Chapter 6 6: One Chair, Two Stubborn People

Riley's POV

The first thing I saw when I walked into the café was Ryan Reed sitting in my chair, which meant the morning had already found a way to become irritating before I had even ordered tea. He looked entirely comfortable beneath the window, one hand resting beside an open book while the pale autumn light caught on the edge of his cup.

“You are in my seat,” I said, setting my bag against the table with more force than necessary.

Ryan glanced down at the chair as though he had been asked to identify an ordinary piece of furniture, then looked back at me with that infuriatingly calm expression of his. “I am aware that I am sitting in it.”

“That was not an invitation to be literal.”

“I thought it was a clarification.”

I folded my arms and stared at him, wondering whether there was a polite way to remove a fae from a chair without causing an academy incident. There probably was, but unfortunately every polite method I could think of involved asking nicely, and I had already decided that I would rather lose the argument than give him the satisfaction of knowing I cared this much about a cushion.

“You knew I sat here,” I said.

“I had noticed.”

“That makes this worse.”

“I did not realize the chair had assigned ownership.”

“It has.”

Ryan looked at the chair again, considering this with far more seriousness than the situation deserved. “Does it have documentation?”

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing, which was particularly annoying because he had clearly intended the question to be funny.

“It has years of service,” I said, pulling out the chair opposite him. “That is practically legal authority.”

“Then I am surprised the academy has not issued it a title.”

“You are making fun of my chair.”

“I am respecting its long career.”

I sat down, because leaving would have meant surrendering both the chair and the argument, and I had no intention of giving him either. Around us, the café hummed with its usual afternoon bustle, cups floated toward waiting tables, enchanted spoons stirred themselves in mugs, and someone near the pastry case was trying to convince a cinnamon roll that it had been undercharged.

Ryan turned a page.

I looked at him over my tea. “Are you planning to sit there all afternoon?”

“I had been.”

“Excellent. I had been planning to have a peaceful afternoon.”

“I see that our plans are incompatible.”

“You are learning quickly.”

The corner of his mouth moved, and I caught it before he could pretend it had not happened. “Do not look so pleased with yourself.”

“I am not pleased.”

“You are.”

“I am sitting quietly.”

“You are sitting smugly.”

“I did not know there was a distinction.”

“There is when you are doing it.”

He took a sip of tea, and I noticed he had somehow managed to order the same blend I had yesterday. I told myself that was probably because the café served approximately twelve teas and four of them tasted like warm leaves, although the explanation felt less convincing than I wanted it to.

“You are reading potion theory again,” I said, mostly because silence around Ryan had begun to feel suspiciously comfortable.

“Yes.”

“Do you ever read anything that does not involve ingredients, brewing temperatures, or professors assigning too much work?”

“Occasionally.”

“Name one.”

He thought about it. “A book.”

I stared at him.

He turned another page.

“That was terrible,” I said.

“It was accurate.”

I laughed before I could stop myself, and his eyes lifted from the book for just long enough to catch the sound. He did not look smug about it, which somehow made the moment more dangerous than if he had.

A bell chimed at the café entrance, and an older student stepped inside carrying a folded order slip and looking uncertain enough that I immediately recognized the expression. She glanced toward the tables, then toward the academy path outside, where the new shop near the quad could be seen beyond the fountain with its bright painted sign and polished windows.

Her gaze returned to the order slip.

I straightened slightly.

Ryan noticed. “Customer?”

“Potentially.”

I was already halfway out of my chair when he looked toward the same student. She had started toward us, but another student passed between us and the door, and when the path cleared, she was standing outside instead.

I frowned. “That is strange.”

“She may have forgotten something.”

“She has an order slip.”

Ryan closed his book. “Then perhaps she is deciding whether to place it.”

The student looked toward The Remedy & Ruin, then across the courtyard toward the rival shop, whose windows caught the afternoon light so neatly that they practically advertised themselves. She hesitated long enough for me to feel the familiar pinch of worry behind my ribs, the one that appeared whenever someone looked at my shop and seemed to be calculating whether it was worth entering.

I stood, but Ryan spoke before I could reach the door.

“You left your tea.”

I looked back at him.

“You are concerned about my tea right now?”

“You complain when it gets cold.”

“That is because cold tea is a personal insult.”

He glanced toward the student again. “Then take it with you.”

I picked up the cup, trying not to smile at the fact that he had remembered such a ridiculous detail. The student had already started walking toward the rival shop, however, and by the time I reached the café entrance, she had crossed half the courtyard.

I stepped outside.

“Excuse me,” I called.

She turned.

For a second, I thought she might come back, but her eyes flicked toward the polished windows across the quad, then back to me. “I am sorry,” she said, lifting the order slip slightly. “I think I am going to try the other shop.”

I stopped.

It was such a small sentence that it should not have landed as heavily as it did.

“That is all right,” I said, because it was her choice and I meant what I had told Netty the day before. “You should go where you think you will get what you need.”

She looked relieved rather than offended, which somehow made the whole thing worse. “They said they can have it ready today.”

“I hope it helps.”

She gave me a grateful little nod and continued across the courtyard.

When I returned to the table, Ryan had moved my tea farther from the edge so nobody would knock it over.

“You let her go,” he said.

“I was not going to drag her back.”

“I did not think you would.”

I sat down and stared through the window at the rival shop, where the student disappeared through a bright blue door. “I just did not expect it to happen this quickly.”

Ryan was quiet for a moment, and when he answered, his voice had lost some of its teasing edge. “People choose convenience when they are tired.”

“I know.”

“You cannot make every choice for them.”

“I know that too.”

I wrapped both hands around my cup, letting the heat settle into my fingers. The annoying part was that he was right, and the even more annoying part was that I did not need Heartcraft to know it.

Ryan reopened his book, but neither of us read for several minutes.

Eventually, he said, “For what it is worth, I do not think she left because your shop was not good enough.”

I looked at him.

He kept his attention on the page. “She left because someone promised her an easier answer.”

The words stayed with me.

When I returned to The Remedy & Ruin that evening, the shop felt unusually quiet, even though nothing had changed. The jars still glowed softly along the shelves, the kettle still gave a pleased little hum whenever I passed it, and the handwritten sign above the counter still promised, in my own slightly crooked lettering, that I sold potions for what ailed you.

I set down my bag and noticed the order slip on the counter.

I had not brought it back with me.

My stomach tightened.

I picked it up carefully and unfolded it, expecting to see the customer's name or perhaps a note explaining that she had changed her mind. Instead, there was only the familiar list of ingredients I had been preparing to brew, with the final line crossed through in a single neat stroke.

Something small and silver sat beneath the paper.

I stared at it.

The coin was almost identical to the one I had found before, right down to the strange markings along its edge. When I picked it up, the metal felt cool against my palm, and for the first time since the original coin had appeared in my shop, I had the distinct feeling that whatever was happening had never been about only one coin.

I closed my fingers around the second silver piece and looked toward the darkened window, where the academy lights shimmered faintly across the glass. Somewhere beyond them, the rival shop was still open, and somewhere much closer, a question I had been trying not to ask had just become considerably harder to ignore.