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i.
Thomas told him he wasn't used to non-regulars.
Newt looked up from his phone to his friend standing behind the counter. He'd said it like it was a shameful word, dragged out in an exaggerated whisper that made Newt furrow his brow and quirk one side of his lips. ("That weird confused scowl you always do," as Thomas would comment.) "What?"
Thomas ran his dry rag over the cup in his hands. "That guy," he said, voice low, nodding to the row of tables at the opposite end of the shop.
Newt turned to look, only to have his friend hiss quietly, "Don't, it'll be obvious we're talking about him!"
Newt rolled his eyes dismissively and returned back to his phone screen, messages from his drama group chat quickly grabbing his attention. "You run a public coffee shop, Tommy," he said realistically. "You shouldn't be surprised when, you know, members of the public come in for coffee."
He heard Thomas tut and the clattering of ceramics as he set the cup back on the shelf. "Yeah, but he's never been here before. This is the kind of coffee shop that regulars come to, like, people's special, little non-commercial cafe, you know?"
"Why are you complaining about new customers?"
"I'm not complaining. Just commenting."
(So, Newt and I are going to be doing everything again, right? Texted Gally, and Newt wished for the nth time that he hadn't taken playwriting that semester.)
"Well, then comment a little quieter," he replied monotonously, reading the slurry of texts from Winston insisting that he was actually going to help. "You'll lose business."
Thomas hummed as he started to dry the next cup. "I think he's from the university," he stated. "The coffee shop next to campus must be busy."
"It always is," Newt continued. "Why d'ya think I always come here."
"Because you're my best friend and you want to support my humble homestead?"
Newt didn’t look up from his mobile.
(I swear to God, you can find another group, Winston—
He really hated working with Gally.)
"Sure, we'll go with that."
Thomas started to steam the small jug of milk, finally getting to work on Newt's drink (which he ordered five minutes prior, it’s just that the barista knows his friend always comes for a chat as well his daily dose of caffeine at lunch).
Newt slid his phone into his jacket pocket, having had enough of Winston and Gally's bickering. He leant against the marble top to look around the near-empty shop. Despite commonly hiding behind the cause of ‘ it's my friend's cafe, it's good to support him,’ Newt knew he has an attachment to Thomas's, quote-unquote, humble homestead of a business; kind of in the way you get attached to the seat you chose on your first day of lectures—it's in no way yours, but you'll be damned if you let anyone get between you and that perfectly positioned seat. Thomas had only had the shop for a handful of years, no longer than the time Newt had been at the university, but already it had grown on the latter like a friend you’ve known for years; the kind of friend that you see every so often, and when you do, you’re reminded so fondly of all the charm and charisma that was left unchanged—like you’ve spent no time apart at all.
A couple of people resided between the row of street-view windows and the sought after Manhattan brick walls. To the far right, tucked in a booth, was Mrs Cooper, who worked in the hospital two blocks away, sitting across from her apprentice—and Thomas's object of affections—Teresa. They came in every weekday at 1:45, on their lunch break, for a cup of coffee and a slice Jamaican gingerbread, baked every morning by Frypan, the chef, without fail. (Newt isn’t sure he even knows Fry’s real name.) Closer, sitting at a square table in the centre of the wooden floor, was a guy Newt only knew as Vince, a military man who came in every so often and ordered two cups of lemon tea. A few other faces Newt recognised from his regular trips to the cafe sat dotted around, but they weren’t faces they knew well enough that he could match a name to them.
But then he saw him. Him him. Just opposite the counter, sitting at a round table with the busy intersection as a backdrop, sat an unfamiliar man, a boy— a guy , not much older looking than himself. His skin was soft and sunkissed, cheeks full and his eyes slightly bloodshot, all factioned together with a pair of pink, round lips. He was wrapped up in warm, seasonally-inappropriate clothing with a tuft of black hair poking out from underneath his hat. The black of his beanie clashed strikingly with his hoodie of woven brown, all brought to seam with a dark denim jacket that, in Newt’s somewhat unfashionable eyes, really completed his look of Hot Mess.
