"Break's over!" I jerk, Sharpie smearing my wrist, and look up as Kaila shuffles around behind the counter. Her eyes are calculating, hair twined into a messy blue bun atop her head, fingers absently working the espresso machine.

I cap the marker and shove it into my apron, matching her scowl. "It's not even busy," I complain, join her, nonetheless. Kaila grins and bumps her hip into mine, expression sly.

"Exactly, you can catch me up on your weekend," she answers, eyebrows raised. I wrinkle my nose and rake my fingers through my bangs, sighing.

"There's nothing to tell; we went out, it was awful, and I ditched," I grumble, referring to the blind date Kaila so craftily tricked me into. She huffs, capping the completed drink and handing it to the waiting customer. They offer thanks; Kaila nods acknowledgment before facing me.

"Details Reecie." She orders. I roll my eyes, shoulders slumping as I lean back against the counter.

"Like what?" I whine, wishing I had something else to distract her with.

She throws her hands up in exasperation. "Like, what went wrong?" Kaila prompts, arms crossed as she awaits my response. I mirror her, pressing up onto my tiptoes as I debate how to answer.

"His socks were mismatched, he kept fiddling with his knife like he was preparing to kill me, his teeth were crooked..." as I ramble, Kaila's face turns stony. "...He talked in the third person, ordered for me without asking what I wanted, and—" Kaila clamps a hand over my mouth, her lips twisted into a sulky sneer.

"Alright," she barks. I nip at her fingers; Kaila withdraws with a yelp. "Ow!"

"You wanted to know," I argue. "Also, I thought we agreed that you'd stop meddling with my love life," I grumble.

"No," Kaila corrects with a shake of her finger, "you asked, and I declined. You know," Kaila pauses and pinches a strand of my blonde hair between her fingers. "If you let me cut your hair, maybe an asymmetric bob or a pixie cut—"

"Hell no!" I break her hold, scowl at her disappointment. "I'm not a guinea pig for your cosmetology classes." I sass.

Kaila was only one class away from graduating with an associate degree in Cosmetology. Still, there was no way I would let her chop away at my hair. Again. The first time, granted, almost one year ago, hadn't gone so well. From her excellent grades, I knew she'd made leaps and bounds in her work, but that didn't take away from the horror of her shaving half my head.

Maybe it was on my request, but I hadn't been serious. Plus, my state of mind those days was questionable at best. She should've known not to take a razor to my head.

Kaila wrinkles her nose and juts out her lower lip, pouting prettily. "I'm not going to turn you into Frankenstein's wife. I'm actually pretty good with hair these days." Kaila argues, patting her own head of blue locks and casting me a bitter look. "And maybe a change of pace will do you some good."

"My pace is just fine." My best friend narrows her eyes, lips tightly pinched as she grips my wrist and draws the sleeve of my sweatshirt up.

I shriek in alarm, eyes searching the café for witnesses.

She gasps at the reddened skin, the fresh cuts, the beginnings of new scabs. "You call this fine?" She whisper-yells as I wrench out of her grasp. My cheeks flame an indignant shade of red as I pull the sleeve down, cradle my arm to my chest.

Kaila steps back, creating a chasm of space between us that distant conversation and the low thrum of music struggles to fill as we stare into each other's eyes. I can see betrayal, worry, and horror in her sea-green gaze, in the lines on her forehead, the way she bites her lip.

I clench my jaw.

"You said you'd stopped," she whispers, "that you weren't having nightmares. That you didn't think about him anymore." I cringe back, shaking out my arm and straightening my shoulders defiantly.

"Yeah, well, they came back." I turn away, busy myself with cleaning. Kaila is quiet for several long moments, so I focus on my hands and will them to stop shaking.

"Have you been eating?" The question isn't random, and it's not one I haven't heard recently; Dad asks every day. Without facing her, I nod.

It's not a lie. I have been eating. Just not as much as I let them believe. According to my psychiatrist, it's a symptom of depression, which, consequently, is a symptom of my PTSD.

"I'm fine, Kay," I mumble, regrettably twisting around to meet her beseeching gaze. "Just tired," I add, swallowing the bitter lie uncomfortably. Kaila looks me over for several agonizing moments that stretch out like talons, raking rivulets of anxiety across my skin. Then she deflates, exhaling a long breath and shuffling around me.

