#barista!reader

She stood in line, hands inside the pockets of her black leather jacket as she softly balanced herself on her feet. Her blue eyes looked tired, as usual, with slightly furrowed brows. She was biting her lower lip, as if she was deciding on what to order. As if you didn’t know already.

She was a regular at the café; you had memorized her order by now.

“Large americano, extra shot of espresso, and a splash of oat milk,” she half-smiled the first time she told you the order, “You know, lactose intolerant.”

“Sure thing, and your name is?”

“Uh, no name, I’ll be waiting right here.”

You have seen her every day for a bit over two weeks now, and still, you didn’t know her name. After the first week, you just stopped asking for it. It didn’t mean you stopped being interested in her, though.

As the waiting line advanced while Caitlyn was taking the orders, you watched her come closer to the counter. Just as her turn arrived, Caitlyn sighed exaggeratedly and turned towards you.

“Hey, (y/n), mind taking over the register for a while? I’m going on my break.”

You knew it was nowhere near the time for her break, but you nodded and blushed as Cait winked at you as she left towards the back.

“Hey,” the pink haired girl greeted you, “Got worried for a sec thinking you weren’t taking my order personally, hun.”

“Same as always?” you tried to brush off the flutter on your stomach at her comment.

“Yup, and don’t forget—”

“Extra shot of espresso, got it.”

She nodded, a half-smile on her lips. That was another thing that intrigued you, why wouldn’t she ever smile fully? Yeah, sure, she was most definitely tired, but during these weeks of knowing her —could you really say you knew her?—, you never saw her smile properly.

You drew a happy face on her cup and went on to prepare her coffee, while she rested her arms on the counter and scrolled through her phone.

As you moved across the tight space, you could sometimes feel her eyes on you. Well, you weren’t sure if she was really watching you or if you were just nervous in her presence. But when you turned around, you could see her blue eyes quickly turn to her phone as she cleared her throat.

“Large Americano, extra shot of espresso, oat milk,” you called out and put the drink in front of her.

“Thanks,” she grabbed the cup and gave it a quick sip, sighing gratefully, “This is so good. You’re the best.”

You blushed and made a quick gesture with your right hand, “It’s just a lot of practice. Have a nice day.”

“See you tomorrow, hun.”

You let yourself smile after she turned around and walked out of the café, covering your face with your hands as soon as she was out of view.

“‘See you tomorrow, hun,’” Cait imitated her voice and put her arm around you, “Gosh, she’s hot. If you don’t give her your number, I’ll give her mine… Just kidding, just kidding!”

Cait laughed as she grabbed her side, where you elbowed her jokingly.

The rest of your shift went swiftly, and you had made up your mind: you were going to be a bit bolder and ask her out tomorrow.

And tomorrow arrived, but the pink haired girl didn’t.

“Maybe she got caught up with work or something,” Cait told you when she noticed your saddened expression at the end of your shift, around midday, “I bet she’ll be here tomorrow.”

But another day passed, and she was nowhere to be seen. Then another day, and another day, and another day… a full week went by before you saw her again.

You were preparing a caramel latte when Caitlyn took the syrup out of your hands out of a sudden.

“Hey! Give it back.”

“Someone’s asking for you at the register. I got this, you take their order.”

Your confused expression turned into surprise as you looked at the counter and saw the pink-haired girl looking at you. She raised her hand and waved it at you, and you noticed the bandages covering it.

You gave Cait a quick ‘thank you’ and made your way up to the register, clearing your throat as you took a good look at her.

Her usually tired eyes looked more swollen than before, as if she hadn’t slept well in days. There was a purple-ish bruise on her cheekbone, and her lower lip had a faintly red, thin cut. She was leaning heavily against the counter, trying to look relaxed but her stiff shoulders gave the fatigue away.

“Hey, missed seeing your face,” she greeted you, looking intently into your eyes.

“Are you okay?” you looked down at the bruise on her face, concern taking over you.

“I’m fine. Can I get the usual?”

“We have a first aid kit in the back. Let me grab it and—”

She shook her head, “It’s nothing, hun. You worry too much,” she brushed it off with a half-smile, “This past week I’ve been craving my coffee, though.”

You bit your lower lip, still worried about her, but you weren’t going to push her. You nodded and went on to prepare her usual order.

