chris sturniolo x reader | fluff, oneshot, established relationship
Three cups deep and Matt's already declared himself the judge, jury, and executioner of Los Angeles's matcha scene.
"This one's chalky," he says, swirling cup two like it's wine. "Like drinking a whiteboard."
"You've never drunk a whiteboard," Chris says.
"I have the concept of what it would taste like."
You're not listening, not really. You're on your third sip of the one from Community Goods, holding it up to the light like you might find the answer to something in there. "This is the one," you say. "This is top tier."
Chris raises an eyebrow, leaning into your space to get a look, not the drink. "You said that about the last one too."
"I lied. I was still processing."
"She was still processing," Matt echoes, deadpan, to no one.
You hand your cup to Chris without asking; he takes a sip without hesitating, which is somehow the most normal thing in the world now, three months in. His face does something complicated. "Okay. Yeah. That's actually good."
"You tell me that every time."
"And I'm right every time."
Matt's stacking the empty cups into a little cursed tower, balancing it in one palm like a trophy. "For the record," he says, "I think this whole outing was just an excuse for you two to hold hands over cups of pond water."
"It's green. It's a beverage that is green."
"So's your hoodie," you say, "doesn't make it bad."
Matt points at you, then at Chris, unimpressed. "She's got jokes now. Great. Love that for me."
Chris just watches you argue with his brother, quiet, that small crooked almost-smile he gets when he's not planning on saying anything โ like he'd rather just witness this than be part of it. You catch him doing it and he doesn't look away fast enough.
"Nothing." A beat. "You've got a matcha mustache."
You wipe at your mouth, missing it completely, and he reaches over and does it properly, thumb brushing your lip, easy, like he's done it a hundred times. Matt makes a gagging noise loud enough to turn heads on the lawn.
"I'm putting this in the group chat," Matt says, already typing. "Chris Sturniolo: matcha simp confirmed."
"You drank two of my rejects," you point out.
The sun's doing that late-afternoon gold thing over the building's glass front, and Chris still hasn't let go of your cup, drinking out of it like it's his now, and you don't even call him out on it. Matt's already onto ranking the cafรฉs by name, muttering something about docking points for oat milk pricing, and it's stupid, all of it. The tower of empty cups and the running commentary and the way Chris keeps glancing at you like he's checking you're still there. But it's good. It's the good kind of stupid.
"Verdict," Matt announces, holding the empty cups up like a scale. "Community Goods wins. Objectively."
"Finally," you say. "Someone with taste."
Chris hands your cup back, mostly empty now, mostly his fault. "I still think the first one was better."
"I'm allowed to be wrong with you specifically."
Matt groans and starts walking ahead, cups clinking. "I'm getting in the car. You two can stay here and be disgusting."
You don't move right away. Neither does he.
