This work contains themes and scenes intended for mature readers (18+). It explores intimacy, emotional complexity, and adult relationships through contemporary romance and erotic realism. Reader discretion is advised.
The Fracture
Shattered With a Single Glance
Cotton's routine is shattered when Jasmin enters the café; unlike her usual conquests, Jasmin is unclassifiable and creates a silence that Cotton finds both terrifying and magnetic.
An Excerpt from this Chapter...
The family reached the counter. The mother leaned in, smelling of expensive floral perfume and stress.
“We need two lattes, extra hot, no foam. And a blueberry scone. Is the scone fresh?”
Cotton ignored her. She looked past the mother’s shoulder, directly at the girl.
“What do you want?” Cotton asked. Her voice was rough, a scrape of gravel.
The mother blinked, offended. “Excuse me?”
The girl stepped forward. She smelled like rain on hot asphalt—ozone and petrichor. Not a perfume. Just… her.
“Iced coffee,” the girl said. Her voice was low, a cello note in a room full of flutes. “Black.”
Cotton punched the order into the screen. Her fingers felt clumsy, thick. She looked at the Sharpie in her hand. She needed to write a name on the cup.
“Name?” Cotton asked, staring at the girl.
“It’s Jasmin,” the mother snapped. “I already said it.”
Cotton didn’t look at the mother. “Tell me.”
The girl’s lips quirked—a tiny, microscopic shift. “Jasmin.”
Cotton uncapped the marker. She wrote the letters: J-A-S-M-I-N. The ink bled slightly into the plastic lid.
“That’s six-fifty,” Cotton said.
The father paid. Cotton didn’t register him. She turned to the bar, her movements disjointed. She grabbed a cup. Scooped ice. The cubes clattered, loud and sharp. She poured the cold brew. Her hand shook—just once—spilling a few dark drops onto the stainless steel counter.
Get a grip.
She shoved a lid onto the cup.
She walked to the hand-off plane. The mother was already there, reaching for the hot lattes the other barista had made.
Cotton held the iced coffee. She waited until Jasmin stepped up.
“Your drink.”
Jasmin reached out. Her fingers were pale, the nails cut short and unpolished. As she took the cup, her index finger brushed against Cotton’s knuckle.
Static snapped between them—audible, sharp.
Cotton flinched. She almost dropped the cup.
Jasmin didn’t pull back. She held the plastic cup, condensation instantly forming against her skin. Her eyes widened, the pupils blowing out, swallowing the iris.
“Thanks,” Jasmin said.
The word was heavy. It felt like a code.