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“Black?” He deadpans.
“Yep.”
“Just black?”
“Sometimes on a Saturday morning I’ll treat myself with some sugar, as well.”
Marcus stares at you, one brow quizzically raised at you, trying to figure out when the punchline comes. After a few moments of meeting his stare unflinchingly, his face falls, realising that you’re not joking.
“I’m not going to just get you black coffee every morning!” his voice pushes up an octave with his exclamation “It’s not a challenge at all. It’s no ‘extra-hot-extra-wet-latte-with-two-pumps-of-pumpkin-spice-syrup-and-yes-I-know-it’s-out-of-season-but-I-know-you-have-it-in-the-back’ kind of order.”
You giggle gently, shaking your head, as he crosses his arms to his chest with a huff. You suspect it’s to stop his hands flailing during his Anti-Americano manifesto. You purposely keep your gaze on his face, and do not look at the way the suit jacket stretches against his upper arms.
“Have you ever tried to carry a scalding hot black coffee between the coffee shop and the office without spilling it and burning your hands off?” you challenge with a secret smile of your own “It’s similar to climbing Everest.” Marcus scoffs.
“That’s a bit of an exaggeration, since I have climbed Everest –”
“Oh, here we go again –”
“Yes, I climbed Everest and no, I have not boasted enough about it.” The smile on your face breaks into a full-blown grin as you begin the same argument you and Marcus have been having for months.
“You didn’t reach the peak, you only got to second base camp –”
“The conditions were impassable, the sherpa said I couldn’t carry on!”
“Oh yes,” you nod emphatically, with a mock-serious pout “the sherpa called Chad said you couldn’t go on.”
“That is what he said his name was!” Marcus’ arms break free from their prison now, thrown up into the air with exasperation, or perhaps prayer to save him from this teasing.
“I still reckon you had altitude sickness the entire time and experienced a fever dream,” you ponder, taking a tiny sip from your still-scalding coffee, “or maybe you dropped some acid and ‘Sherpa Chad’ was your LSD-guide.”
“Ha. Ha.” Marcus deadpans, levelling you with his best attempt at a stern look. With his hair unstyled and lightly ruffled against his forehead, and the furrow in his brow, he only serves to look adorable.
His face softens and his natural smile creeps back out as the silence settles between you. His eyes shine with a mirth that is far too joyful for 10am on a Thursday morning, and his gaze stays fixed on your face. You realize that he’s been staring at you for a few seconds. You realize this, because you’ve been staring straight back at him the whole time. You quickly clear your throat and look away, blinking away the dazed look in your eyes, and try desperately to banish the heat crawling up your neck.
“Black coffee,” you mutter briskly, eyes falling back down to your laptop “that’s the only coffee I drink.” You risk a peek up at him through your lashes to find him in the same spot, head tilted now with a curiosity that you try not to read into.
“And occasionally some sugar on the weekends?” He asks, voice lilting with a tease.
The words fall out unthinkingly. “I’m sweet enough already, Agent Pike.” You grasp your paper cup again and allow the dark liquid to burn your tongue once more “You should know that by now.”
He hums gently, and in your periphery you see him rocking back on his heels and shoving his hands into his pockets.
“I do know that, Agent.” he responds softly, letting the words linger.
He’s still looking at you. You can feel it. You try to act like you’re breathing normally. You focus so much on your breathing that you actually don’t know how you normally do it.
After a moment of you staring at your laptop, pretending like you are making sense of words on the page, you hear him clear his throat and quietly head towards the door. You let out a steadying breath, willing your heart to slow and the heat prickling against your skin to fade. Your regular morning chat is over, and you can try to focus on work without Marcus distracting you with his damnable good looks and charming personality.
You think you’ve successfully hidden your floundering until Marcus suddenly stops at the door. He spins back around, faster than his feet will allow him. He would have lost his footing were he not already moving back towards you. Your head snaps back up in surprise, eyes wide. His hands plant themselves on either side of your laptop to halt his sudden movement. He’s leaning over the desk, staring down at you, his eyes shining like he’s in on a joke that you’re not party to. One side of his mouth lifts into a smile.
“What’s your cocktail order?” He asks conspiratorially “Maybe I could get you something more complex than a black coffee this evening?”
A smile winds its way across your face.
Later that night, you order a beer.