Work Text:
You see a man in a casual black turtleneck sitting on one of the tables in your little café and you can't take your eyes away from him. You see him staring outside the window, ignoring the cup of black americano you'd managed to brew with a distracted mind ten minutes earlier. Usually, you would be pretty dejected to see your customers not enjoying your coffee, but you choose to let it slide this time. Not everyday would such a fine species of a man stop by the café.
Now, you're not exactly a facecon but damn that man is so insanely hot. You'd drool on the floor if it wasn't such a weird thing to do in public.
Those sharp eyes, thick eyebrows, jawline that you wonder would cut a diamond (no, you know it wouldn't, but theories), wavy hair partly slicked back… your poor maiden heart can only take so much.
His hands are big, full of scars and calluses (and are those protruding veins holy fuck?), like he's been living in a tough world, but actually it only makes him hotter, by god. You muse if he perhaps looks like a brooding protagonist in the popular action manhwas or a male lead in a BL novel. Those archetypes of brooding mysterious popular men or dangerous mafia bosses, to be exact.
And don't you mention the bulging muscles under his shirt. You wonder how big his biceps are compared to your own arm. Could he bench press a whole adult, by any chance? Oh man, his thighs look so thick too. It's getting hot around here. Maybe you should lower the AC.
It's probably improper to ogle a customer at work, but well.
You swear you don't have any impure thoughts about this man. You just appreciate his beauty like any normal human with a fine taste would.
(But maybe you're also kinda wondering how firm those biceps are? Can you perhaps touch a little, please? Just for science.)
Anyway, you're a fan now.
(Is there a way to give him money? You don't have ulterior motives, of course, you just want him to know how much you appreciate him just for existing.)
But because you're a proper person who knows societal norms, you don't do anything. You just sit there and scream inside your mind like a fine citizen.
Time goes by and you're shocked to find your shift hours are going faster today. Maybe because your eyes keep straying to peek at the man, but anyway. You kind of don't want to change shifts with your coworker. Can you please stay until closing time? You promise that you would wipe all the tables and lock the shop real tight. Anything if it means you could appreciate the Sexy Man's beauty a while longer.
The café doorbell suddenly chimes and you're blinking your thoughts away, trying to get your professionalism back in place. It's work time, after all.
But you're confused because there's no one slipping in through the glass door, until you see a tiny girl in a fluffy white tutu running into the café, head turning left and right in search of someone. The girl has her soft black hair done in little pigtails, a hairband with a golden flannel horn on top of her head. You want to squeal. You don't often interact with children but you're always weak to cute things.
You have to physically restrain yourself from shrieking out loud when the tiny girl scrambles to the Sexy Man and his previously cold face shifts just so subtly into something very gentle. The child tugs on his pant leg and he picks her up to sit on his lap.
You. Want. To. Die.
THAT WAS SO FUCKING CUTE???
You're too busy screaming over the possibility of the Sexy Man being a hot DILF you don't realize a second person approaching them.
When you do, though... you think dying on the spot from too much sugar isn't too much of a stretch. Well…
Because the second person is a soft, gentle looking man (yet he looks so mischievous?? How???) and he smiles so adoringly at the Sexy Man and the little girl.
Now, this man is far more your type to screech over. He's pretty tall, lean and thin—FUCKING TINY WAIST HOLY FUCK—looking average yet not. This man's skin looks fair, pale and soft that you partially wonder about his skincare routine, yet it's tinted with the softest pink as he stares at the Sexy man. Even from your perch behind the counter, you can't mistake the long eyelashes and the glimmer in his eyes. Wow.
You're a positive person, by nature. You believe in love, but it's not every day that you see such a blatant show of affection written on a stranger's face.
You wonder if this is reality. Suddenly, those romance manhwas you secretly read between your shifts aren't quite imaginary anymore.
The Pretty Man approaches the Sexy Man and the Little Girl with that fond smile on his face. You think that his smile is comparable to those idols your coworker likes to watch.
Wow. Their features really do complement each other, don't they? This might be what people mean by a match made in heaven.
Are they celebrities? Please let them be celebrities. You want a legal excuse to build a fan club.
Your musings are cut short, however, because the Sexy Man now sees the Pretty Man and his eyes become twice as soft, full of tenderness and endearment. (HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE?!)
And then he kisses the Pretty Man's cheek.
And you just. Fucking. Explode.
There's a high-pitched shriek that vaguely sounds like the dying cat version of your voice, but you don't have the time to care.
You have to act now. Screw societal norms. You have to let them know how adorable they are.
You have to introduce yourself.
Your name is Uriel, and you are their family's new fanclub president.