˗ˏˋ it's Luce ˎˊ˗

You continue wiping down the same table that you’ve cleaned for the third time today. The giant green competitor occupying your thoughts looms just outside the windows. Slumping into the nearest seat, you fold the dish towel in your hands into neat little squares. Recently, every time your aunt came into the store to check in on you and the other baristas, her face dropped at the empty room. The sadness in her eyes almost breaks your heart, and you don’t think you can stand it any longer. Wracking your brain for a solution, you watch as rows upon rows of laughing customers walk through the doors of the new coffee shop across the street.

How could you possibly beat a brand that had notoriety, cheaper prices, and all the funds in the world at its disposal? As much as you adored the little slice of heaven your aunt built for herself, this shop is a small business that barely makes ends meet when faced with such a famous competitor. You could not afford to lower prices while maintaining quality, nor continually develop new drinks to use individuality as a lure.

At least the one positive, if you could even consider it that, was how quick and easy closing time became. There were less pitchers to clean, less trash to empty, and less in the registers to account for at the end of the day. As you let your hair out of the high ponytail you typically make for work, you take your singular trash bag out to the dumpster in the alleyway.

When you dispose the garbage for the day, you make an immediate beeline for the sink to wash your hands. However, there is a tall man your do not recognize observing the ceramic mugs kept behind the counter, and suddenly your shift becomes a little more eventful than usual.

“Oh, there you are,” he says, as if you were a friend he was waiting on.

You point at yourself incredulously before realizing that this stranger could be very dangerous or very delusional. It wasn’t everyday someone hopped behind the counter without permission and started admiring your workplace appliances. God, was this man trying to rob you?

“There’s no point stealing from us. We don’t have much anyways,” you mumble, raising your hands up slowly in surrender.

This seems to amuse him, because he chuckles darkly before replacing the pastel pink mug in his hands back to its designated spot on the shelf. Hands tucked in his dark jeans, he almost glides over to you and you instantly feel the hair at the back of your neck rise in fear. His head tilts as he observes you, his dark eyes identical to freshly brewed coffee and his skin glowing like the gentle honey brown of the lattes you like to make.

“Are you afraid of me?” he muses, giving you a teasing smile that immediately sparks the fight-or-flight response in your brain.

“There’s a stranger in my store fiddling behind the counter. You tell me,” as soon as the annoyed words leave your mouth, you realize that it would probably be best not to provoke the man.

As you brace yourself for his response to your snide little comment, you don’t expect the laugh that comes out of him. He reaches out to fix your apron strap, the small act immediately causing your skin to flush, before offering you a more reassuring smile.

“I’m not here to rob you.”

Fiddling with the edge of your apron, you try to relax your nerves—a difficult task considering how muddled with anxiety they were. Gathering what little confidence you have, you reply, “Either way, we’re closed for the day. If you’re looking for something, please come tomorrow.”

As you brush past him to hang up your apron, you’re quickly tugged back with an insistent hand on your wrist. His deep chocolate eyes find yours again, and you can’t help but hold your breath as you wonder what would be coming next.

“I’m here because you called me,” he states plainly, as if this fact should be obvious to you.

Your mouth opens and closes like a gaping fish before you stutter, “I don’t even know who you are?”

His features are painted with amusement, as if your confused expression was funny to him. He backs up to lean against the counter casually, letting go of your wrist in the process. The warmth from his grasp lingers, and you find it hard to concentrate on the words he utters next.

“I’m here to help your store. You’re struggling, aren’t you?” he gestures around to the untouched tables, their accompanying chairs all properly tucked in due to lack of use. The observation makes your heart sink again, and you struggle not to let his comment hurt you. Even if this was something you knew already, hearing another person point it out so obviously nevertheless rubbed salt in the wound.

“Hey…I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m here to make a deal with you, and I promise in a week this place will be packed,” he hurries forward, tilting your chin up to look at him as you try to blink away tears. You offer him whatever semblance of a smile you can, and he offers you one of his own in response.

“How are you going to help?” you wonder, “How do I know I can trust you?”

The stranger snaps his fingers and all of a sudden, the ties of your apron begin undoing themselves as if an invisible hand were working at them. You watch, stunned in silence, and your apron drifts over to the man and serenely loops itself over his neck. Apron secured, he strides over behind the counter and sets to work. His motions are practiced with a smooth hand which make his actions as exquisite as a performance. Mesmerized, you watch as he gathers the perfect amount of milk foam over the espresso shots. As he hands the finished cappuccino in front of your eager eyes, you swear his fingers glow slightly against the side of the mug.