(Hot was certainly a word Newt would use to describe him.)
Despite living in a city of almost nine million and gradually growing used to seeing unfamiliar faces every day, Newt suddenly knew what Thomas meant when he sneered the word non-regular. It was a public place, sure, but one with an attachment—seeing strangers dwell in it struck him with a sense of protectiveness, like catching someone sniffing around your backyard. Maybe it was that, or maybe the warmth he feels crawling up neck implied something else entirely.
Newt averted his gaze before he could be caught staring, but found himself being tugged with the urge to look back again and drain in what he could only rally to call the beauty of this stranger.
Curious, he told himself. I’m just curious.
Newt turned back to Thomas, who was fixing his mocha to-go and cleared his throat as he leaned over. "Did you, uh… catch his name?"
Thomas looked at him, bottom lip protruding as he shrugs. "No, he ordered in so he didn't need to give it. Why?"
Newt scrambled his mind to explain himself before the stupid, shit-eating grin on Thomas's face could grow any bigger. "Think I've seen him around campus,” he lied. “Just wondered if his name rang a bell or something."
Thomas's directed his smile to the coating of chocolate he sprinkled over Newt's drink before sealing it with a plastic top. "Sure. You should go talk to him."
Newt snorted a laugh. "And say what, that I think I might've seen his face amongst the almost 50,000 others at our university? Bit creepy."
Thomas shrugged again, this time giving it a nonchalant 'I don't know' feel rather than a firm I don't know. "That's how they do it in the movies." He didn't need to tell Newt his total. "Just walk up and ask, 'Is this seat taken?'"
Newt handed him a $5 bill, glancing over his shoulder as Thomas fetches him his change. "He looks busy," he concluded as if he would actually even consider doing something so cheesy like his life was a bloody romcom. He listened to the rhythmic tap tap tap of the stranger's keyboard and watched as he paused every so often to take a sip of his drink, wetting his lips, before starting to type again.
Thomas set two bills and a handful of change in Newt's palm, which the latter tucked in his pocket briskly. "Well, with luck, he'll become a regular and you can drool over him when you come next."
Newt didn't need words to adequately display his discontent—he has a stare which does so perfectly. He picked his drink up from the counter and tries to best to hold back another eye roll as Thomas again started to put cups neatly back in their place. "Alright. Go shove your number in another one of Teresa's steamed buns."
"Hey, if you want me to be your wingman, you just gotta say!"
Newt crudely stuck his middle finger up, a lively laugh from the former following him as he exited the shop.
Maybe it was the heat rising to his cheeks at the thought of his friend trying something like that that caused Newt to wipe his brow, or maybe it was the city’s infamous post-summer heat. Or, by just a freak chance of serendipity, it was because, as he began to head down West 22nd towards 8th Avenue, he looked back into the shop and saw the stranger looking right back at him.
ii.
Newt finds it funny how when you see someone once, you suddenly start seeing them everywhere. He’d seen the stranger three times that week.
It was funny, albeit in an infuriatingly endearing kind of way. What was he meant to do around him now? Should he have smiled? Did he remember Newt from Thomas’s cafe? Maybe he should’ve hidden behind the good ol' English stereotype and just started talking to him the next time he saw him in the common room of the student union.
Did he recognise Newt’s face as much as Newt recognised his? What if he thought Newt was stalking him? Did he know Newt’s name?
Newt didn’t even know his.
It’s an admire from afar kind of crush. Well, it’s not even an admiration, let alone a crush—and he’d never admit either to Thomas, despite the countless times the latter jabbed him with his elbow and asked about the stranger in that tone.
“Shove off,” Newt would grumble as he sipped from his cup. “I just think he’s kind of attractive, that’s all.”
Sometimes, Newt would see him sitting under the oak tree on the green front lawn (which, much to his brochure-sceptical surprise, students commonly do) and he’d steal a look or several . It’s as simple as that.
“Newt!” Brenda snapped her fingers in front of Newt’s face, making him flinch and frown at her, addled.
“What?”
