Work Text:
Come work at the cafe, she said. It’ll be fun, she said.
Harry frowns at the cups lined up next to the espresso machine, the three letters marked on each in Pansy’s architectural script mocking him. If he never sees another Pumpkin Spice Latte again it will be too soon.
He adjusts his cap on his forehead, air cooling his brow. While the water filters through the coffee, he shifts his glare to Pansy at the counter chatting up a customer — another Karen having dropped her kiddies at school, most likely.
Pansy turns a red-lipped smile to him, and he gives her two fingers, sod off with your bloody PSL. Her smile slides to a smirk as she shifts to the side. Harry catches a flash of white-blonde hair. Fuck! He quickly lowers his obscene gesture, and immediately burns his hand on a jet of steam. He grits his teeth against the sting and gets back to work.
Ten minutes later, he hands a PSL to the gorgeous blonde bloke with the ice grey eyes and delectable arse who has frequented the cafe daily for the past two weeks.
“Yours isn’t the best Pumpkin Spice Latte in town, you know.” The bloke smirks and fuck if Harry doesn’t swoon despite the criticism.
“Yeah, well, it’s a posh, pretentious drink,” Harry snarks, regretting that extra dash of cinnamon on the whip, perfect arse or not.
Blondie sips his drink thoughtfully. “There’s something different— ”
“Must be that additional spoon of pumpkin sauce he puts in yours,” the Karen at the sugar bar interjects. “And only yours. Every day. For the past two weeks.”
Harry’s ears flame hot. Fuck you very much, Karen.
Blondie hums behind twitching lips. “Midtown Cafe might be better… ” he says, and Harry bristles. “...but I like my Pumpkin Spice sweet.” His eyes sparkle, and Harry feels it in his fingertips. “Just like the barista.”
The Karens seated at the table laugh and raise their cups, and Harry decides PSL is the best thing ever.