Any other day, she would wait next to the counter and —you could swear— watch your every move. But this time, she walked towards a table, and you noticed she winced as she sat down, grabbing her torso with her bandaged hands.

“What happened to her?” Cait whispered next to you, as you prepared her Americano.

“I have no clue.”

“Geez, probably got in a fight or something,” your friend let out a sigh, “You should have seen her look around when she arrived. She even said, ‘I want her to take my order.’”

You felt your heart skip a beat and rolled your eyes at Cait’s chuckle, “Stop it.”

“It’s cute, you know, seeing you and your crush pine over each other.”

You shook your head, taking a cup to put the girl’s drink on. You instinctively grabbed a sharpie, stopping once you remembered you didn’t know her name. You gave her a quick look, noticing she had her eyes closed as she slightly rested against the chair.

Your hand moved almost on by its own, writing a quick “Take care, please” on the cup before you served the drink on it. Before you headed towards her table, you grabbed a pain-au-chocolat and made your way to her.

“Here you go,” you mumbled so you wouldn’t scare her.

She opened her eyes and looked at the table, but you spoke before she could.

“The pastry’s on the house. It’s pain au… it’s a chocolate croissant, but it’s not super sweet, it’s actually dark chocolate. You know, since you like a stronger flavor…”

You scrunched your nose as you noticed you were talking way too quickly, slightly shaking your hand in embarrassment.

The pink-haired girl took the cup in her hands, and you noticed how they trembled slightly as she lifted it towards her lips and took a sip. She instantly closed her eyes and hummed.

“It’s better than I remembered,” she whispered.

She opened her eyes once again, looking at the words on the cup. You blushed and tried to mumble up a quick goodbye, but something else took you by surprise.

A soft, full smile spread over her face. Not the usual half-smile you were used to seeing, no. Her eyes crinkled slightly, and her jaw relaxed, even her head tilted a bit.

It was the most beautiful smile you had seen.

“Thank you so much, hun,” she looked up at you, still smiling, “I really appreciate it.”

You brushed it off with a shrug of your shoulders, feeling an unbearable heat in your face and knowing you were burning red, “It’s nothing.”

You were scrolling through your phone when you heard the bell chime, looking up and smiling softly at the pink-haired girl who walked up to the counter.

The bruise on her cheek was already fainting and the cut on her lip was barely visible, it looked like she wasn’t going to have a second scar.

“Good morning,” you greeted her, “The usual?”

“Hi,” she smiled at you, the same smile she had given you yesterday, “Yes, please.”

You nodded, grabbing a cup and a sharpie, “Oat milk, extra espresso, no name?”

“Vi.”

You looked up at her, blinking slowly as you tried to process what she had just said.

“Sorry?”

“My name’s Violet,” she clarified, clearing her throat as you noticed her blush slightly, “For the Americano.”

You grinned, writing the name down on the cup. Violet. A pretty name for a pretty girl.

“Okay, I’ll be back in a sec.”

The pink-haired girl Vi leaned against the counter, not even hiding the fact that she was following your every move. The way your hips swayed as you walked, how you prepared the drink with ease as you had probably done hundreds of times before, how you slightly moved to the background music.

She was delighted, her eyes practically glued to you as you found your way around the counter and café bar.

Once you were done, you turned around and noticed Vi staring at you. She gave you a full smile, teeth showing and eyes crinkling, too. God, you were starting to adore the look on her.

“Large Americano for Vi,” you called out jokingly before setting the cup in front of her.

Violet grabbed the cup and took a sip, humming as she usually did, “You always make it better.”

She was already walking back home when she noticed something else on the cup. Underneath her name, there was a phone number and a note: ‘call me —(y/n)’.

Violet smiled and took another sip.

Fifteen minutes after she left, your phone buzzed. You looked at the screen and noticed a text from an unknown number, but you knew who it was.

Unknown: Hey, hun. Wanna grab a bite after your shift?

You: Sure. My shift ends at 1 :)

Nanami's tired smile softened as he took in the cafe's warmth. The golden lights and rustic wood were a welcome escape from his sterile office, while coffee and cinnamon scents promised brief relief from his mounting deadlines.

He slumped into a chair by the window, briefcase thudding beside him. Outside, early morning traffic trickled by as dawn broke over the quiet street. He pressed his forehead to the cool glass, watching the city stir to life while deadlines and spreadsheets churned in his exhausted mind.