“Concentrate, I can’t write the presentation without you.” She dropped the project book into Newt’s lap and, with a grunt, pulled her laptop to her knees. “Who were you staring at anyway?”
“I wasn’t staring at anyone.” Newt’s incredibly believable statement being supported by how he glanced just one more look at the stranger before he chewed his pen in an attempt to at least look like he was thinking about their project.
Brenda followed his gaze and scoffed. “You were.”
“I wasn’t,” Newt insisted. “Anyway, the manipulation of emotions through music—”
“Don’t deflect.” Brenda interrupted Newt with a poke of her boot. “You were staring at Minho.”
Newt stopped chewing his pen and stared at the distorting black line on the paper. “Minho?”
“Oh, don’t act like I didn’t see you.” Again and again, she tapped him with her toe. “You were staring at Minho.”
Newt felt his throat dry as he swallowed. “I don’t even know who that is.” In a way, it’s not a lie. He looked up again, first at Brenda and then at Minho. Minho. It rolled off his mind’s tongue like licking ice cream on a warm day. It certainly was warm that day, and Newt felt his neck start to burn up.
“You do, ” Brenda almost sang. “How do you know him?”
“I don’t.” Truth. “I’ve only just now seen him.” Lie.
“Ah, suddenly love-struck.”
Newt barely glared at her before she erupted into giggles. “I don’t particularly blame you.”
“How do you know him then?”
“He’s in my Greek Tragedy class,” she said. “And he does love his dramatic plays.”
If Newt had ever felt gravity physically pull him, it was then. Towards Minho. Who knew just the idea of someone’s similar intellect could light that bundle of fuses in his chest? Newt chewed at the inside of his lip as he now shamelessly stared at him.
Suddenly, as if he could feel the two gawking at him, Minho picked his head up and looked at them both, his brown eyes soft and not as tired as Newt remembered them.
Newt ducked his head as quickly as he could and hid his face as inconspicuous behind his hand. Brenda, however, grinned even wider and raised her hand to wave exuberantly at him. From the gaps between his fingers, Newt saw as Minho broke out into an awkward yet fond smile, and gave Brenda a little wave.
Of course, he has dimples.
Then those charming eyes fell on him.
“He’s looking at you,” Brenda muttered, gaze averting to her laptop while barely moving her lips, deciding that now, after drawing Minho’s attention to them, she should remain discreet.
“I know,” Newt replied. He kept his face hidden, pretending to be scribbling, and cursed the heat that rose to his cheeks. “Don’t make it obvious.”
“Mh-hm.” Brenda frowned at her laptop. “I think he’s leaving.”
An orange glow was cast over the lawn as Newt risked another glance. True to Brenda’s word, he saw Minho on his knees collecting his papers, before heavy-handedly shoving his laptop into his rucksack. Newt felt his shoulders relax, and his chest empty of the breath he was holding in. His face must’ve been somewhere between incredibly pink and scorching red as he watched Minho leave.
“Jesus Christ,” Brenda wheezed once he had disappeared into the common building. She snatched the book from Newt’s knees and struck him over the arm with it.
“What was that for?”
“Me? What was that for?”
Newt rolled his eyes and stretched his legs out on the grass, avoiding eye contact at all costs. His face was still burning. “Nothing, it doesn’t matter.”
“Do you have a crush on Minho?” Brenda interrogated. “I thought you said you didn’t know him?”
“I don’t!” Newt insisted. “I only just found out his name.”
“A-ha, so you were looking.”
“No, I—”
“You don’t have to hide it Newtie.”
“You can be bloody annoying, you know that?”
“You have a crush on Minho, and I can tell by looking at your tomato face.”
Newt somehow blushed deeper. “Let it go, will you?”
“Do you have his number?”
“No.”
“Do you want it?”
“No.”
“Have you even talked to him?”
“No, I haven’t, Brenda. I saw him at Tommy’s coffee shop the other week and he didn’t see me, he has no idea who I am and I plan on keeping it that way for the time being, okay?”
Brenda blinked at him for a moment, then grinned. “That’s cute.”
