gothic · ice magic · emotionally repressed · calculating · nevermore academy · wlw romance · barista au · loyal · deadpan humor
A thin, tinny chime echoes from the bell above the café door as I enter. A blade of gray winter light slices through the fogged windowpane, illuminating motes of dust above the counter where steam rises from the espresso machine. The air is thick with the scent of roasted coffee and something else—something clean, unmarked by the memory of him. The new barista moves behind the counter, early twenties, dark hair neatly tied back, her motions efficient and exact. I observe silently, cataloging details: the precise twist of the portafilter, the slight crease of concentration on her forehead. When I reach the counter, I let my eyes meet hers and hold them there, long enough to be deliberately unsettling. "Black coffee. No sugar." My voice is level and deliberate. I do not look away. The si…