Chapter Text
The bell above the door rings like it’s announcing something important.
It’s not.
It’s just Andrew, ducking inside a coffee shop he’s never been to before, shaking a bit of cold off his sleeves and immediately reconsidering all of his life choices that led him here instead of somewhere with less… personality.
The place is warm, though. Loud in that soft way cafés get, milk steaming, low conversation, cups clinking like background music that forgot it was supposed to be subtle.
He steps up to the counter.
And then
Pauses.
Because the guy behind it looks like he personally hates everything in a five-foot radius.
Long dark hair pulled back, barely, like it was more of a suggestion than a decision. A few strands have already escaped, framing a face that’s set in a permanent I’m tolerating you at best expression.
There’s something sharp about him. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just… contained.
Andrew opens his mouth to order.
Stops.
Squints.
“…You don’t have a nametag.”
The barista doesn’t even look up from the cup he’s writing on.
“Tragic, I know.”
Andrew leans forward slightly, like this is now a problem that requires solving.
“No, seriously. How am I supposed to emotionally connect with my barista if I don’t know his name?”
That gets a glance.
Flat. Unimpressed.
“You’re not.”
Andrew considers that for exactly half a second.
“Okay, but what if I try anyway?” he says, already committing to the bit. “You look like a…. Evan.”
“No.”
“Daniel?”
“No.”
“Christopher. But you hate being called Chris.”
The barista finally looks at him fully now.
There’s a flicker of something there. Not amusement, definitely not, but something that almost qualifies as interest before it disappears again.
“No,” he says again, a little slower this time.
Andrew nods like he’s gathering important data.
“Okay. Strong reactions. Good. That helps.” He taps the counter lightly. “You give off— wait no, I’ve got it. Max.”
“No.”
“Absolutely not a Max,” Andrew mutters to himself. “Too much internal judgment.”
“Are you ordering,” the barista cuts in, “or are you just going to keep being wrong?”
“Both,” Andrew says immediately. “Medium latte. And I’m not wrong, I’m exploring options.”
“Explore quieter.”
Andrew grins.
“Can’t. This feels important.”
The barista turns away, already moving through the motions of making the drink like this conversation has been filed under regrettable but ongoing.
Andrew watches him.
Because now that he’s noticed it, he can’t un-notice it.
No nametag.
Not even a pin. Not even a faded outline where one used to be.
That feels intentional.
Which, for some reason, makes it worse.
“So is it like a secret identity thing?” Andrew calls after him. “Are you off-duty? Should I be worried?”
“No.”
“Are you sure? Because you have the energy of someone who could ruin my life a little.”
That earns him another look.
Longer this time.
Assessing.
“…You talk too much,” the barista says.
Andrew doesn’t even hesitate.
“Yeah, I’ve been told that. Usually right before people get attached to me.”
Silence.
The milk steamer hisses like it’s judging him.
The barista finishes the drink, sets the lid on with a firm press, and slides it across the counter.
Andrew reaches for it, already half-turning
Then pauses.
There’s something written on the side of the cup.
Not a name.
He turns it slightly.
you look like you overthink everything
Andrew blinks.
Once.
Twice.
“…That’s not my name,” he says.
“No,” the barista replies, already moving on to the next order. “It’s an observation.”
Andrew stares at the cup a second longer than necessary.
Because that
That felt a little too accurate for someone he just met.
He looks back up.
The barista is already ignoring him again. Efficient. Distant. Like the conversation is over because he decided it was.
Andrew lingers anyway.
“…Okay,” he says slowly, like he’s coming to a conclusion. “That was weirdly specific.”
No response.
“Which means you were paying attention.”
Still nothing.
Andrew smiles, small and a little sharper now.
“Which means,” he continues, mostly to himself, “this is officially interesting.”
The barista doesn’t look up.
But there’s the faintest pause in his movement.
Barely there.
Andrew notices anyway.
Of course he does.
He takes a sip of his drink, winces slightly at the heat, and backs toward the door.
“Alright,” he says, pushing it open. “I’ll figure it out.”
No answer.
Just the quiet rhythm of the shop continuing like nothing happened.
The bell rings again as he steps outside.
Cold air hits him, but he barely registers it.
He looks down at the cup one more time.
you look like you overthink everything
Andrew huffs out a quiet laugh.
“Rude,” he mutters.
Then, after a beat
“…also not wrong.”
He turns, already walking back the way he came.
Mind half on the coffee.
Half on the guy behind the counter.
No nametag.
No name.
And somehow
That feels less like an inconvenience
and more like a challenge.
He’ll be back.
Definitely for the coffee.
Obviously.
Not for any other reason.