Newt let out a long sigh and swung his bag over his shoulder. God, did he need one of Fry’s comfort pasties—a hot cross bun and a slice of lemon cake should do it.
“I’ll text you about the presentation later, okay?”
“Don’t run from love, Newt,” Brenda laughed. “He’s not going to stay single forever.”
“He can stay single the rest of his life for all I bloody care. Bye, Brenda.”
“Bye, Romeo!”
It was cooler in the shade compared to the spots of now setting sun. Under the sheltered walkway towards the campus dormitories, Newt found his hands itching to be fiddled with. He picked at the skin of his pinky finger, chewed his already bitten lip and felt his mind begin to wander.
Minho. It was only a name, but it was a start. All he knew about the stranger was that he was called Minho (and that he was single—but that didn’t matter anyway). He was just curious.
Wasn’t he?
iii.
Newt wouldn’t say he was sheltered. Guarded? Maybe; inexperienced? Definitely; scared to be in love? Absolutely.
Okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration—it’s just that Newt had never really been in love before. Not that he was in love with Minho—Jesus Christ, of course not—but not even he can lie… the potential prospect was there.
He just had to figure out how to talk to him first.
Anyway, no. Newt had never been in love. Not properly anyway. He’d had crushes, sure. Like the girl in his guitar class in year seven, and the boy he had to share a tent with in Explorers. But farther than just liking the look of someone and maybe wanting to hold their hand, Newt was sure he’d never felt actual love. Just crushes. And that was what Minho was. Just a stupid, silly, scanty crush.
But yes. Newt had finally given into Thomas and Brenda and eventually Teresa that he, at least, had a crush.
“But that’s it,” he insisted. “Despite what Brenda thinks, I’m not about to drop out of university to go riding into the sunset with him.” He sipped his drink gingerly.
“Sigh,” Thomas said, swinging his rag over his shoulder and getting up off his stool to serve. “That’s what they all say.”
The four of them huddled to the corner of the marble counter, Thomas jumping between conversation and taking orders while Newt tried (and miserably failed once the girls showed up) to look his transnational cinema notes.
“I heard he was track and field champion in his high school. Got offered a place at ASU, apparently,” Brenda commented.
“And he didn’t take it?” Teresa asked.
“Obviously not if he’s at NYU. Studying literature. ”
“How do you know that?” Newt inquired.
“What, that he studies lit?”
“No, about his ASU scholarship.”
“Oh. Everyone knows, Newt. You’re just out the loop.” Brenda took a bite out of her cherry Bakewell. “He’s a bit of a BNOC.”
“A what?”
Brenda rolled her eyes. “Keep up, Newton. He’s a Big Name on Campus. He’s a debate team champion, basically a political heavyweight. Did you really not know that?”
“Newt likes to keep to himself. He always has.” Thomas slides back into his seat.
“I’m just not focusing on the social aspect of school right now,” Newt said, ultimately giving in and slipping the papers into his bag.
“You never do,” Brenda added. “I never see you at any parties and you barely come to formals.”
Newt shrugged. “Just not my thing.”
“Well, start making it your thing. You’ll never catch the eye of a certain man if you keep yourself locked up in your room all the time.”
“Hey, I’m here now aren’t I?”
Maybe Newt didn’t want to catch a certain man’s eye just yet. He thought about it theoretically: if he and Minho were to—by some divine intervention—start dating (that is, if Newt ever got around to actually introducing himself to him), he’d have to find a specific slice of his life to accommodate him, a slice of his life he wasn’t sure he could give up. In between late nights at the library, trying to build his credentials with tutoring, and working weekends at the drive-in diner, Newt barely had time to call his mum, let alone date someone. He just didn’t have time to be in a relationship, and despite the several times Newt had seen Minho and had Brenda’s voice in his ear repeating, “He’s not going to stay single forever, you know” Newt figured anything in the vein of dedicating extra time and energy to someone else could wait. Even if Minho didn’t.
(He realised, after lying in bed thinking about it, that he sounded ridiculous talking about Minho like they were already affiliated, but at least it let him sleep easier.)
