Chapter Text
Stone was wiping down the café counter, the familiar hum of the espresso machine filling the empty space. It was an early morning, the sky outside still painted in soft shades of pink and orange. The café had thirty minutes until opening, giving him just enough time to get everything in order before the morning rush began.
The Mean Bean café was tucked away on a quiet street just outside the city, nestled between a charming old bookstore and a small boutique that rarely saw customers. It wasn’t a flashy place, nor was it a high-end coffee chain with digital menus and overpriced drinks. It was simple—warm wooden tables, mismatched chairs, and the ever-present scent of fresh coffee and pastries lingering in the air.
And that was exactly how Stone liked it.
His café wasn’t about efficiency or trends; it was about comfort. About giving people a space to sit, breathe, and enjoy a good cup of coffee and simple sweet treat without the chaos of the city pressing in on them.
A sudden groan echoed from the kitchen, followed by a sharp clatter. “Urgh!”
Stone glanced up from the counter. “What’s wrong, Casey?”
A moment later, Casey—his twenty-year-old staff member—emerged from the kitchen, holding a tray of charred croissants with a sheepish expression. Her dark choppy bob cut hair was tied back into a small ponytail, her blue framed glasses slightly fogged up and her apron was already dusted with flour and icing sugar despite the day barely starting.
“I burned the croissants,” she admitted, pouting. “The delivery guy came to drop off the supplies, and I didn’t hear the timer go off while I was putting everything away.” Casey sighed dramatically as she set the tray of charred croissants onto the counter. "At least they’re extra crispy," she joked, poking one. It crumbled slightly under her finger, turning to blackened flakes.
Stone smirked. "Yeah, I'm sure our customers will love the extra smoky flavour."
Casey groaned again. “I suck.”
Stone chuckled, shaking his head. “You don’t suck. Just put another batch in and actually keep an eye on them this time. Don’t only rely on the timer.”
Casey sighed but nodded. “Yeah, yeah. Got it.” She turned back toward the kitchen, but not before muttering under her breath, “I still think I suck.”
Stone smirked. “Well, at least you admit it.” Casey shot him a glare over her shoulder, but he could see the hint of a smile as she disappeared into the kitchen.
Shaking his head, he went back to wiping down the counter. He liked working with Casey. He probably shouldn’t say it outright, but she was his favourite employee.
In fact, she was his first employee. Four years ago, when he first opened The Mean Bean, Casey was a high school student desperately looking for her first job. She had no experience—aside from what she’d picked up from YouTube videos about latte art—but she had been eager, practically vibrating with excitement when she handed in her application. She was young, a little clumsy, and still getting the hang of things, but she had a good attitude. And, more importantly, she made running the café a little less lonely. Stone trusted her more than anyone in his staff when it came to ensuring the café ran smoothly.
The morning calm continued as he finished preparing the café for opening. The tables were wiped, the chairs set, the radio was tuned, and the air was thick with the scent of coffee and fresh pastries—well, the non-burnt ones, anyway.
The bell above the entrance chimed, its familiar ring drawing Stone’s attention from the counter.
Stone glanced up, knowing who it was. The man strode in like he owned, his long coat billowing slightly as he crossed the threshold. His red-tinted glasses glinted under the café lights, and his moustache twitched slightly as he scanned the empty room with his usual air of superiority before stopping at the counter.
“Good morning, Doctor. You’re early.” Stone greeted warmly, leaning against the counter.
Dr. Ivo Robotnik—renowned inventor, esteemed professor, and the café’s most enigmatic regular—grunted in response. He didn't particularly waste his words on pleasantries, yet he always showed up. Rain or shine, the café becoming part of his routine.
Robotnik scoffed. “Hardly. I’m precisely on time. It is the rest of the world that insists on operating at a sluggish, insufferable pace.” He waved dismissively with his gloved hand. “Now, coffee. Black. Extra shot. You know the drill Mr. Stone.”
Stone chuckled, already reaching for a jug. “Rough morning?”
“An infuriating one,” Robotnik corrected, adjusting his gloves. “I had to suffer through exactly four minutes and thirty-seven seconds of small talk with my neighbour who still insists I go on a date with her ‘very single and very gay’ son.” he air quoted.
Stone raised an eyebrow as he worked the espresso machine. “Four whole minutes, huh? Must’ve been torture.”