As the barista set his coffee down, Nanami looked up and noticed someone new. You were in the far corner of the cafe, sweeping the floor with grace. Your hair was tied back in a loose bun, and your eyes met his briefly before returning to the task at hand.

He choked on his coffee.

Violently.

A coughing fit followed, loud and humiliating, as he tried to recover with what little dignity he had left. You looked up in surprise, blinking at him with that soft smile that made his brain short-circuit.

“You okay?” you asked, walking over and gently patting his back. “Did it go down the wrong pipe?”

Yes. The coffee. And his pride.

“I’m fine,” he managed, voice a little hoarse. “Just… startled.”

By how cute you are.

You stood there, blissfully unaware, while he internally combusted. Nanami focused all his energy on not staring. Or sweating. Or blurting something mortifying like Would you like to get dinner sometime? Or breakfast? Or a life together?

Instead, he cleared his throat, adjusted his tie three times, and stared very intently at the coffee like it held the secrets to the universe.

“So,” you said, slipping into the chair opposite him like it was the most natural thing in the world, “what’s a hardworking accountant like you doing in a cafe on a Sunday?”

He stared blankly at you for a beat too long. Speak, you idiot.

“I—needed a coffee,” he said. Genius. Truly riveting conversation.

“Okay… I guess I’ll leave you to it then,” you smiled as you stood up and continued on with the rest of your work.

Nanami felt his heart lurch—a sharp, caffeinated punch of panic rather than any kind of pleasant flutter. It wasn’t just the espresso kicking in; no, that would’ve been manageable. This was far worse.

This was you. Sweeping. Just...existing. And it was ruining him.

He took a gulp of his drink—too fast. The espresso scorched his tongue, and he coughed, nearly dropping the cup. It sloshed dangerously close to the rim, and he had to hold it with both hands like a child with hot cocoa.

He told himself to focus—on his laptop, on the utterly illegal spreadsheet Sukuna needed by noon. But his eyes betrayed him, drifting toward you again.

The way you moved, the way your brow furrowed in mild concentration as you wiped down the counter—how was that hypnotic? That shouldn't be hypnotic. And yet, here he was, short-circuiting.

Nanami’s hands, normally so steady they could balance crime syndicate ledgers to the decimal, now trembled like a freshman intern in a boardroom.

The espresso cup clinked against the saucer with every tap of his jittery fingers. He attempted to look busy, opening and closing the same Excel sheet three times like that would impress someone.

After that first Sunday, Nanami found himself drawn back to the café, hoping to see you again. You were a bright spot in his daily routine, though he kept these feelings private. Each visit, he promised himself he'd talk to you, but anxiety held him back.

Until he heard it. Your voice.

"Did you ask him what his name is?" you whispered. "He's kinda cute."

Nanami froze. Time dilated. Had he died? Was this the afterlife? Was this how Sukuna finally took him out?

His ears rang as if a bomb had gone off—no, it was worse. The barista glanced at him and smirked, and suddenly he wanted to be run over by the espresso machine.

His hands went numb. He tried to sip his coffee and missed his mouth entirely, dribbling a bit on his tie. He stared down at the stain like it had personally betrayed him.

"No. But he was asking about you the other day..."

Great. Perfect. He was done for. Ruined. Finished.

So when he found himself in the staff-only section of the café ten minutes later, sitting stiffly in a wobbly chair like a man awaiting trial, it was a miracle he hadn’t spontaneously combusted.

You leaned on your broom, your eyes meeting his with something dangerously close to amusement. "You've been staring at me everyday for the past month," you said, your tone gentle but teasing. "Is there something I can help you with?"

Nanami’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. "I—I wasn’t—I mean, not in a weird way—I just—" He inhaled too fast and coughed. "I mean, yes. No. Sort of?"

You raised an eyebrow, amused. "You know, I've seen you here every Sunday. You always order the same thing, sit at the same table, and stare out that same window."

"The window’s very... inspiring," he said weakly, gripping his briefcase like it could save him from this social disaster. "Great lighting. Reflective surfaces."

You blinked. He tried to course-correct.

"And the coffee. It's—you know—balanced. Bold. It... wakes you up but doesn’t scream about it." He winced. "Not that I’m an expert. Just... a fan. Of the... coffee. And maybe... the croissants. Also."

