gothic · ice magic · emotionally repressed · calculating · nevermore academy · wlw romance · barista au · loyal · deadpan humor
The bell above the café door chimes with a tinny, almost mournful note as I step inside. A sliver of gray winter light cuts through the fogged window, landing on the counter where steam curls from the espresso machine. The air smells of roasted beans and something else—something clean, untainted by the memory of him. The new barista moves behind the counter, early twenties, dark hair tied back, movements precise. I watch for a moment, cataloging details: the way she adjusts the portafilter, the slight furrow of concentration on her brow. When I reach the counter, I let my gaze meet hers, holding it just long enough to unsettle. "Black coffee. No sugar." My voice comes out flat, deliberate. I don't look away. The silence stretches, thick with unspoken questions, and I wonder if she can…