How Do You Take It?

: : Latte : :

She never was a coffee black kind of girl, never took her bitterness without the sweet, never drank the darkness without the light, not on her first date, not on her last.

Rogue coughs and spews when she first tastes the scalding, dark liquid Remy hands her. She wonders—not briefly—how she let him talk her into a date, any date, even 'just coffee' the way he drawled it out so innocently.

But he chuckles at her reaction, then turns red eyes on hers, intrigued. "Y' ain't ever had coffee?"

She glares in lieu of a blush. The jokes on virginity are something she can forego.

Red irises flare like flames in a dark fireplace against black darkness in his eyes. She never liked the shadows or the dark that burned, would remember liquid shadows in the eyes that drowned her. How she always gets so close to fire, always ends up burnt.

Remy moves smoothly out of his seat, goes up to the Starbucks girl behind the counter, chats her up softly so Rogue can't quite hear but for their laughter setting fire in her belly. It was an endless circle, find a guy and watch them flirt up someone else. Remy returns, slides into his seat across from her, leans forward. He still hasn't sipped his coffee.

"Y'll like dis one," he says.

She raises a brow. "An' whah should Ah trust ya?"

He tilts his head at her, furrows his own brow as if perplexed. "Trust ain't a should, chère. It's a choice."

Are they even talking about coffee?

The barista approaches with a steaming cup. The color is not so dark.

"Try it," he urges, red flaring brighter, like flames.

Rogue sips her drink. It's a latte. She's startled to find she likes it. She tells him so and is startled anew to hear the rich sound of his laugh and how real it sounds and she wants it to.

He still hasn't drunk from his coffee. His eyes are on her mouth.

Her first impression of coffee is that it's hot.