Page 68 of Born in Fire

“Okay, who is he?” Lisa appears beside me, eyebrow raised in amusement.

“Who’s who?” I deflect, though heat rises to my cheeks.

“The guy who’s got you practically floating around the café.” She leans against the counter, studying me. “I’ve worked with you for a while now, Juno, and I’ve never seen you like this. You’re… glowing.”

I busy myself reorganizing cups that don’t need reorganizing. “I’m just having a good day.”

“Uh-huh.” She doesn’t push, but her knowing smile says she doesn’t believe me for a second. “Well, whoever he is, he’s good for you.”

As she moves away to help a customer, I consider her observation. Is Dorian good for me? Logic says I should be terrified, or at least deeply unsettled, by what I’ve learned. Instead, I feel more alive than I have in years, as if colors are brighter, sounds clearer, possibilities endless.

The revelation should have shattered my sense of reality. Instead, it feels like confirmation of something I’ve always intuitively felt—the world truly is vast and wondrous. And not just because I’m falling in love.

Love?

I shake my head. That’s crazy. Lust, maybe. Except it feels deeper. It feels all-consuming.

I prepare a vanilla latte for a regular customer, creating a perfect rosetta in the foam. As I hand it across the counter, I wonder what Dorian would think of my latte art. We still need to have that competition we joked about when we first met. The thought makes me smile again.

Centuries old. The concept is almost too enormous to grasp. All the history he’s witnessed, the changes he’s seen. What was it like to live through hundreds of years? To watch empires rise and fall, technologies transform from impossible to commonplace?

A brief doubt surfaces—how could someone who has lived so long, experienced so much, truly be interested in me? I’m twenty-seven, a barista with a half-finished art degree and emotional baggage from a shitty relationship. What could I possibly offer someone like him?

But then I remember the wonder in his eyes when I touched his scale skin without fear. The vulnerability in his voice when he admitted he’d never felt this connection before, despite his long life. Whatever is happening between us feels mutual, not one-sided.

For once, I choose to trust this feeling rather than question it. My therapist would call this progress—learning to distinguish between healthy intuition and trauma-induced fear. Tyler taught me to doubt myself, to question my perceptions and desires. I refuse to let that control my response to something that feels so right, so… inevitable.

The café quiets as the afternoon stretches on. The light gradually changes. A few customers tap on laptops or scroll through phones. The espresso machine hisses softly. In this moment of ordinary peace, I feel an extraordinary contentment.

Tonight, after my shift, I’ll see Dorian again. We’ll talk more about his world, about dragons and clans and all that entails. The thought sends a pleasant shiver through me. I check the clock—just over an hour left before I can leave.

The first indication something is wrong comes so subtly I almost miss it. The security guard near the lobby entrance looks up sharply, his hand moving to his earpiece. His expression shifts from boredom to confusion to alarm in the span of seconds.

I follow his gaze but see nothing unusual through the soaring glass atrium of the lobby. Outside, pedestrians move along the sidewalk as normal. Inside, business continues uninterrupted.

Then I notice the silence. The ambient noise of the building—the constant hum of ventilation, the distant ping of elevators, the murmur of voices—has stopped. The silence feels physical, pressing against my eardrums like I’ve suddenly descended underwater.

A customer approaches the counter, but my attention remains fixed on the security guard, who’s now speaking urgently into his radio. His free hand moves toward his holster—a gesture I’ve never seen from Craven Towers security before.

“Miss? Can I get a—”

The customer’s request dissolves into a startled yelp as a deep rumble vibrates through the building. Coffee cups rattle on their shelves. The overhead lights flicker once, twice, then stabilize.

“What was that?” someone asks. “Construction?”

The security guard is suddenly moving, gesturing people away from the center of the lobby. “Everyone needs to move toward the exits immediately,” he announces, voice carrying across the space. “Please proceed calmly to the nearest—”

The rest of his instructions disappear beneath a deafening roar from somewhere above us. The ceiling trembles. Dust and small fragments of material shower down from overhead.

My body reacts before my mind can process what’s happening. I step back from the counter, eyes darting to exit points, cataloging escape routes. The main doors are thirty yards away. The service corridor behind me leads to a loading dock. The emergency stairwell requires a security badge after hours, but it’s only 5:47 p.m.—it should still be accessible.

Customers rise from their seats, confusion giving way to concern. A woman clutches her laptop to her chest. A man in a business suit stands frozen, coffee cup suspended halfway to his mouth.

Another rumble, louder this time. The lights flicker again and go out completely. Emergency lighting activates seconds later, casting everything in an eerie glow.

“Everyone out!” the security guard shouts, all pretense of calm abandoned. “Now!”

I grab Lisa’s arm as she emerges from the back room, eyes wide with confusion.

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