Abandoning all reason, you take a sip of the mysterious man’s finished product. Immediately, your lips curl into a smile. It tastes as amazing as it looks, and you swear it’s the best drink you’re ever had. All the notes are balanced perfectly, and the temperature isn’t too scalding either. Even the most experienced barista may not be able to create such a masterpiece, especially with the average ingredients Love You a Latte supplied.

“Who are you?”

He doesn’t answer for a second, simply tugging the cup from your hands and taking his own sip. His mouth lingers slightly against the rim, his eyes observing you with satisfaction. Humming slightly, he taps the handle of the now-empty mug and it begins cleaning itself within your sink before settling back on the shelf to dry.

“I’m the God of Coffee. However, you can just call me Mark. It’s a lot easier to say,” he finally answers, before hanging your apron on the hook with his own hands and not whatever magic he controls.

“You’re a god? I never knew there were actual gods, especially not for coffee…” the idea almost makes you giggle, as you wonder whether there would be a god for cinnamon rolls too.

“Well, fortunately for humankind, we’re very real. You were hoping for a way to save your aunt’s café earlier, and now I’m here,” he rests his chin against his hand that’s propped up against the counter.

“I’m thankful you made me that cup of coffee earlier. I think anyone could trust you after that display,” you quip, much more comfortable now that you accepted that you could actually help your aunt’s business stay afloat.

He blushes, and the dusty pink across his cheekbones actually surprises you. You didn’t think gods would be so easily fazed over a compliment, but his bashfulness only makes Mark more endearing than before.

“So, are you just going to make all our drinks from now on?” you tilt your head slightly as you question him, wondering how you could convince your aunt to accept Mark’s help. She sure wouldn’t be as accepting of a supposed “god” since she was so strung up with figuring out finances already.

Shaking his head, he gives the top of your head a pat before saying, “Nope. I’ll just give you some of my powers.”

“What do you mean?”

“From now on, you’ll be able to add a little special something to any coffee order you make. In fact, I’ll be magicking this store a little so it’ll help improve the customer experience,” as he finishes his thought, he quickly adds, “I don’t just help anyone. You and your aunt have worked hard for this café, so it’s only right that it gets the attention it deserves.”

“You said you’d make a deal with me. What’s my end of the bargain?” you didn’t have much, so you were genuinely curious about what he could want from you.

He reaches for your hands, pressing his fingertips against your right palm before switching to the left. As he does this, you feel a strange warmth flowing throughout your hands, and you’re unsure whether your heart is racing because of the magic or because the way he brushes against your fingers with his own.

When he’s finished, he simply straightens up and replies, “Just make me a cup of coffee once in a while.”

With that, he fades alongside the setting sun.

☕☕☕☕☕

It appears that Mark is telling the truth, because your store is bustling by the end of the week. Word seems to travel fast when it came to delicious foods and drinks, so the amount of new faces you’ve seen make it hard for you to remember names—even if that was your special talent.

You call out orders, taking the time to hand each customer their order and personally wish them a pleasant day. You knew to be grateful for the new development, so you did your best to offer what little you could to add to the positive change. Even if Mark had helped make your drinks stellar, kindhearted customer service was essential too.

Even though you had only seen the man once, you sense the moment he’s in the room. Brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear, you look up from the croissant in your hands to see Mark sitting across the room with a smile. You can’t help but grin back, handing the last customer of the day her warmed-up pastry. When she leaves, you sneak off from your position behind the counter to approach him.

As soon as you’re within earshot, Mark says, “You look much happier Y/N.”

Assuming one of his godly duties is to already know the names of those he assists, you brush away the shiver that dances across your spine when he says your name.

“All thanks to you of course. What can I get you?”

“Surprise me,” he replies.

You can’t help the way your arms tremble as you adjust the steam wand into your pitcher of milk. Watching the way foam begins developing as a result of the heat and air bubbling in the liquid, you pray that whatever magic he gave you helps you also make a good decision for what to offer a literal God of Coffee.

