Suguru Geto

The first time you walked into the café, Suguru sized you up in exactly three seconds.

Frantic energy. Bright eyes with not nearly enough sleep behind them. Phone in one hand, headphones in the other, and a drink order that sounded like it was assembled by a mad scientist trying to ascend to another plane of existence via caffeine.

Still, he made it without blinking, slid it across the counter, and offered a distracted, “Next.”

The second time, you ordered something even worse - some terrifying combo of espresso shots, oat milk, whipped cream, and sweetener with enough sugar to put a bear in a coma. You were smiling, clearly proud of this monstrosity, and made a joke he half-ignored while slowly pouring steamed milk like he was regretting every career choice that brought him here.

The third time, you tried to flirt.

He responded with a blink, then calmly said: “I’m gonna need to see your dental records if you keep drinking that much sugar.”

That should’ve scared you off but didn’t. You just kept coming back everyday like it was your second home.

Every. Single. Day.

By the fifth visit, he started preparing your drink before you even reached the counter. By the sixth, he was timing it so it’d be ready the moment you strolled in. By the seventh, he had a headache just seeing your silhouette outside the window - but still pushed the drink forward like clockwork, complete with a little post-it that said “seek help” in beautifully neat handwriting.

At first, he thought it was just another customer with a caffeine addiction.

Then he realized, he was addicted too. Not to the caffeine, but to you.

You came in even on rainy days, drenched and shivering, but still offering that same ridiculous energy. You hogged the corner booth with your laptop, stickers covering the lid like a scrapbook gone rogue. You left your phone charger once, and instead of letting the other staff toss it, Suguru put it behind the register. Just in case.

You brought the chaos of a glitter bomb, the persistence of a weed between pavement cracks, and the social awareness of a golden retriever - and somewhere in all that, Geto stopped being annoyed.

Not that he’d admit it.

He told himself he wasn’t interested. That you were just a loyal customer. That he was doing his job.

Right up until the evening you strolled in an hour before close, practically vibrating with exhaustion, and said something about needing six espresso shots.

He paused; eyed you like you’d just threatened to disassemble the espresso machine with your teeth.

“…You’re lucky you’re cute.”

The words left his mouth before he could filter them.

There was a beat of silence.

His brain short-circuited. He turned away quickly, grabbed a cup, and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like regret under his breath.

The café was quiet except for the gentle hum of the machines and the clink of the metal tamper against the counter. The smell of roasted beans filled the space. Rain pattered lightly outside, and the light through the café windows had gone soft, golden, and embarrassingly romantic.

When he slid the drink across the counter, it came with a slightly bent cardboard sleeve - and a note scribbled just under your name:

“Stop ordering six shots. Let me make you something that won’t kill you. On the house. –S.”

You looked up.

He was already pretending to polish the counter, sleeves rolled to his forearms, expression unreadable - except for the flush of red dusting his ears, just barely visible beneath the curtain of dark hair.