She pulls at the knot of her apron. "I'll be back," Kaila says, heading for the bathrooms. I watch her retreating form, torn between running after her and telling the truth or keeping silent and leaving her wrapped in cozy oblivion.

The doorbell chimes and I follow the noise, spotting a group of young guys as they bustle through the doors. They're loud, staring at the phone screen held out before them, pointing, and whistling, teasing, and shoving the one with dark brown hair and tanned skin. He smiles under the brunt of it, laughing when the one holding the phone smacks the back of his head. He returns it with a vengeful smirk.

Two boys breakaway, snagging a table in front of the windows while the other two approach the counter. I clear my throat, paste a welcoming smile on my face, and meet them at the register.

"Hello, what can I get you today?" I ask on autopilot, tapping at the screen in time with their responses. I name their total, and the black-haired one hands over a credit card. I nearly blanch at the engraved signature, the weight of the card.

Spencer Haart.

Where do I know that name?

Ruffled, I swipe the card and hand it back, busy myself with the drinks as my mind races to fill in the blanks. As I work, Kaila returns, cinching her apron with a tug. Her gaze flits past me to the boys loitering by the counter, awaiting their order.

A muffled scream escapes her, and she clamps her hands to her lips, whirling away when the boys' glance over in amusement. "Oh. My. God!" Kaila's hand comes down on my bicep, grip painfully tight as she stares at me in wide-eyed alarm. "Do you know they are?" She whispers. I frown and wiggle out of her hold, peering confusedly around her at the guys.

"Should I?" Kaila flounders for words, mouth opening, and closing.

"This, Reecie, this is your problem. You live under a rock." She criticizes, sweeping her arm dramatically through the air. I snort a laugh, setting one completed beverage on the counter and starting on the next.

"Then, by all means, enlighten me." I deadpan. Kaila doesn't seem to notice as nervous energy erupts from her like fireworks.

"That's the Captain of the Cincinnati Cyclones! And their new forward, now look over there," Kaila jerks her head, un-surreptitiously, in the direction of the two guys already seated. "Their two main defenders." She rambles off their names and jersey numbers in rapid succession, voice low enough to ensure the ones closest can't hear.

"...and Bastien Killfeather, number forty-nine." She finishes.

I set down the fourth and final drink, gently sliding them all in the two hockey players' general direction. They smile at us, knowing glints in their eyes, and rejoin their friends. As they go, one of them lingers, hazel eyes piercingly attentive as they drink me in. I flush under the scrutiny and turn away. Decide my attention is better spent staring at Kaila in a mix of awe, shock, and amusement.

"When did you become the walking Wikipedia site for the Cincinnati Cyclones? I didn't even know you liked hockey." I whisper, not entirely sure why, considering they can't hear us. Kaila harrumphs and rolls her eyes.

"Have you forgotten my brother was just recently scouted for the league? He's college hockey now, but some of his friends are Cyclones." Kaila sasses, hand on her hip. I scowl, waving a hand dismissively.

"You mean the half-brother that you barely know and rarely talk about?" I clarify snarkily. Kaila narrows her eyes at me.

"It's a team full of hot guys. Why wouldn't I pay attention to that?" She returns with a look of incredulity.

I lift my hands in submission, deciding it's not worth pressing further. Kaila accepts this with a satisfied smirk.

Together, we start our closing tasks as the sun dips low on the horizon. Customers begin to trickle out. The hum of conversation dies away, leaving only the four boys remaining in the café. As we wipe down tables and flip chairs, I feel the burning stare of eyes on my neck but don't dare look for fear of being caught. My senses heighten as my heart begins a rapid race in my chest. The reaction makes me uneasy, so I return to the counter, bending low to hide from view.

It's not long, though, before someone clears their throat, and my heart lurches into my stomach.

I yelp, bolting upright and smacking my palms down on the countertop. The tan-skinned boy with brown hair and alluring hazel eyes stands before me, his face soft despite the haughty smirk pulling at his lips. An eyebrow ring glints under the bright lights and draws my wandering attention to the thickness of his brows, the length of his eyelashes.

