Chapter Text
You woke up with a start this morning, reflexively tossing your blanket off onto the floor as your alarm jerked you out of your dreams. Typically, it’d take a couple scheduled alarms to get you up and moving, but today, you had a mission: you had to complete your assignments. Many deadlines were beginning to rear their ugly heads at you, and many of them had heavy stakes on your overall class averages.
You’re a journalism major, a junior in college. Many of your assignments have become practical applications—a lot of writing. Writing that you have yet to begin outlines for, let alone figuring out the topics you’ll be analyzing.
So, begrudgingly, you swing your legs out of your bed and make your way to the bathroom to get ready. You’ll be heading to the cafe today.
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You toe up to the cafe and reach out to open the door, only to shrink back as it swings open and a couple saunters out, surely too immersed in each other to notice you. “Ah,” you mutter underneath your breath.
You catch the door as it moves to shut, pushing it ajar and stepping inside of the building. The cafe was a sharp juxtaposition to the world outside—whereas the outdoors were bright and bustling, the inside of the cafe was dark and intimate. It played quiet music that varied from classic rock, jazz, and r&b, depending on the barista working at the time. Today, they were playing songs by The Police, not that it’d mattered; you brought your headphones to listen to your own tunes as you worked.
You scanned the space for an empty table and placed your belongings at the one you found, then took out your wallet from your bag to acquire your greatest motivator: caffeine. It wasn’t something you used as a crutch, per se. You could work just fine without caffeine, but you liked the aesthetic of sipping a latte as you chipped away at your massive mountain of work. You thought it made you look established, like you had been there for a while, and that certainly made you look responsible. And it tasted good. That was a big reason, too.
You walked up to the register and were greeted by the barista.
“Hello! How are you doing today?” she asked, flattening out the apron on her body.
You smile. The usual formalities.
“I’m good,” you say cordially. “And you?”
“I’m doing well myself! What can I get for you?”
You opt for your usual, preemptively pulling out your card for payment. “I’ll get a medium iced chai, please.”
“Alright! That’ll be $5.67,” the barista chirps, gingerly taking your card, returning it to you with the receipt, and swiping a cup from the supply to prepare your drink.
“Thank you,” you say with a grin.
You take a small step back, about to walk to your seat, unaware of the body close behind. You suddenly feel a foot beneath yours and hear a grunt in response. You whip your head around, already barking an apology, “Oh, goodness! I’m so sorry!”
You turn around, then look up to meet the displeased expression of a rather unique man. He was very tall, with a lean structure cascaded by layered shirts and baggy pants. His hair was tied up into messy pigtails—buns? What a strange hairstyle—and a dark line stretched over his nose. When his eyes widened from a wince, you were met with an intimidating, dark intensity. You had never seen him before (and you would’ve remembered if you had, given his height and style), but he looked like the kind of guy you wouldn’t want to upset.
“You should watch where you’re going,” he stated. His voice was deep with a sort of grumble to it. It sent jitters up your back.
“Right, entirely! Again, I am so sorry, sir,” you apologize once again. You skitter to your seat and avoid eye contact as you sit down.
Way to go—you’re already off to a great start this session, you think disparagingly.
But you couldn’t help but sneak another glance at the man who was now ordering his own beverage. This guy was really strange, yet alluring in a sense. You felt all sorts of questions bubble up inside of you.
What’s with the hairstyle?
Is that line on his face make up, or a tattoo? It couldn’t be a birth mark, could it?
How’d he acquire that sense of style?
Does he sleep? He doesn’t look like he does.
Your inquisitiveness was a part of why you excel in your major; interviews were rarely an issue for you. You know just how to crack open a tough nut.
You were snapped out of your thoughts when you heard the announcement of your drink’s completion. Despite how many times you order it, you’re always surprised by the quickness in which your order was prepared. You rise up and go to claim your drink, keeping the stranger in the corner of your eye.
Finally, you plop down, set your drink on the table, and pull out your materials. On your computer, you scroll to the first assignment tab of many, forcing yourself to keep the motivation you were booming with when you first came. You slip on your headphones and zone into your work, forcing that unpleasant interaction out of your mind, because you had a mission: you had to complete as much schoolwork as possible.
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You visited the cafe once again. You had managed to get the majority of your work under control, but you needed to tie up some loose ends before you could relax—and no matter how much work you completed, it was always replaced by even more. Yay college!
You noticed a familiar silhouette sitting in a corner: it was the guy you stepped on. Since when was he a regular here? He doesn’t pay you any mind, as he was wholly focused on his textbook. At least he was in a better mood than last time (you think, but he looked just as moody as he was in your previous encounter).
You find an empty table across the room and set your things down before you go to get a drink. After receiving your latte, you sit down and begin cranking out a few more assignments, occasionally glancing over at him as you work.
This pattern repeated a few times. You walked into the cafe, and somewhere within that building, that gloomy-looking guy was lurking around (he was actually working, most of the time). You’d continue to sneak quick peaks at him as he worked. You were beyond curious, now. What was he working so diligently on, you wondered?—like you, he always had a drink by his side. What was his usual?
You hadn’t quite noticed that you were staring until your eyes met his, filled with intensity, and your eyes darted away to a random pastry on display.
Fuck!
Your stomach dropped when you realized he placed his things down and was now walking over to you. You tried to make yourself look busy by searching up something, but you ended up freezing up by the time he towered over you.
He had a perpetual scowl, didn’t he? And now here he was, directing it at you. Again.
“Can I help you?” he asked with a bit of a hostile edge.
“No! I was just looking around and… ended up looking at you for a bit too long,” you say. “Sorry, you know when your eyes get comfortable looking at a certain place?”
He stares at you, but his expression lightened a bit. “I guess,” he muttered, turning away and walking back to his chair. You could’ve sworn you were going into cardiac arrest.
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One day, you came to the cafe, expecting to see his familiar face, but he wasn’t there. Instead, the next day, you had noticed him on your own college campus.