Chapter Text
Every morning at 7:42 a.m., like clockwork, the devil walked into the campus cafe.
White and black hair that looked soft, stupidly broad shoulders under an oversized hoodie, and those sharp red eyes that always found Eunho across the room just to glare at him.
Bamby. Third-year architecture student. Certified asshole. The only person in the entire university who dared tell the barista-in-chief that his signature honey-oat latte “tasted like regret and bad decisions.”
This morning was no different.
“Large black coffee. No sugar, no milk, no whatever the hell you tried to do to it yesterday,” Bamby said, dropping exact change on the counter like he was paying a ransom.
Eunho smiled the customer-service smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Aw, you remembered I exist. I’m touched.”
“I remember everything that annoys me,” Bamby muttered, leaning one hip against the counter, arms crossed. “It’s a surprisingly long list.”
Eunho poured the coffee with deliberate slowness, letting the steam curl between them. “You know, most people say thank you.”
“I’m not most people.”
“No,” Eunho said sweetly, snapping the lid on, “you’re the guy who’s been coming here every single day for four months just to insult me. At this point it almost feels like flirting.”
Bamby’s ears went pink. Actually pink. Eunho filed that away for future torment.
“Give me my coffee, barista boy.”
“Name?” Eunho asked, holding the cup just out of reach.
“You know my name.”
“Do I?” Eunho tilted his head, all fake innocence. “Could’ve sworn it was ‘World’s Grumpiest Customer’.”
Bamby reached across the counter, fingers brushing Eunho’s as he snatched the cup. The touch lasted half a second, but it burned like a brand.
Their eyes locked.
For the first time in four months, Bamby didn’t have a comeback. He just turned on his heel and stalked out, shoulders stiff, coffee clutched like a lifeline.
Eunho watched him go, heart doing something ridiculous in his chest.
Tomorrow, he decided, he was going to write something different on that cup.
Something that wasn’t Bamby’s name.
Something that might make those ears turn pink again.
The next morning, Eunho was ready.
He’d stayed up until 2 a.m. practicing the handwriting so it wouldn’t look shaky. He even tested three different black pens because the first two bled too much on the cup sleeve. Pathetic? Absolutely. Was he going to admit that out loud? Never.
7:41 a.m.
The door chimed.
Bamby walked in wearing the same black hoodie, but today the hood was down and his hair was still a little damp from the shower. Tiny droplets clung to the ends like he’d run here straight after rinsing off. Eunho’s brain short-circuited for half a second.
Focus.
“Large black coffee,” Bamby said, voice rougher than usual probably he was still half-asleep.
Eunho poured it without comment, snapped the lid, and slid the cup across the counter.
Bamby took it, glanced down, and froze.
Written on the sleeve in neat, deliberate marker:
You look good with wet hair.
Still tastes like regret tho.
Bamby’s ears did the thing again. Then his neck. Then the tips of his cheekbones. Eunho pretended to busy himself with the espresso machine so he wouldn’t grin like an idiot.
Bamby didn’t leave.
He just stood there, thumb rubbing over the little heart like he was trying to erase it and failing.
Finally: “You’re an idiot,” he muttered.
“Certified,” Eunho agreed cheerfully. “Next!”
Bamby didn’t move. “Why do you keep doing this?”
“Doing what? Existing in your general vicinity?”
“Writing stupid shit on my cup. Flirting. Whatever this is.” He gestured vaguely between them, careful not to spill the coffee.
Eunho leaned his elbows on the counter, dropping his voice so the two girls waiting behind Bamby couldn’t hear.
“Because every time I do, you blush like a traffic light, and it’s the highlight of my entire day.”
Bamby opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked like he was calculating load-bearing walls in his head just to cope.
Then he did something Eunho did not expect.
He pulled the pen from Eunho’s apron pocket, uncapped it with his teeth, and wrote something on the other side of the sleeve.
He shoved the cup back at Eunho, grabbed a new one from the stack, poured his own refill, and walked out without another word.
Eunho turned the cup around.
In sharp, angular handwriting:
My place. Tonight. 9 p.m.
Bring real coffee.
And stop calling me grumpy in your head.
— B.
