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The sounds of the coffee shop were soothing. The way the baristas joked and laughed behind the counter, the low murmur of the other customers sitting around, some with giant text books next to their laptops, some with novels in their hands, and others just simply catching up with friends. Derek had always loved the way coffee shops sounded, he constantly sat in them and wrote his essays in college, now he sat in them and wrote his novels. It was in a coffee house in Raleigh that he had been inspired to write his first novel, On Holiday. It was a coffee shop in Boston that he found the perfect ending to his fourth novel, That Summer. Each time he found himself in a pinch, in that point of writer’s block where you just want to throw yourself and your laptop off a balcony, he went to a coffee shop and let the words find him.
Currently, he was in Beacon Hills. His editor had asked about his latest book, title still unknown, during their monthly check ups. He was falling behind on his schedule for it. He needed to get her at least five chapters by the end of the month and he still only had a blank page in front of him. He didn’t know what he wanted to write, that’s the problem. None of his previous novels needed a new addition, and he didn’t know another story he wanted to put on paper.
He’d been sitting at the shop for about an hour, staring at the blank document that was mocking him when he heard someone come up.
“You look like you’re trying to set that thing on fire. Either you just got an awkward invitation to what can only be the worst family holiday dinner, or you have writers block,” the voice said above him.
Derek sighed, too tired and worn out to even tell this random person to shove off and mind their own business. Still he responded, “Writer’s block.” When he looked up he saw a younger man, no older than 19 was his guess, smiling widely at him. “Why are you smiling like that?”
“Because I win.”
“What?”
“Allison and I had this bet that I couldn’t get you to talk to me. And here we are, talking.”
“This is what you define as talking?”
“Well we are asking one another questions and responding in a vocal manner. And you haven’t yelled at me to leave you alone yet. So, yeah. This is what I define as talking,” the boy smiled again, a huge grin that lit up his face.
Derek huffed, “Well, you’re not wrong.”
Derek watched him laugh, the boy grabbing at his midsection as he did so. Derek rolled his eyes again and stared back at his blank document in front of him. He didn’t have time for this.
“I’m sorry, man. That was just really funny to hear such a meme ish response coming from you. I’m Stiles,” the boy reached out his hand. Derek tried his best to not stare at the long, spindley fingers that stuck out towards him. He did not think about what those fingers could do if given the chance.
“Derek,” he grunted back before shaking his hand.
“Pleasure, now if you’ll excuse I need to go gloat and claim my prize.”
“And what might I ask is your prize?”
Derek watched as the biggest shit eating grin he’d ever seen stretched its way across Stiles’ face, “She has to work Christmas Eve, Christmas, and New Year’s for me.”
Derek let out a small chuckle, “You’re pure evil.”
“And you’re almost out of coffee,” Stiles swooped up the small cup in front of Derek and walked behind the counter.
Derek watched as the other barista, a young girl around Stiles’ age with onyx curls, rolled her eyes at whatever he had whispered to her. Stiles was back at the table in a few minutes with Derek’s mug and another in his hand.
“I hope you don’t mind, it’s my break and we were having such a riveting conversation.”
Derek rolled his eyes in a playful manner, “I have a feeling I don’t really have much of a choice in the matter.”
“You always have a choice, I’m just hoping you’re going to make all the ones I want you to,” Stiles said as a small blush creeped over his complexion.
Derek spent the next 30 minutes engrossed in everything that was this man. The way he used his whole body when speaking, the long fingers at the ends of his hands, the way his laugh was never quite, and the way he seemed to have something to say at all times.
“This was fun, however short lived,” Stiles said to him as he stood up, spreading his big hands across the lap of his apron.
Derek swallowed before he spoke, “If you’d like, we could continue this later. Say tomorrow night? Around 8? There’s this Italian place on Main Street that I hear is to die for.”
This time it was more than a slight blush that spread over Stiles’ face. “Yeah, um, yeah. I’d really like that.” Stiles went to take a step away and then turned around and came back in a flurry. “So, just to be clear. That was you asking me out on a date right? I just want to make sure I’m not, like, reading into anything here.”
Derek laughed a little, “Yeah. That was me asking you out on a date.”
“Cool,” Stiles reached into his pockets and pulled out a sharpie. He grabbed Derek’s hand, “Here’s my number. Sorry for the clichéd 90’s styled way I’m giving it to you.” Derek didn’t really mind, he was just happy that Stiles was putting those hands on him.
That night Derek cranked out 3 chapters of his newest book, A Latte Love.