Chapter Text
These violent delights have violent ends
And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,
Which, as they kiss, consume.
—William Shakespeare ; Romeo & Juliette
Jed Olson asks you out on a Tuesday.
It’s not particularly remarkable, as Tuesdays go. Business is bustling in the mornings, but lulls around late afternoon; some days, you wonder why you even bother keeping the café open past midday.
Jed is a regular of yours, and he’s been slowly and harmlessly flirting his way into your good graces (and into free pastries) for the past eight and a half months. You’ve told him, honestly, that you give free stuff to all the regulars, and that he doesn’t need to lay it on thick to get some day-old cookies; he’s told you, equally as honestly(?), that it’s not a chore. You’d rolled your eyes, embarrassed, and let it go.
He’s remarkably persistent, though.
“You really should have seen this coming,” he says, smiling. He has a pleasant face, handsome, although just a bit unconventional; his nose is a bit sharp, and the smudges under his eyes are a bit pronounced, but you’re vaguely aware that those things only make him ultimately more attractive. Tammy—one of your soccer-mom regulars whose visits have had an ever -increasing overlap with Jed’s—certainly seems to think so.
He’s leaning over the counter, leaning his elbow against the (thankfully sturdy) glass of the pastry display case to his left. If he were a woman, you imagine the move would be calculated to flash his cleavage to his best advantage; you can see plenty of pectoral definition even as-is, from the angle. The white collar of his button-down peeps over the knit neckline of his gray sweater, framing his collarbones and throat.
Not that you’re looking.
You clear your throat. His smile hasn’t changed, but a completely unfounded hunch makes you feel, illogically, as if it’s slightly wider than before. “Once again,” you say, a bit of strain making its way into your voice despite your efforts to keep your tone light, “the slices of cake are free no matter what. You don’t need to buy your way in. Cheesecake Tuesdays will stay.”
He purses his lips. “And once again,” he says, “As happy as I am about Cheesecake Tuesdays, I’m asking you to give me a chance, not a coupon.”
You’re nearly overcome with the urge to make an incredibly inappropriately timed joke, but you stuff it back down. You can’t really ask him why he wants a chance at all, as that crosses over the line from polite deflection to outright rudeness; you’re running out of ways to say no, and if you’re being completely honest with yourself, you’re running out of plausible reasons to.
By all rights, he’s kind, good looking, and willing to joke around with you. That’s pretty much all of your standards, right there. He’s a customer, sure, and a regular at that, but your income doesn’t live or die by his good graces. You won’t go in the red if things end badly with him and he never comes back. Your shop does well enough for that.
He’s just...
He’s- you blink. He’s still looking at you expectantly. You feel a prickle of nerves climb up the nape of your neck.
You glance briefly to the side, and- yup. No witnesses, thank god. Just an old lady sipping a cappuccino in one of the plush armchairs by the windows, reading a novel. “If I say yes,” you say, tone light, “can we discuss the details another time?”
“I’ll happily discuss them over text or call,” he grins, pulling an expensive smartphone out of his pocket. He taps the screen a few times and then hands it to you: The screen is titled New Contact, with plenty of empty spaces to type in your name and number.
You hesitate, just for a moment.
“All jokes aside,” Jed says, jerking your attention to him. His eyebrows are scrunched. He’s still insufferably handsome. “I know I’ve been pressuring you. Feel free to decline, seriously, there won’t be any hard feelings.” (Your eyebrows shoot up.) “No, really! It’s just…” He frowns. “Every time you say no, it mostly sounds like you’re… deflecting? Like you don’t think I’m really asking you out? I’m not sure why. I am serious, though.”
You wonder why.
“You’re a little out of my league,” you manage. As he starts spluttering protests, you smile wryly at him, reaching out to take his phone. Your fingers brush his (christ, why are his hands stupidly big) and you religiously ignore it, tapping in your info.
“Not at all,” Jed says. “Not at all.”
--
Unknown Number: Just checking that I haven’t been politely declined again.
It’s hard to tear your attention away from your laptop screen, and even harder to reach a hand out of your blanket burrito to snag your phone from the side table by the arm of your couch. A youtube video drones on in your headphones, but even through the white noise, a notification is more than audible. Your arm braves the cold.
Oh. You blink at the screen. It’s him.
You tap at your screen.
Flirty Regular: Not that I would blame you
You snort. There’s no way someone that attractive is self-deprecating.
Not that there’s a barrier to entry, or something. Anyone can have low self esteem. But the way he flirts with you, the way he’s been flirting with you…
It’s got the flavor of someone who knows how to work their angles.
Flirty Regular: You put yourself in my phone as Muffin Lady, though, which is promising. :)
Muffin Lady : yeah it;s me
Muffin Lady: it’s*
Flirty Regular: Your muffins aren’t even my favorite, honestly.
You arch an eyebrow. He’s not off to a good start.
Flirty Regular: Don’t get me wrong, everything you make is excellent
Flirty Regular: But your cakes are for sure the best
You hum. Despite yourself, amusement twists the corner of your mouth.
Muffin Lady: i know i have great cake but wow mr. olson so forward
The “typing” symbol pops up, disappears, reappears, and disappears again. Grinning, you tap in another message.
Muffin Lady: thank you for the cake compliment i’ll never forget it
It takes a second for his next message to ping. Long enough that your attention drifts to your laptop screen, though it’s swiftly yanked back to your phone at the chirp of a text.
Flirty Regular: I’m not contradicting you, but I will definitely say that you act differently over text than you do in person.
You let out a little ha of laughter, immediately typing up a response.
Muffin Lady: play stupid games, win stupid prizes, flirty americano no sugar splash of soy man
Muffin Lady: i mean honestly i’m not even fucking with you
Muffin Lady: if my professional conduct was the same as my personal life (aka my actual personality) i’d go insane in about three days
After a few seconds, you get another ping.
Flirty Regular: I think I understand that
Considering that he’s so fucking pleasant all the time, you wonder if that means he’s secretly addicted to cocaine, or interior decorating, or Reality TV, or something crazy like that.
Muffin Lady: actually in nature of total transparency
Muffin Lady: if you’re actually serious about flirting your way into getting more free cake or whatever
Muffin Lady: i figured that being as informal as possible was the quickest way to find out if we’re radically incompatible asap
Muffin Lady: this is the real me etc etc here there be dragons blah
Flirty Regular: So this is your first attempt to scare me off?
Flirty Regular: Gonna have to be a little scarier than that.
Flirty Regular: :)
Muffin Lady: lol fair
You’re too poor to afford heating in your shitty apartment, even in the dead of winter, so by the time you finish your text conversation with Mr. Americano-no-sugar-splash-of-soy, your autoplay is paused and your fingers have gone numb.