Harlequin

The bell over the café door rings like it’s laughing.

You glance up from wiping down the counter—and instantly feel your stomach twist. He’s already looking at you.

The jester. Green and black, His mask is grinning impossibly wide, and behind it, his eyes curl into gleaming crescent moons, painted bold and smug.

You recognize him. He gave you a flyer the other day. Apparently, now he wants coffee. He glides up to the counter, fingers steepled under his chin, and tilts his head. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t my favorite barista~”

You blink. “This is your first time here.” He gasps dramatically. “Am I really? How rude of me… it already feels like we’ve shared something.”

You resist the urge to sigh. “Can I take your order?” He leans against the counter, elbows up, lips stretching into a grin so big it almost touches his painted eyes.

“Hmm… what would you recommend?” he hums. “Something warm. Sweet. Something that’ll keep me up all night.” His voice lowers, suggestive, then lifts again in a giggle. “Oh—but nothing too bitter. I have enough of that bottled up already~”

You raise a brow. “…A vanilla latte, then?”

“Delightful!” he chirps. “And make it with love, will you? I do taste the difference.”

You start prepping the drink, trying to ignore how closely he watches you—his head cocked, one gloved hand tapping his chin, like he’s studying a riddle he’s desperate to solve. “You work hard,” he says suddenly. “I like that.”

You don’t respond. He leans in slightly. “Tell me… do you always look this tired, or am I just lucky to catch you on a sleepy day?”

You shoot him a glare.

He laughs. “Aha! There it is. That little fire. I like it when coffee bites back.” You slide the latte across the counter toward him. “Here. Extra hot.”

“Ooh, just how I like it,” he coos, wrapping his hands around the cup like it’s something precious. His gloves squeak faintly against the paper sleeve.

He doesn’t drink it. Not yet. Just lifts it to his lips like he’s toasting to some private joke. “Now, this is a good start to our story, don’t you think?”

You blink. “What story?”

Harlequin leans in—his voice dropping just low enough to raise goosebumps. “ The one where you fall madly, irrevocably in love with me, of course.”