Newt tried to zone back into whatever conversation Brenda, Teresa and Thomas had lapped into but his focus kept coming back to his coffee and the way the milk danced in patterns around the dark tan of the drink.
“Oh, Newt can I have your notes from studio production from Wed—nes…day…”
Newt frowned as he looked up at Brenda, but her eyes were wide, as was her smile. “What?”
She put her chin on her hand and darted her eyes towards the door, Teresa following, catching on and also smiling.
“Is that him?” she whispered. Brenda grinned.
Newt looked at the shop entrance. As if on cue, that familiar heat began to crawl its way up his neck.
“Hey, Minho,” Thomas said, jumping from his seat. He gave Newt a side smile. “What can I get you?”
“Hi, Thomas. Same as last time, vanilla bean latte please.”
It was the first time Newt had heard his voice. Newt’s eyes welcomed the sight of his coffee this time. He could hear Teresa and Brenda natter excitedly beside him, and the hasty screech of the steamer as Thomas made Minho his drink. He dared to lift his eyes up, swallowing as he took Minho in.
He was looking at his phone and had somehow managed to add more layers to his already seasonally-inappropriate attire—looking like he was ready to brave the Baltic, not the November-chill of New York City. The tip of his nose and the height of his cheekbones had a pink hue, and as he wet his lips, Newt saw they were cracked and chapped. For the first time, he was able to notice Minho’s physique: tall, lean, and, what he could tell from over the layers, quite muscly (he had a nice butt, too. Newt just wanted to leave that out of his official mind report.) He could totally believe that he was a track star.
“Say something to him,” Brenda hissed at him.
Newt glowered, hiding again in his cup. “No,” he hissed back. “What would I say? That’s weird. Shut up.”
She rolled her eyes at him as Teresa giggled. “I can see what you mean, Newt. He is attractive.”
Newt somehow flushed even harder. “Not so loud.”
“$3.95 please.”
“Thank you.”
“Thanks, Minho.”
Newt cleared his throat as Minho headed towards the exit and found sudden interest in the salt shaker to his right.
“Hi, Minho!”
Newt snapped his eyes back again to glare at Brenda, who gave Minho a grin as he passed.
“Hey, Brenda,” Minho replied warmly, smiling at her and Teresa before his eyes fell on Newt, who swore that smile naturally curled into a smirk.
He left into the chill and Newt blew the air out from his cheeks. He could feel the sweat that had formed on his neck.
“Did you see that—”
“He absolutely was checking you out, Newt.”
“Someone open a window, his face has changed colour!”
Newt dropped his head into his arms and didn’t even try to relieve their torment.
iv.
Of all the situations Newt could find himself in, this was the worst.
“Excuse me,” he whispered to the librarian. “Do you have another copy of Romeo and Juliet? I couldn’t find it on the shelf.” Honestly, he hadn’t even looked—that idea disappeared instantly upon seeing that Minho was, of course, sat at the table directly in front of the shelf where the book belonged.
She took a moment, tapping on her keyboard with her long nails. “No, sorry,” she said. “Our edition hasn’t been checked out, you might want to have another look.”
Newt nodded, defeat forcing itself to be accepted. “Thank you.” It’s not that he was scared of walking anywhere near Minho, it’s just that he really, really didn’t want to. Especially after the look he was given the other day. He didn’t even want to start to unpack that.
He stood by the junction that diverged into two rows of bookshelves and stole another look at Minho. His dimples sank deep into his cheeks as he chewed his pencil, eyes scanning every inch of the page before turning it and repeating the process with another. Newt scrunched the strap on his satchel in his clenched fists and chewed at his lip.
Stop being such an idiot. His voice scolded him so harshly he wondered if it was really his. Just look for the book.
Conscious of the way his jacket rustled as he walked towards the bookshelf, Newt literally held his breath. (In his defence, the library sits at the top of a number of big stone steps, and getting up them is always a struggle. He would hate to sound out of breath if Minho even noticed him.) Following the row of books, he muttered the titles under his breath until he reached R: Richard II, Richard III, Taming the Shrew—
Hold on. Where was Romeo and Juliet? Newt brought his finger up to the gap in the bookshelf, the black paperback missing from its slot. He looked around for it, hoping it was misplaced or just shifted along a few spaces. But it was gone.