Tapping the side of the cinnamon shaker in your hands, you watch as small brown specks dot the snow-white of the milk foam. Satisfied, you carry your creation over to the figure watching you with interest. Your coworkers don’t pay you much heed, opting to simply clean up as quickly as possible in order to clock-out on time. Since you were the manager’s relative, they were relatively lenient with you, never giving you a hard time or questioning you. It was nice at times, but it also made it difficult to befriend them, as they always placed you on a pedestal.

As he takes the drink you offer to him, his fingers brush against your own. It’s a small gesture, but it still does wonders in dispelling the fear you felt in approaching him. Almost immediately, Mark nods in appreciation.

“Pumpkin spice latte. Fits the season quite well,” he notes, before tipping the coffee into his waiting mouth.

“You knew that before tasting it?” you admire, wondering what the extent of his powers were.

“Of course,” he says as if agreeing that the sky was blue.

He waits for you until you finish locking up. In the time that he had been gone, you always wondered whether the sacrifices this god sought paled in comparison to how much he was helping you. After all, the sales generated were well over anything the café had previously mad. Your aunt had been ecstatic, immediately setting to work developing new menus to keep up with the growing engagement. Perhaps she felt that if she questioned why everything was happening, the bubble would burst like a dream. You were grateful for her easy acceptance, smiling whenever you noticed the gentle glow against a customer’s coffee cup that reminded you of Mark’s lingering presence.

“Are all gods like you?” you ask, tucking your keys back into your purse before running a hand through your hair in an attempt to fix any stray strands.

“Not quite. I’m one of the lesser gods, so that probably makes me less full of myself,” he jokes, laughing slightly when he notices the way you cover your mouth to laugh as well.

“I’m glad,” you reply.

He leads you all the way to your apartment, and the fact that he’s aware of your residence is simply another observation you accept as part of his godly duties. When you’re right outside the black metal gates, your hand hesitating against the keypad to open them, you realize that you’re reluctant to leave him.

“Y/N?”

You sheepishly turn to face him with an embarrassed expression, “You’ll be back again? Soon?”

Your question surprises him, as if he couldn’t believe you would request his presence in the way you did. Gathering his composure, he only ruffles your hair adoringly in response. He takes two steps back, his form barely visible when he finally whispers, “Yes.”

You stand there until you’re completely sure he’s gone. The soft ‘thank you’ that escapes your parted lips is quickly caught by a passing breeze. You pray that he hears it.

☕☕☕☕☕

Fall rushes past like a memory that’s difficult to grasp in its entirety. You developed a habit of counting the times Mark had visited you. Originally, you only offered him items available on your menu. You were confident that those drinks would at most be passable, and free drinks were a worthy trade-off for Love You a Latte’s sudden flourishing. Eventually, after some teasing encouragement from the Coffee God himself, you began experimenting. Taking ideas from flavor profiles you already knew would mingle well, you would happily offer those to him instead as his scheduled sacrifice. He was an honest critic, providing tips on how to improve taste or mouthfeel. Laughing whenever you would take notes and hang onto each word he utters; he’d simply call you ‘cute’ before returning to the drinks you offered him.

You wonder if being a deity also means he notices how you were slowly admitting him into your life.

Mark hadn’t been in the store for a week, something that was atypical for the man. Your fellow baristas had long clocked out for the day, bidding you half-hearted goodbyes after you insisted on doing some inventory review. Counting the boxes of oat milk remaining in the storage for the third time, you sigh and hang up your apron. Remembering the way he had fixed your strap absentmindedly the first day you’d met him, you run your fingers against the fabric in mimicry. It was a stupid emotion, but you missed him.

Even then, you couldn’t help the hope rising in your chest that told you he would be waiting for you at one of the tables you wiped down earlier in the day. When that didn’t happen, you told yourself that he would try to scare you as soon as you turn your back to lock the front door of the coffee shop. The music you listened on the way home still couldn’t soothe your powerful expectations, which chased you like hungry wolves all the way back to your apartment.

It’s only when you’ve changed into an oversized hoodie and worn sweatpants, ready to jump into bed and call it a night, that your wishes are finally answered.

“Y/N.”

No many how many times you heard his voice rumble with your name, you couldn’t help the way it felt like a shot of espresso to your system. He’d say it in warning whenever he notices you slyly trying to slip salt into his contracted offering as a prank or in a sort of gentle happiness when he leaves you outside your apartment in goodbye. You knew it was futile, letting yourself be affected by the natural awe that gods likely possessed. Your foolish mortal feelings would mean nothing to him, as he was merely here for business purposes.