You tilted your head, lips twitching. "Do you have a favorite?"

Nanami gestured vaguely toward the pastry case like it held the secrets to the universe. "Uh... the almond croissant. It’s—crisp. Like a spreadsheet. But soft. Like... not a spreadsheet." He wanted to disappear. "I should stop talking."

"You really shouldn’t," you said, smiling now. "It’s kind of cute."

Critical hit.

Nanami short-circuited again. He cleared his throat and tried to sound like a functioning adult.

"I'm an accountant. I work a lot. And I think I just needed... something normal. This place feels normal." He paused. "Not you—not in a boring way. You’re..." He caught himself and flailed for professionalism. "...a very competent barista."

Silence. The kind that made him want to walk directly into oncoming traffic.

Then you laughed softly. It was unfair, how kind it sounded.

"Sometimes we all need a break from our own realities."

Nanami nodded too many times, like his neck was malfunctioning. Then he glanced at the window. Outside, a sleek black sedan pulled up. His stomach dropped.

"I—I should go. Work," he blurted, gathering his things with way too much fumbling. "Deadlines. Spreadsheets. Numbers are screaming."

"You don’t have to go," you said gently. "But if you must, I’ll be here."

He nearly tripped over the leg of the chair, caught himself on the wall, then fled with a stiff little nod. "Thanks. I mean, I’ll... see you next Sunday. Probably. Or not. I mean—yes."

As Nanami stepped outside, the chilly morning air slapped him back to reality. The soft hush of dawn had given way to the full-throated roar of the city—engines growling, voices rising, tires hissing across damp pavement. He blinked against the light, adjusting his tie with mechanical precision, but his mind was nowhere near the street.

The car was idled at the curb, its windows tinted and body gleaming like a threat. Nanami slid into the backseat, the door shutting with a hollow thunk. His briefcase hit the leather beside him, but he barely noticed the sound.

Sukuna sat in the front passenger seat, scrolling through his phone like he had all the time in the world. Legs crossed, rings glinting, he looked every bit the bored predator waiting for an excuse to pounce.

"You're late," Sukuna said, not even looking up. His voice was sharp velvet. "I hope you had a good reason for keeping me waiting. You know how I hate wasting my mornings."

Nanami fastened his seatbelt, jaw tight. "Apologies. I just needed a moment to—"

"Let me guess," Sukuna cut in, finally turning. His eyes flicked to Nanami’s face, and whatever he saw made his mouth curl into a wicked smirk. "You didn’t just ‘need a moment.’ You lingered."

Nanami’s fingers twitched. "I was getting coffee."

"Uh-huh." Sukuna turned fully in his seat now, phone forgotten. "And did this coffee, by chance, have a face?"

Nanami said nothing.

"Oh, no. Don’t go quiet on me now," Sukuna grinned, clearly enjoying himself. "That look on your face—it's practically glowing. Who is she?"

"There’s no—"

"Don't insult me," Sukuna interrupted smoothly. "You’ve got the expression of a man who just stumbled into a daydream he wasn’t prepared for. Let me guess. She was sweet. Or clever. Or had that tired little barista charm that makes boring men believe they’re special."

Nanami glared at the back of Sukuna's head. "It was nothing."

Sukuna snorted. "Oh, it’s always nothing. Until it isn’t. Until you're scribbling your name and hers in a ledger somewhere like a lovesick intern."

Nanami stayed silent, willing his heart to slow down.

Sukuna, of course, didn’t stop.

"You’re pathetic when you’re flustered, Nanami. All stiff collar and repressed hormones. I bet you didn’t even ask for her number, did you?"

"I didn’t go there for that."

"But you wanted to," Sukuna said, eyes glittering. "Don’t deny it. You’re wearing it all over your face like a bad cologne. What did she do? Smile at you? Touch your hand by accident? Say your name?"

Nanami’s mouth twitched, betraying him just slightly.

Sukuna leaned back with a bark of laughter. "Unbelievable. I give you one morning off the leash and you imprint like a duckling."

"I still have the information you wanted," Nanami said coolly, trying to redirect. "I haven’t found anything on the tattoo artist yet, but—"

"Oh, save it." Sukuna waved a hand. "You’ll get to it. Eventually. But right now, you’re mentally tracing the sound of some girl’s voice like it's scripture."

