Embers of Discontent

Calix’s POV

Calix balanced three mugs of coffee in one hand and a plate of cherry‑almond scones in the other as he stepped into the diner’s back room. The red door creaked behind him—a sound as familiar as his mother’s lullabies and as comforting as his sister’s smile. Here, Seraphine would be waiting.

He set the mugs down on the battered Formica table where they’d shared countless late‑night strategy sessions and quiet breaks from the world’s chaos. The overhead bulbs flickered; the jukebox in the corner hummed to life with a crackle of static before settling on a scratched Frank Sinatra record.

Seraphine leaned against the counter, arms crossed, apron dusted with flour. Her copper hair caught the low light, and for a moment, Calix felt a pang—like the universe had just reminded him how precious these silent dinners were.

“Coffee?” he offered.

She took the mug with a nod, then tasted it. “Still too bitter for my liking.”

Calix smiled wryly. “Gives it character.”

She sighed, settling onto a stool. “Character’s great, but a little sugar doesn’t hurt.” She reached over and dipped a scone in her coffee. “These are your best yet.”

He shrugged. “Mis‐measured the sugar, but maybe that’s my signature.”

They sat in companionable silence, the jukebox’s crackling croon filling the space between them. Calix watched her—Seraphine’s eyes, sharp even when soft with fatigue. He wanted to say something—reassure her, promise her safety—but neither words nor promises felt enough anymore.

Instead he cleared his throat. “You know, I ran the numbers today. Supply runs are up thirty percent. Even without the union’s direct help, people are finding their courage.”

Seraphine’s lips curved. “And here we thought coffee and scones wouldn’t make a difference.”

He leaned forward. “They do. Small things ripple out.”

She looked at him, smile fading into something more tender, more complicated. “We’re all ripples in the same pond, Calix.”

He reached across the table, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Wouldn’t want to be in any other story.”

For a heartbeat, her eyes glistened—hope and sorrow mingling there. Outside, a siren wailed, low and insistent. Calix stiffened, hand still on her cheek.

“That’s them,” Seraphine said quietly. “Sweep’s started.”

He squeezed her hand. “Let me walk you to the back exit.”

She nodded and rose. They moved through the diner’s main room—empty booths and ghost‑light neon—toward the side door that Calix had discovered months ago, the “neutral ground” back alley.

He pressed the hidden latch; the door swung open to a narrow corridor bathed in moonlight. Seraphine inhaled sharply.

“Promise me you’ll be careful,” she said, voice trembling.

Calix closed the space between them, voice hushed: “I promise.”

She searched his eyes. “Promise you’ll come back.”

He swallowed. “I promise.”

She nodded, stepping into the alley. Calix turned to go—then paused, uncertainty flickering across his face. He knelt and pulled a small vial from his jacket pocket. “Here.”

Seraphine’s brow furrowed. “What—”

“A sedative,” he said. “If they catch you alone, take it. I’ll find you after the storm.”

Her gaze softened. “I shouldn’t plan for the worst.”

He stood, voice low. “But I have to. I need you safe.”

She leaned in, pressing her forehead against his. “I love you, Calix.”

He closed his eyes, imprinting the moment. “I love you too.”

They lingered, world narrowing to that shared breath. Then Seraphine straightened and slipped away into the darkness. Calix watched until the back alley swallowed her silhouette.

He exhaled and turned, footsteps silent against wet pavement as he retraced his steps through the diner and into the night. In the distance, riot lights washed the street in shades of alarm. His heart pounded—not with fear, but with fierce determination.

Seraphine’s life was his revolt now. And he would rage quietly, everywhere, until she was safe—or the world tore them apart.

As the door closed behind him, the jukebox cracked back to life, Sinatra registering off‑key: “Fly me to the moon…”

Calix pushed a stray hair from his eyes. “Not tonight, Frankie.” He strode into the glow of police searchlights, ready to die better than he’d ever lived in silence.