Eunho stared at the address scrawled underneath until the next customer had to clear their throat three times.
He spent the rest of the shift floating.
At 8:57 p.m., Eunho stood outside a converted warehouse loft that looked like it belonged in a design magazine. Exposed brick, huge windows, fairy lights strung over a tiny balcony.
He had a thermos of his best dark roast in one hand and a paper bag of freshly baked honey-oat cookies in the other .
He knocked.
The door opened almost immediately.
Bamby had changed into a soft gray t-shirt that clung in all the right places and loose black sweatpants that should’ve been illegal. His hair was dry now, falling messily over his forehead. He looked… nervous?
“You came,” Bamby said, like he’d been betting against it.
“You invited me,” Eunho answered, stepping inside when Bamby moved aside. “Also I brought bribes.”
Bamby took the thermos, unscrewed the lid, and inhaled. His shoulders relaxed a fraction. “Smells decent.”
“High praise.”
The loft was huge and quiet, all warm wood and sketches pinned to every wall. A giant drafting table dominated the living room, covered in models and pencils. Eunho’s fingers itched to touch everything.
Bamby poured two mugs and handed one over.
They stood there in the soft lamp light, sipping in silence.
Then Bamby set his mug down.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he said suddenly.
“Do what?”
“Whatever this is. Talking. Flirting back. Not being an asshole.” He rubbed the back of his neck.
“I’m… really bad at it.”
Eunho’s heart did something soft and dangerous.
He put his own mug down, stepped closer, and tugged gently on the hem of Bamby’s t-shirt. “You wrote your address on a coffee cup and told me to come over. That’s pretty smooth for someone who’s ‘really bad at it.’”
Bamby huffed something that might’ve been a laugh. “I spent three hours deciding whether to add the heart or not.”
Eunho’s grin was slow and unstoppable. “You didn’t add a heart.”
“I did in my head,” Bamby muttered.
Eunho rose on his toes and pressed the softest kiss to the corner of Bamby’s mouth.
Bamby went very, very still.
When Eunho pulled back, Bamby’s eyes were wide and dark.
“Still bad at this?” Eunho whispered.
Bamby’s answer was to cup Eunho’s face with both hands and kiss him properly—slow, deliberate, like he was afraid Eunho might vanish if he rushed. Eunho made a helpless noise and kissed back, fingers curling into that soft black hoodie he’d hated for four months.
They stumbled backward until Bamby’s shoulders hit the wall of sketches. A pencil clattered to the floor. Neither of them cared.
When they finally broke apart, foreheads resting together, Bamby’s voice was rough.
“Your coffee still sucks.”
Eunho laughed against his mouth. “Liar. You drank two cups.”
“Shut up,” Bamby said, and kissed him again.
Later—much later—tangled on the couch under a blanket that smelled like cedar and coffee, Eunho traced lazy circles on Bamby’s chest.
“Hey,” he said softly.
“Hmm?”
“Tomorrow morning… what do you want me to write on your cup?”
Bamby was quiet for so long Eunho thought he’d fallen asleep.
Then: “Write whatever you want,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to Eunho’s temple. “Just… come back after your shift.”
Eunho smiled into the dark.
He already knew exactly what he was going to write—Mine.
And the passionate final scene, updated:
Later, the blanket had long since slipped to the floor.
Eunho was straddled across Bamby’s lap, knees sinking into the couch cushions on either side of those unfairly narrow hips.
Bamby’s gray t-shirt was gone, tossed somewhere near the drafting table, and Eunho couldn’t stop touching: palms sliding over warm skin, tracing the sharp cut of collarbones, the faint ridges of muscle earned from hauling model materials at 3 a.m.
Every time Eunho’s fingers skimmed lower, Bamby’s breath hitched against his mouth.
Bamby’s hands weren’t idle either. One was fisted in Eunho’s hair, holding him exactly where he wanted for each slow, filthy kiss; the other had slipped under Eunho’s sweater, thumb stroking the sensitive skin just above the waistband of his jeans in maddening circles.
“Eunho,” Bamby rasped between kisses, voice wrecked. “Tell me to slow down.”