Nanami stared out the window, the city blurring past. But all he could see was you. The way your fingers had brushed his when you handed him the cup. The shy upward glance. The way you had smiled at him like he wasn’t just another man in a suit.

It made his chest ache.

Sukuna hummed again, too pleased with himself. "You're so screwed, Nanami. And not in the good way."

Nanami closed his eyes and leaned back against the seat.

He didn’t disagree.

At the end of the day, the rain was coming down like it had a vendetta, and Nanami stood just outside the café door, gripping his cheap black umbrella like it was a sword in a duel he did not want to fight.

He’d intended to walk to the station, like always. Alone. Dignified. Controlled.

Then you appeared beside him, shivering slightly in your soaked hoodie. You hadn't brought an umbrella.

"Forgot mine," you said, laughing sheepishly. "Guess I’ll just make a run for it."

Nanami’s mouth was dry. His brain screamed a dozen conflicting things—offer your umbrella, don’t be weird, say something charming, say anything, oh god you’re just staring again—

He blurted, "Take mine."

You blinked. "What? No, it’s fine, really—"

"I insist," he said too quickly, already thrusting it into your hands with the kind of intensity usually reserved for hostage negotiations. "You’ll catch a cold."

"But then you’ll get soaked."

"I have a hood," he lied. His coat, in fact, didn’t have a hood.

Your eyes softened. "We could just share it?"

Share it.

Share. It.

His brain completely blue-screened.

"I—I mean, if that’s not too forward, or strange, or—"

"No, I’d like that," you said, already stepping under the small umbrella with him.

And then you were there. Right next to him. Your shoulder brushing his. Your warmth just barely touching him.

He walked like a robot whose joints weren’t properly calibrated, holding the umbrella awkwardly off-center to make sure you were fully covered—even if half his coat was getting drenched.

You didn’t comment on it, but you did glance up at him. "You always like this chivalrous?"

"Only on Sundays," he muttered.

You laughed. He thought he might die right there, soaked and honored.

You walked silently through the rain, Nanami holding the umbrella high to protect you. Around you, the wet city blurred into puddles and headlights as you made your way to your apartment, its lights glowing softly in the dark. Eventually, you did reach your apartment.

When you insisted he come up for a moment—You’re dripping everywhere, at least let me dry your coat—Nanami panicked again. But he followed. Of course he followed. Because saying no to you was impossible. Because he was already in too deep.

You handed him a towel. He stood awkwardly in your doorway, wet coat in one hand, briefcase in the other, like a door-to-door salesman who got caught in a storm and forgot his pitch.

"Make yourself at home," you said, vanishing briefly into the kitchen.

He didn’t. He stood very still in the entryway, refusing to sit or move or breathe too loud. His eyes scanned the room—books, plants, mismatched cushions—so you. Warm. Lived in. Real.

He looked wildly out of place in it.

"Want tea?" you called.

"Yes. No. I mean—sure," he replied.

You returned with two mugs and smiled as you handed him one. His hands brushed yours. He almost dropped it.

"You don’t have to be so nervous," you said gently, sitting on the couch. "I’m not going to bite."

"That’s... reassuring," he said, then added, "Unless you do. In which case—uh, fair enough."

You tilted your head, amused. "Do I scare you, Nanami?"

"Terribly," he said, too fast. Then looked like he regretted it immediately. "I mean—not you. Just. The situation. New things. Coffee shops. Broom closets. Eye contact."

You were laughing again, and it was doing terrible, beautiful things to his ability to function.

You patted the seat beside you. He hesitated, then sat—very stiffly—exactly seven inches from you. He stared into his tea like it held escape plans.

"You know, you don’t have to be so... put together all the time," you said quietly.

He glanced at you, startled. "I’m not."

"You act like you are."

He paused. Then let out a shaky breath. "That’s... the idea."

You bumped his shoulder gently with yours. "I like it when you're a mess."

His eyes snapped to you, wide. You sipped your tea like you hadn’t just committed emotional homicide.

He swallowed. "I’m—afraid I may be one for a while, then."

"Good," you said, smiling.

And for the first time all day, Nanami let himself smile too.

A little crooked.

A little awkward.

But real.