“Hi,” you push away the sadness in your tone and clear your throat, “You usually don’t show up in my bedroom.”

Your tease garners an immediate reaction from him. Even though the night settles early in the winter evenings, you notice the scarlet color he tries to hide. You sit up from under your blankets, hoping that he stays longer than he used to tonight.

“I’m sorry I’ve been away,” he continues, averting his gaze.

You’re not used to the sudden awkwardness. Previously, the two of you would talk nonstop at the café and the walk home that were occurring two or three times a week. It was as if the god you knew had been replaced by this uncomfortable clone. It hurt you more than the idea that you would never be meaningful to him.

“It’s fine. I’m sure you’ve been busy.”

You’re not sure what you want. You want him to return back to the Mark you knew, the one who would tell you funny stores about his brothers and help you in the café whenever you needed a hand. You missed the Mark that looked like he didn’t want the day to end whenever he took the time to consume your coffee offering while laughing at your stories of unique customer experiences. You missed the way his hands would brush against yours, whenever he leaned in closer to hear you above the harsh winter winds on your nightly walks.

But above all else, you suddenly want him to tell you he missed you too.

“Y/N, I have other obligations elsewhere,” he finally relents, body sagging with the weight of the information he just exposed.

Even without the details, you know what this means.

“Will the café be fine without you?” you add, hoping to keep the disappointment in your tone at bay.

He moves forward to settle down on the edge of your bed, leaving the previous spot he’d occupied by your window. When his hand rests on your knee, you know you should push him off to rid yourself of the jolt of something you suddenly felt. But you were frozen, eyes trained on the way he looked at you. It was utter, tender love.

“It’s been without me for the past month, Y/N.”

His confession causes you to momentarily lose your train of thought. Did he mean that he hadn’t been using his magic for the past few weeks? But he still stopped by and complimented the drinks you were creating…why would he still be around if he was no longer holding up his end of the bargain?

“The magic in here,” he continues after taking your hand in his, “isn’t simply limited to what I gave you when we first made our agreement.”

You wait for him to continue, unable to help the way your fingers instinctively tighten around his. He doesn’t seem to mind, because he adjusts his grip to allow your fingers to intertwine with his own longer ones. You know you’re blushing, and you don’t need to see the small smirk tugging against his lip corner to know that.

“You didn’t need me to be successful. I gave the shop a small push in the right direction, but soon enough, the hard work and love in each coffee you sold echoed stronger in your customers than whatever strings I could’ve pulled,” he says.

His fingertips brush the tears away from your cheeks. You sniffle, upset that your vulnerability showed so obviously in front of Mark. He tugs on your hand slightly so you direct your gaze to connect with his again. In his eyes, you think you find comfort telling you that he didn’t mind your crying.

“Ever since that pumpkin spice latte, I’ve never given you access to my magic when you made drinks for me.”

“But wouldn’t magic have made them better? Everything I made must’ve only been subpar to you then,” you bite your lip, worrying that he had been lying to you all along that your sacrifices had been enjoyable to him at all.

He chuckles before pulling you into his arms. You drink in the soft scent of coffee beans against his skin, nuzzling close to the crook of his neck to seek the warmth there. His skin radiates heat like a freshly brewed batch of morning coffee. The way he rests his hand against the back of your head, slowly brushing his fingers through the strands of hair there does wild things to your pulse. There’s no way he doesn’t feel it drumming against your chest, with the two of you being this close.

“I wanted to enjoy whatever you made as something uniquely you,” he pulls back so you can see the stars shining in his eyes, “If you’ve learned anything from our companionship these past few months, it should be about how talented you are.”

You grip his own hoodie in your hands, fearing that if you didn’t hold onto him, he wouldn’t disappear just like he had the past 52 times.

“Please don’t go.”

The words fall like fractured pieces of glass on the floor. You let the pain fully seep into your voice now, hoping that he would stay even if it was out of pity. Instead, Mark simply presses his palm against your cheek before leaning in to give you the best kiss you’ve ever had.

He tastes bittersweet, and you wonder if it’s the coffee he’s probably had already or the fact that everything about this moment is a sort of painful happiness. His other hand joins the other to cup your face delicately, as if he couldn’t believe you were real. Lips soft yet desperate, you match his pace as you etch each detail into your memories. As long as you lived, you didn’t want to forget Mark.