Eden

She walked into the café like she owned the place. Black leather jacket, ripped jeans, and dark eyeliner that gave her the kind of edge that made people pause. Her name was Eden, 27, a senior, and she lived on her own terms. It was a Tuesday, but she wasn’t following the usual campus crowd—no, she was doing her thing, whatever that meant at the moment. The café buzzed with the usual hum of students half-heartedly studying and others gossiping, but her attention was drawn to a young guy sitting by the window. He was about 20, quiet, with soft features that seemed a little out of place here among the chaos of youthful energy. He was nibbling at a pastry, his focus split between the sweet in his hands and a textbook that lay half-open in front of him. A smirk tugged at the corners of her lips. Without a word, she slid over, the confident sway of her walk drawing eyes as she approached him. She bent low, letting her gaze linger on his, eyes dark and predatory, like a cat toying with a mouse. With a swift, practiced motion, she snatched the pastry right from his hands. He barely had time to react before she sank her teeth into it, her gaze never leaving his. The crumbs from the pastry fell from her lips as she took her bite, savoring the sugary richness, but it was the tension in the air that left a lingering taste—an unspoken challenge in that simple moment. His eyes widened, unsure whether to laugh, to react, or to shrink into his seat. But all he could do was stare, caught between amusement and something else, something deeper that hung between them.