"Can I help you with something?" I squeak out, adjusting my apron in an attempt to regain my dignity. His smirk grows, and he leans forward, the V-neck of his black t-shirt drooping to expose rigid muscle and smooth skin.

"Maybe, are you alright?" His voice drips with mirth and mischief dances in his eyes. I stare at him, reveling in the comforting, slightly accented baritone of his voice. He hadn't spoken before, allowed his friend to do all the talking. Now I wish he'd say more.

He raises a lazy eyebrow at my silence, and I flush, tearing my eyes away to stare down at my hands. "I'm fine," I answer, pulling the Sharpie from my apron and fiddling with the cap. He observes me, eyes coy and flirtatious.

"Bas," he says, extending his hand. I blink at the offer, slowly clasp his fingers. They're warm, calloused, and twice the size of mine. Then I meet his eyes; realize he's waiting for a reply.

"Uh, Reece," I stutter out, feeling immensely stupid as the moments' tick by. His smirk morphs into a smile.

"Pretty," he comments, holding my hand steadfastly in his. I bite down on my lip, silently chastising my stomach for the butterflies.

"Thank you," I clear my throat, try to dislodge my fingers. Bas refuses, and our eyes meet; there's a bolt of electricity as he leans forward, head tilted slightly. I'm mesmerized, unable to shift, and yet desperate to pull away.

Then he blinks and steps back, decisively releasing my hand. I curl it into my pocket, nails digging into my palm, hating how it tingles with the lingering sensation of his touch.

"We're closing, if you wouldn't mind, uh..." I drop off, feeling unreasonably embarrassed with the request. Bas grins and slides a napkin toward me on the counter. I glance at it, see the scrawled number, and look up to protest.

But he's turned away.

Bas rejoins his friends without a backward glance, hands in his pockets, as they slip out the front door. Kaila locks it behind them, face flushed from engaging in her own coquettish conversation with the one she called the captain, Spencer, I think.

There's a moment of silence in which I simply stare at the number, feeling my throat constrict and my heartbeat thunder in my wrists.

"Ooh, what's this?" Kaila singsongs, plucking up the napkin with a flourish, eyes widening at the number. I scowl, reach to retrieve the note, but Kaila skitters away with a giggle.

"Kay!"

"Bastien Killfeather gave you his number!" She rejoices, the gesture seeming to have relit the fire in her that I'd hoped to have extinguished earlier today. I groan, motioning for her to return the napkin.

"Give me that," I state, glowering. Kaila purses her lips, waving the napkin in the air as if it were a white flag.

"On one condition," she argues. I huff and put my hands on my hips, waiting. "You add it to your contacts."

I scoff at the notion, already shaking my head. But Kaila makes a weird supercilious noise and pulls out her phone, starts typing in the numbers. I watch in horror as she lifts it to her ear.

It rings once.

"What're you doing?" I cry, rounding the counter and reaching to rip the phone from her hands. She dodges me easily, holds me off with an extended arm.

It rings again; Kaila smiles at me.

"If you won't call him, I will." She says offhandedly; something odd fizzles in my chest. I clench my fist, reaching out with the other.

"Give it," I grumble. Kaila's lips twitch as she hangs up, sweetly passing the napkin into my outstretched hand.

I don't appreciate the subtle manipulation tactics she's pulling, yet I'm also irked that it garnered a reaction at all. I shouldn't give a damn, let her play with him.

But I don't want her to, and I don't like that feeling.

Kaila skips off, and I follow moodily after. We collect our things, finish closing up, and Kaila hugs me goodnight before heading out. I linger in the darkened space, palm my Sharpie, and eye the wall of graffiti art at the back of the Anarchy Immortal Café.

Colors of all kinds span the white wall, words cover and overlap one another, figures hide within the mirage, and phrases are half-shaded over by marker.

Every few months, Dad repaints it, and the process begins anew. People everywhere come to express themselves on his signature Wall of Expression: a spot where anything is accepted, a place to vent, a home for those without one.

Approaching, I uncap my marker and pick a corner, fingers shaking slightly as I press the tip to the smooth surface. In big, scrawling letters, I write what nags at me most, what pain is threatening me, what horror awaits my unconscious thoughts.

Love is poison.