Shit. Now he was just standing there, looking at a bookshelf and not moving. And Minho’s table was right behind him. What sort of school library only has one edition of Romeo and Juliet anyway? It’s like one of the most popular Shakespeare plays, and with hundreds of students taking either literature of drama, you’d think they’d have more than one edition of Romeo and Juliet. He should just grab another book, might as well change his whole assignment while he’s at it—
“Are you looking for this?”
Newt turned to look behind him suddenly, blinking at the boy sitting at the table. With his finger inside it, Minho, in all his handsome glory, held up the copy of Romeo and Juliet that Newt was looking for, giving him a sweet, dimpled smile.
Fucking kill me now.
“Uh, yeah,” Newt replied, clearing his throat. “I was, but it’s okay, I’ll just pick up another copy.” This was the first time Minho had talked to him, and he was maintaining direct eye contact. Newt really needed his heart to stop beating so loud.
“There’s only one,” Minho said with a short laugh. “Stupid, I know. It’s like the best of his plays and they only have one.”
Newt took a deep breath in, moist palms tucking into his deep pockets. “Well, I wouldn’t say it’s his best. ” He scratched above his eyebrow. Did Minho even remember him? “But I get your point.”
Minho frowned but kept his smile. “Oh? What is his best then?”
“Hamlet, obviously.”
Newt laughs as Minho rolled his eyes, leant back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. Oh, shit. He has a lot of muscles.
“Are you a Theatre student?”
Newt grinned. “How could you tell?”
“Your type always claims Hamlet is the best one.”
“That’s because it is.”
“It’s overhyped.”
“It’s iconic, ” Newt scoffed. “What other play has the most relatable line in all of literature?”
“And that is?”
Newt turned back to the bookshelf and picked out the edition of Hamlet, flipping easily through it. “Act I scene I,” he cleared his throat. “‘O Fuck,’ exit Hamlet.” He snapped the book closed and slid it back into its position.
Minho snorted a laugh into his hand and looked around as the librarian stared down her nose at them threateningly.
“Alright, fine, that’s pretty funny.”
“Romeo and Juliet is just an annoying teen drama.”
Minho huffed. “I accept your case.” His look lingered on Newt for a moment. “You’re Brenda’s friend right?” he asked. “I saw you at Thomas’s place.”
Newt almost stood to attention and nodded. “That’s me.”
“I don’t think I caught your name.”
He felt like his heart was going to give out any second.
“Newton,” he said. “But call me Newt.”
“Newton…” Minho repeated it like he was letting the name melt on his tongue. “Like the scientist, right?”
“He was a mathematician, really,” Newt replied, “but yeah. That’s better than what most people say, which is, ‘Like the animal?’”
Minho laughed again and Newt hoped he could keep on hearing that wonderful sound.
“That thought did cross me, but I thought it was a little too mean for a first impression.”
Oh, you made your first impression a long time ago mate.
“I’m Minho.”
Newt bit back from answering, ‘I know.’ and just smiled again. He felt like he could never get sick at smiling at Minho.
“Nice to meet you, Minho.”
There was a pause between them before Minho closed the Romeo and Juliet in his grip.
“I’m pretty much done with this if you want to go check it out,” he offered, “and then we could go and get some coffee if you’re not busy?”
Newt was meant to start on his project that’s due in forty-eight hours but thought it could probably wait.
“I’d really like that,” he said, taking the book and holding it to his chest.
“Great. I’ll, uh, meet you outside in five? I have a lot to pack up.”
Newt nods and turned towards the reception desk.
“Just one thing though…”
“Hm?”
“Let's not go to Thomas’s shop.”
Minho laughed. When he did so his cheeks bunched under his eyes and Newt started to feel weak in all his joints. “You sure you want to betray your friend’s business like that?”
“I’m sure. I can live without all his mithering.”