The rain drummed softly against the windows, a steady soundtrack to the quiet tension swirling between you. Nanami sat across from you, his fingers nervously tapping the rim of his coffee mug. His usual composed demeanor was nowhere to be found—replaced by a jittery, almost boyish awkwardness.

After a long pause, his voice finally broke through, low and hesitant.

“You’re… doing something to me,” he blurted out, eyes darting away before meeting yours again. “I’ve never felt like this before.”

The words stumbled out like a confession he’d rehearsed a thousand times but never quite found the courage to say. His cheeks flushed a faint shade of pink, and he cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

You smiled softly, encouraging him without saying a word.

He took a shaky breath and plunged on, voice quieter now. “I mean, it’s… it’s like my head won’t stop thinking about you. Your laugh, the way you look when you’re focused… it messes with me.”

Nanami’s gaze flickered to the floor, then back up, a goofy, uncertain smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I don’t know why I’m saying all this. It’s probably stupid.”

You reached out, letting your fingers brush his hand, and he froze for a moment, then relaxed just slightly. Encouraged, he opened up about work—the endless spreadsheets, impossible deadlines, the soul-sucking grind that usually filled his thoughts. But today, those things felt distant, drowned out by this new, overwhelming distraction—you.

As he spoke, the tension in his shoulders ebbed, replaced by a vulnerable weariness. You shared your own frustrations too, and the conversation flowed easier than either of you expected.

Hours slipped by unnoticed, the rain outside now a wild roar against the windows. You glanced at the clock, realizing how late it had gotten.

“Nanami,” you said softly, placing a gentle hand on his arm, “you should get some rest.”

He looked at you, eyes wide and a little panicked, like he wasn’t ready to let the moment end. “I… yeah, I know. But I don’t want to leave yet,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Your heart squeezed at the raw honesty. “We'll see each other again,” you said, voice barely louder than a breath.

His shoulders slumped in relief, and a shy smile spread across his face. He set down his mug with a nervous clink, leaning forward as if to close the distance between you.

“Really?” His voice was hopeful, shaky. “You mean it?”

“Yes,” you said firmly, warmth flooding your chest. “But you still need to rest.”

He nodded, though reluctant, eyes lingering on you a moment longer. As you walked him to the door, his hand found yours, gripping it a little too tightly.

“Thank you,” he murmured, voice thick with feeling. Then, in a sudden burst of courage that surprised even him, he leaned in and pressed a quick, awkward kiss to your cheek. His face flushed deeper, and he cleared his throat.

“I’ll take you out someday,” he promised, voice cracking slightly, “when I’m… when I can be the man I want to be.”

You smiled, warmth blossoming inside you. “I’ll hold you to that.”

His smile was shy, almost goofy, but there was an earnestness there that made your heart flutter. With one last squeeze of your hand, he stepped into the hallway, fumbling with his sodden shoes as the storm raged on outside.

Maybe more than that. Maybe routine is the only thing that feels safe after all the chaos. The fighting. The things he can’t erase but learns to live with every day.

So, when he walks into the same corner café every morning, it’s not just for the coffee. It’s because he knows someone there will smile at him like he’s a friend, like he’s not carrying the weight of a hundred lifetimes on his shoulders.

That someone is you.

The first morning Bucky walks in, he’s a little late. Not much, just a couple of minutes past his usual time — 7:45 instead of 7:43 — but to him, it might as well be a storm.

You’re behind the counter, with your oversized sweater hanging off your frame like you borrowed it from a much taller friend. Your nails are chipped black, like you rushed painting them the night before. A band-aid peeks out from your ring finger, fresh and bright against your skin. The name tag on your chest is handwritten in thick, uneven Sharpie letters: “Hi, I'm [Y/N]!”

You catch his eye and grin — not that fake smile people put on for customers, but the real one that crinkles the corners of your eyes and makes the entire room seem warmer.

“Morning,” you say, voice soft but with just enough cheer to cut through the hum of the espresso machine.

Bucky freezes for a second — forgets why he came in at all. Coffee? Yes. But also something else. Connection. Comfort. Something he hasn’t felt in a long time.

“Black coffee,” he finally says. “One sugar.”

You nod and get to work. You recommend the house roast, asking if he wants room for cream. When you hand over the cup, you doodle a tiny heart on the sleeve with your marker. Bucky stares at it all the way home, the cup still warm in his hands. The heart feels like an unspoken promise.

