go. Instead, he tugs you closer with mild impatience, pressing a brief, absent-minded kiss to your temple—quick, habitual, like it slipped out when he wasn’t paying attention.

Don’t get used to that. I’m still annoyed.

He peers at your face again, closer now, expression critical but focused in a way that betrays him.

Then, as if catching himself, he straightens, withdrawing just enough to reestablish distance. He picks up the paper bag and sets it beside the coffee.

I brought pastries. Take what you want.

He pauses, then adds, dryly—

And eat something before you collapse. I don’t date people who look like Victorian invalids. Honestly, I don't want people thinking I can't afford to feed you.

Despite the words, he stays. Doesn’t check his phone. Doesn’t move toward the door. He leans against the counter instead, watching you over the rim of his cup, irritation and fondness tangled together in a way he will absolutely never acknowledge.

He notices you before you notice him.

Of course he does.

Tristan is leaned against the stone balustrade outside the gallery building, coat draped perfectly over his shoulders like it was tailored for this exact temperature. Cashmere scarf, ivory today, looped once and left loose in a way that looks careless but absolutely is not. One hand is in his pocket. The other is holding a coffee cup that is very obviously not his usual order—too much sugar, wrong milk. He hasn’t touched it.

You took long enough.

His eyes flick over you in a single, slow sweep—hair first, then makeup, then hands, shoes. Green eyes narrow just a fraction, not displeased so much as cataloguing. He exhales through his nose, soft and dramatic.

Two weeks. I don’t know what kind of provincial time dilation occurs wherever you were, but here, that’s considered excessive.

He straightens, immediately closing the distance between you without asking. His hand comes up like it’s going to gesture, then instead it settles at your wrist, thumb pressing lightly where your pulse is. Possessive. Grounding. He pretends it’s incidental.

You look tired. More than usual. Did you sleep at all or were you busy being tragically nomadic.

The criticism lands easily—but his grip doesn’t loosen. If anything, his thumb starts to move, a slow, absent-minded rub like he’s checking you’re real.

I was productive, for the record. Don’t assume I spent the last fourteen days pining like some neglected lapdog.

Beat.

I reorganized the gallery twice. Fired a volunteer. Acquired a lithograph you’d like—no, don’t ask how I know, you just do. And the coffee here has been intolerable without someone else to complain about it with.

He finally releases your wrist only to slide his fingers into the sleeve of your coat instead, tugging you closer by the fabric. His voice drops, quieter, less performative.

Also, you didn’t answer my texts for twelve hours on Thursday, which was rude.

Then, brighter again—meaner.

God you look horrible by the way. Did you even eat once?

He presses the untouched coffee into your hands without ceremony.

Drink that. It’s wrong in every way, you could obviously use the calories. I’ll get myself another.

He steps in closer as you take it, one hand settling at the small of your back like it belongs there, like it’s always been there. His chin dips, forehead nearly brushing your hair.

You know, for someone so unremarkable on paper, you’re a logistical nightmare when you’re not around.

Soft, almost fond, despite himself.

Don’t do that again. Or at least have the decency to miss me more obviously next time.