Eunho answered by rolling his hips once, deliberate and hard. Bamby groaned, the sound vibrating straight through Eunho’s chest.
“Don’t you dare slow down,” Eunho whispered, nipping Bamby’s lower lip. “I’ve wanted this for four months. You’ve been glaring at me like you wanted to bend me over the counter every morning. Prove it.”
Bamby’s eyes went molten.
In one smooth move he surged up, hands sliding down to grip Eunho’s thighs, and stood. Eunho yelped, wrapping legs and arms around him instinctively as Bamby carried him across the loft like he weighed nothing.
“Bedroom,” Bamby growled against his neck, teeth scraping just hard enough to make Eunho shiver.
“Now.”
Eunho barely had time to nod before Bamby kicked the door shut behind them.
Moonlight spilled through the huge warehouse windows, striping the bed in silver. Bamby lowered
Eunho onto the sheets with surprising gentleness, then followed him down, caging him with those broad shoulders Eunho had cursed (and fantasized about) for months.
Clothes disappeared fast after that—sweater, sweatpants, jeans peeled off with impatient hands and breathless laughter when a button went flying. Then skin on skin, heat on heat, and Eunho forgot how to form words.
Bamby kissed like he argued: intense, focused, a little mean. He mapped every inch of Eunho’s throat with his mouth, leaving marks Eunho knew he’d have to hide under collared shirts for a week.
When he closed teeth gently over a nipple, Eunho arched off the bed with a broken sound that would’ve embarrassed him if Bamby hadn’t immediately soothed the sting with his tongue and whispered, “Love how loud you are.”
Eunho got his revenge minutes later, pushing Bamby onto his back and sliding down his body until Bamby’s hands fisted in the sheets.
“Eunho—”
“Shh. My turn to taste something that isn’t black coffee.”
He took his time, licking, teasing, learning exactly what made Bamby curse in three different languages and fist a hand in his hair hard enough to sting.
When Bamby finally hauled him back up, eyes wild, Eunho was trembling with how much he wanted.
“Lube,” Bamby said, voice hoarse. “Condoms. Drawer.”
Eunho found them with shaking hands. The next minutes were a blur of slick fingers, careful and not careful at all, Bamby’s forehead pressed to his, breathing ragged instructions and praise in equal measure.
“Like that—fuck—Eunho, you’re so—breathe, baby, I’ve got you—”
When Bamby finally pushed inside, slow and relentless, Eunho’s head fell back against the pillows, a low moan tearing out of him. Bamby stilled, buried deep, trembling with the effort of holding back.
“Look at me,” he whispered.
Eunho forced his eyes open.
Bamby’s gaze was fierce, possessive, soft all at once. “Mine,” he said, echoing what Eunho had planned to write on tomorrow’s cup.
Then he moved.
It was overwhelming: the drag and thrust, Bamby’s hand wrapped around him in perfect rhythm, mouths fused together like they were trying to crawl inside each other.
Eunho clutched at Bamby’s back, nails leaving crescents, legs wrapped high and tight.
Close, so close—
Bamby shifted angle just slightly and Eunho cried out, seeing stars.
“There?” Bamby panted, doing it again, and again, merciless.
Eunho came undone with Bamby’s name on his lips, pulsing over both of them, vision whiting out.
Bamby followed seconds later, burying his face in Eunho’s neck, body shaking as he spilled deep inside with a broken groan.
They stayed like that for a long time, tangled and sweat-slick, hearts hammering against each other.
Eventually Bamby pulled out carefully, tied off the condom, and collapsed half on top of Eunho, face tucked into his shoulder.
Eunho combed lazy fingers through damp black hair. “So,” he said, voice hoarse and smug, “still think my coffee tastes like regret?”
Bamby huffed a laugh against his skin. “Shut up. Your everything tastes fucking incredible.”
Eunho grinned into the dark, pressing a kiss to Bamby’s temple.
Tomorrow morning, when Bamby inevitably showed up at 7:42 looking perfectly composed (except for the faint marks peeking above his hoodie collar), Eunho was going to hand him a cup that said only one word in bold, possessive marker:
Mine.
And underneath, in smaller letters:
Come back to bed after your 8 a.m. lecture.
I’m not done with you.