By the third morning, you know his order without asking. Black coffee, one sugar, minimal small talk.

But you still chatter.

About the weather. About a funny barista who tried to latte art a smiley face and ended up with a blob. About the new vinyl you bought for your record player. You don’t ask much about him, but your voice wraps around the space between you like a warm blanket.

And Bucky keeps coming back.

You hum classic rock when you’re cleaning the espresso machine. The soundtrack of your life spills into the air — Fleetwood Mac, The Rolling Stones, The Beatles. You tap your foot, swaying ever so slightly, even though there’s no one watching.

On slow days, you scribble on napkins — doodles, song lyrics, little jokes for yourself. One napkin has a cat wearing sunglasses. Another reads, You are enough. Bucky spots them sometimes, curious enough to peek but respectful enough not to pry.

Every Thursday, you wear a different band tee. Bucky notices because one morning he catches himself wondering what you’ll wear next week — Nirvana? The Clash? A faded Pink Floyd? He doesn’t know why this sticks with him, but it does.

Day five arrives, and you finally break the rhythm.

“What’s your name?” you ask, leaning casually against the counter, chin in your hand.

Bucky looks up, startled like you caught him thinking too hard.

“Bucky,” he says quietly, eyes flicking away.

“Well, Bucky,” you grin, playful but gentle, “welcome to your new addiction.”

You mean the coffee. He knows you do. But despite himself, he flushes — like he’s been caught falling for more than just caffeine.

The days roll on, slow and sweet.

You start saving the best muffin for him — banana nut, with no raisins. You know from his brief, almost shy comment that he hates raisins.

One afternoon, the register screen flickers and freezes. Bucky, without a word, pulls out a tiny toolkit from his bag and starts fiddling with it. You watch, impressed.

“You’re like a wizard,” you say.

He smirks, a small curl at the corner of his mouth. “Just a guy who’s fixed worse.”

A rainy morning finds you standing outside, drenched despite the umbrella in your hand. Bucky arrives, offering his own umbrella with a sticky note taped to the handle: Don’t argue.

You take it, silent, but the corners of your mouth twitch.

He doesn’t say a word as you duck inside the shop, warm coffee and soft light waiting.

That night, Bucky dreams of you.

Your laugh, bright and honest, echoing through the quiet of his apartment.

Your voice, saying his name like it belongs to you — not a stranger or a soldier, but just Bucky.

One evening, you invite him to sit after a long shift. The shop is closed, the air thick with the smell of coffee and cleaning supplies. You’re tired, cheeks flushed from the rush, but he doesn’t say no.

He pulls up a chair and listens as you rant about a customer who insisted oat milk belonged in black coffee. You split a muffin in silence, crumbs falling onto the table like little promises.

When it’s time to close, he offers to help. You let him.

The silence between you is not awkward. It’s familiar. Like the first deep breath after holding it for too long.

He starts writing again.

Not the grand, sweeping prose he once dreamed of. Small notes in a battered Moleskine he keeps tucked in the jacket he never takes off.

Details you wouldn’t expect him to notice: the exact green of your eyes, the way your voice rises when the milk steamer spits, the warmth of your hands moving through the ritual of coffee-making.

He writes your name. Over and over.

The first time he touches your hand, it’s accidental.

You both reach for the same coffee pot. His fingers brush yours. The contact is electric, like static in the air before a storm.

You look up, meeting his eyes. Slow. Soft. A little surprised.

“Next time,” you whisper, “bring me coffee. And maybe stay.”

He nods.

Next time, he does.

Two cups in his hands. Yours has a little heart drawn on the sleeve.

You sit together at the window seat, morning sun casting golden light across your faces. His knee brushes yours. Neither of you pulls away.

“I never liked mornings until now,” he says quietly.

You sip your coffee, smiling like it means everything.

Because maybe it does.

The weeks that follow are full of quiet rituals.

He’s there before the sun rises. You’re the first voice he hears — soft, steady, real.

You watch him learn to smile again, slow but sure.

You watch him start to let go.

And you realize, without quite meaning to, that you’ve found your own routine — one that involves worn-in denim, chipped nails, coffee stains, and the man who carries his scars like badges of survival.

Because sometimes, routine isn’t just about safety.