Work Text:
Ranboo isn’t an idealistic sort of person. He knows he doesn’t love you–won’t entertain the thought–even when time seems to stop the second you walk through that door. “Love” wasn’t something that just happened. Not in a minute, not at a glance, and certainly not with a complete stranger.
Even so, he’s utterly fascinated by you, unable to pry his eyes away as you settle into a booth in the corner.
It hadn’t been your smile that’d done it, soft and just-barely-there as you stretched the edge of your hoodie over the bottom of your face, like the gesture was a secret meant for you alone. It hadn’t been the way you’d clumsily tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and exposed silver studs, twisted in the wrong direction, but unmistakably cat-shaped. It hadn’t even been the way the steady thrum of your fingers against the countertop had matched the pace of his heart exactly–the fact that when they stalled, he could feel his breathing halting, getting caught in his chest, waiting for the moment those nails would resume their concert upon the wood.
No, it’d been more than all of that. It was just…you. The things he could see along with something else that lingered just beneath his skin. Something silent, but present nonetheless. Something he couldn’t possibly put into words–couldn’t understand–but could experience. Like gravity. He can’t even begin to explain the reasons why it existed, how it worked the way it did. Still, it’s tug was undeniable.
Even though Ranboo knows better, some part of him still wants to believe it’s possible–that there’s a single person in the world made for him, and they’re lounging about in the coffee shop he works at.
Work. He’s supposed to be doing that. Right.
Ranboo forces his eyes back down to his register screen, and for a while, he manages to ignore you. He wipes at a wet spot on the granite and pretends you aren’t just a couple feet away, convinces himself that you’ve wandered out or disappeared into thin air or, maybe, you hadn’t even been there to begin with. Maybe he’d imagined you. That possibility makes it much easier for him to focus. It works right up to the moment you walk over to his counter. When that happens, he glances up for just a second and knows all hope is lost.
“Hey.” This is the very first time Ranboo has ever heard your voice. Still, he’s certain he’d be able to pick it out in a crowd if given the opportunity. No other sound has ever made his skin buzz like this before.
But the fact doesn’t change: It’s still not love that he feels. Attraction maybe, but definitely not love.
“Hey.” Ranboo chimes back, thinking for much longer than he should about how to phrase that one word. Despite his best efforts, it sounds wrong to him. Not smooth like yours had been. It’s too blunt (even though it was only a one-word response). Too nervous (not that he had any reasonto be nervous). Too–
“This is where I order right?”
He’d spaced out. Dammit. That wasn’t something he usually did.
“Yeah, it is.” He’s still doing it–overthinking everything. Ranboo inhales deeply, channeling hours of customer service training videos, willing himself to forget about everything that isn’t the espresso machine or service with a smile. “What can I get you?”
“Hm.” You place your palms flat on the counter, leaning in to get a better look at the menu board. Your eyes flit between the messy scrawl there and the register. “Tell me: What does the master recommend?”
A lesser man might have choked. Ranboo just stops breathing.
“…Or is that title on your apron just for show?”
The title. The title, for god’s sake. Gaudy golden letters embroidered just below the pocket of his apron, proudly proclaiming “COFFEE MASTER” like it wasn’t something every employee had to wear as part of their uniform. He makes a mental note to smother the lettering in coffee grounds the very next opportunity he’s granted.
“You can’t go wrong with a latte.”
Your lips purse and your gaze narrows playfully. “Mm, not the most adventurous choice, is it,” your eyes drift down to his name tag, “Ranboo?”
Ranboo usually hated when people did that–deliberately sought out and used his name while he was working–but, not surprisingly, you seem to be an exception. He swears it sounds like you’re singing when you do it.
“Classic is classic. ‘Adventurous’ is great until you end up with something undrinkable.”
“Oh come on. Undrinkable? Sure you’re not just being a coffee snob?”
Ranboo raises an eyebrow. This whole situation might have been new to him, but coffee was something he knew. “Ever had a raw, deconstructed espresso?”
“Nope, but it sure sounds interesting.”
He scoffs. “I thought so too at first. But trust me, chewing on espresso beans at 6 AM isn’t as funas it sounds.”
You snort, covering your mouth to muffle some of the giggles. When you recover enough to speak again, you do it through your fingers. “You got your caffeine fix and a snack. Sounds like a good time to me.”
“Yeah?” Ranboo smiles, draping an arm over the screen of his register. “Well if that’s what you want, I’ve got some really tasty beans in the back. I can whip one up for you real quick. Takes less than 10 seconds to make, and let me tell you, the crunch is something else.”
You hum for a moment, tapping your finger against the countertop. “As enticing as your offer sounds, I think I’ve already figured out what I want.” You don’t say anything as you reach into your bag and pull out your wallet, even though the sly look plastered across your face makes him think you have a lot of things to say.
“I’ll take a latte.”
Ranboo raises an eyebrow, trying to seem incredulous, but smiling still. “What, don’t feel like being ‘adventurous’ anymore?”
Your jaw hangs to the side, but the subtle twist of your lips betrays the playfulness behind the gesture. As it turns out, both of you are terrible fakers.
“Oh hush. I may not work here, but I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to sass the customers.”
It was true, of course. Still, if it means getting another snarky response from you, seeing those bright eyes light up with every quip, he’s more than willing to break a few rules.
Ranboo grabs a cup and scribbles the order number across it with a sharpie. “Of course, because the customer is always right.” He makes sure his words are dripping with sarcasm.
“Absolutely. Glad you’re not too prideful to admit it” You tease right back at him, and the confidence in the way you tilt your chin upward and beam (adorable) has him chuckling.
“Wanna tell me your name, oh valued customer? Or am I just drawing a smiley face on the cup?”
Ranboo could have very well poured your coffee, handed you the cup, and been done with it. He didn’t need a name to do his job, not when you were already standing right there and it was a slow day like this. He wanted it though, wanted to hear the way you said it, watch the way your lips twisted as it formed each syllable. More than that, he wanted to say it himself–to see if repeating it back to you would break his trance, cool the heat searing his insides.
Something mischievous flickers in your eyes. You make a show of scratching at your chin, smirking like you hold all the power in the world at that one moment. And you do, as far as he’s concerned.
“I kinda wanna see you draw a smiley face on it,” you pause, shifting your weight between both feet, “Or a heart. Whatever scribbles you feel compelled to leave for me.”
He stands there for what feels like hours, considering his next move. You’d been flirting with him–that wasn’t even an opinion, it was cold-hard fact. The question was, how was he supposed to respond without making a complete fool of himself? He could barely think, what with the buzzing in his ears, the tightness in his chest–
“How about my phone number?” Ranboo doesn’t remember thinking the words, only the feeling of them sprinting up his throat–quick and jumbled and abrupt.
You stare up at him as if to see if the question isn’t some joke–another piece of banter thrown around for the sake of earning a laugh. Your gaze falls to Ranboo's fingers, trembling as they clutch the sharpie in his fist, and your expression suddenly softens.
“I think I’d like that.” You inhale. “A lot, actually.”
“Awesome.” He mutters, almost unconsciously. The nervousness bundled into that one word is enough to make him wish he could sink into the floor. Still, he doesn’t do that. Partly because it isn’t possible, and partly because he still has something he needs from you. “Afraid I still need your name though.” Before he can blink, your smirk is back, as playful as ever.
“Need? Or want?”
“Want.” There’s no hesitation in the word, breathed out like the prayer of a dying man–one with nothing left to lose and everything to gain.
You snicker when you finally say it, and he knows he’s been right all along–that it doesn’t take a minute to fall in love.
It takes five.