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“Kujo—medium Americano with an extra shot.”
The green-haired barista sounded almost bored as he read it out. Jotaro left his bag and notebooks on the table and went up to the counter to retrieve his coffee.
This guy was new. Jotaro was in here pretty much every day working on his thesis, and he’d never seen him before. He was tall and skinny, with sharp features and an undercut dyed a shade of emerald green that matched his eyes exactly. Based on the makeup that would have put most beauty ads to shame, the row of piercings up the outer edge of his ear, and the clothes he was wearing under his apron, he was probably an art student. Maybe literature, Jotaro amended, but definitely something creative. He seemed like the type. The name tag pinned to his shirt said “Rohan,” in perfect calligraphy with plenty of embellishments.
Their eyes met for an instant as Rohan slid his drink across the counter. There was something significant there, but hell if Jotaro knew what it was. He just seemed familiar, somehow, even though he was sure this was the first time in his life that they’d seen each other.
“Thanks,” Jotaro grunted, and took the cup.
He could practically feel Rohan’s gaze on the back of his neck as he made his way back to his seat.
⁂
It was a Thursday, and it was raining.
Rohan was behind the counter again, and he had Jotaro’s drink ready before he even had a chance to open his mouth to order.
“Medium Americano, extra shot,” he said, arching one perfect eyebrow, handing it over.
Jotaro fumbled the words in his mouth, thrown off-rhythm. “I—How much do I owe you?”
“On the house.” Rohan smiled, and something about it was unsettling.
Jotaro did his best to shake the unidentifiable feeling that was crawling up and down his spine and dropped his money into the tip jar instead. “Thanks.”
The next person in line stepped up to the counter, and Jotaro was pushed to the side. He caught Rohan’s eyes on him over the top of the espresso machine, though, when he glanced up from his notebook half an hour later.
⁂
On Tuesday, Jotaro tripped.
It was a simple mistake—lost in thought and not paying any attention to where he was going, he walked straight into a rather short freshman who was making his way up to the counter and knocked everything out of both their hands.
He reached out with Star Platinum on reflex, catching every item before it could hit the ground. He even managed to catch his coffee cup without spilling any, which was a point of pride.
“Sorry,” he said, handing the boy back his bag. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
“O-oh, don’t worry about it,” the kid replied shakily. “Thank you very much.”
Jotaro nodded and made his way back to his table.
Behind the counter, Rohan rested his chin on his fingertips and watched Jotaro like he was a puzzle he was trying to solve.
⁂
On Friday, Jotaro’s order was wrong.
“Kujo—medium latte, extra shot.”
“I didn’t order a latte,” Jotaro replied, somewhat unnecessarily since he was more than aware Rohan knew his usual at this point. He’d had it ready and waiting for him before he’d even walked in the door every day for the last week.
“Maybe not, but I made this one special. I’d be offended if you didn’t at least try it.”
Jotaro narrowed his eyes, preparing for an argument, but Rohan was already gone, flitting back to the register. With a weary sigh, he picked up the cup and carried it back to his table.
Something registered as unusual when he lifted it to his lips to take a sip. Jotaro set the latte down and stared at it, dumbfounded.
Painstakingly drawn on its surface in crema and milk foam was Star Platinum’s exact likeness. Jotaro raised an eyebrow, glancing back toward the counter. Rohan was deep in conversation with the kid he’d almost knocked over last week, pointedly not looking in his direction.
There was writing on the side of the cup. A name—Kishibe Rohan—and below that, in meticulous curling script, a phone number.