“You have no idea. I regret mentioning to her that I prefer a man if I was to ever consider a relationship.” Robotnik grumbled. Leaning over the counter, tapping his fingers absently against the table. "You know, it's curious. How most people would consider it illogical to form a daily routine around an independent café rather than a large-scale chain where efficiency is maximized."
"And yet, here you are," Stone said, twisting the knob too foam the milk.
“Precisely, Stone.” Robotnik nodded.
Meanwhile, behind the counter, Casey peeked out from the kitchen, watching the interaction with barely concealed amusement.
Stone finished the coffee, sliding the paper cup of freshly brewed coffee it in front of Robotnik. “One cup of genius fuel to go, just how you like it.”
Robotnik took a sip. His eyes shut briefly, as if analysing the taste, before he hummed in approval. “Hmm. It's good to know there is at least someone in this world who can do their job properly.” Robotnik pulls back his coat to take out his wallet. Stone grinned, feeling his cheeks warm as he processed the order on the register. “Glad to be of service.”
Robotnik lingered a moment longer, before turning away with a dramatic flourish of his coat. “Until next time, then.”
“Wouldn’t dream of missing it.”
The bell chimed again as Robotnik strode out, vanishing into the streets. Casey finally emerged from the kitchen, seemingly materializing next to Stone, eyes gleaming with mischief, nudging Stone with her elbow. “You two flirt so much.”
Stone snorted. “We do not flirt.”
Casey gave him a deadpan look. “‘Oh, Doctor, let me get you your genius fuel.’ ‘Ah, Stone, you’re the only competent one in my life.’” She batted her eyelashes dramatically. “Oh, please. Just kiss him over the counter already.”
"I-I will do no such thing!" Stone stuttered in response. "And it’s not flirting, that’s just… how we like to talk to each other.”
Casey smirked. “Uh-huh. Sure.”
“Don’t you have a second batch of croissants you’re meant to be not burning?” Stone teasingly bit back. Casey groaned dramatically as she makes her way back to the kitchen.
Stone shook his head, but the teasing lingered as he absently wiped down the counter. Again. His mind drifted back to the first time he met the doctor.
It had been an accident. Literally.
It was nearly a year ago on a chilly autumn morning. Stone had been setting out a small chalkboard menu by the entrance when a loud commotion drew his attention. A biker, weaving recklessly through the sidewalk, had clipped an unsuspecting pedestrian. The man went sprawling onto the pavement, papers flying, coffee spilling, and his glasses landing a few feet away.
Stone had rushed to him immediately. “You alright, sir?”
The man—Robotnik, though Stone hadn’t known his name then—sat up with an expression of pure indignation. “Am I okay?” he repeated, brushing dust off his coat. He then began picking up the scattered papers along the footpath. “I have just been assaulted by a reckless two-wheeled menace and robbed of my morning brew. Of course, I’m not alright.”
Stone went down to help retrieve some of the scattered papers—most of which seemed to be blueprints covered in complicated diagrams and indecipherable notes. Stone then noticed the small cut on Robotnik’s temple, where his glasses had shifted on impact. "You're bleeding," he said.
Robotnik blinked, touching the wound as if just now realizing it was there. He looked at his fingers then frowned. “Superficial damage.”
"Still," Stone insisted, "This my café’s here. I can help patch up that cut for you. I’ll even brew you a fresh coffee if you like, on the house.”
Robotnik seemed hesitant at first, but he gave in and followed Stone into the café.
While Stone prepared the coffee, Robotnik sat at the counter, grumbling to himself about “incompetent bikers” and “wasted time.” But when Stone placed the steaming cup in front of him, Robotnik took a tentative sip and froze.
“This is… tolerable,” he finally said.
Stone chuckled. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” He came around the counter with the first aid kit, taking a seat next to Robotnik. “Now let’s take care of that cut.”
Robotnik sat stiffly, watching with an unreadable expression as Stone worked quickly, dabbing at the small scrape on his forehead with an alcohol wipe.
"Hold still," Stone murmured when Robotnik flinched slightly. "Hmph," Robotnik grumbled but obeyed, though he looked deeply unimpressed by the entire process. Satisfied that the wound was clean, Stone peeled open a small bandage and carefully pressed it over the cut. "There," he said, leaning back. "Good as new."
Robotnik reached up, running a gloved finger over the bandage like he was assessing the damage. "This is ridiculous. A mind like mine should not be burdened with such trivial injuries."
Stone smirked. "Well, now you won’t bleed out in the middle of the street. Tragic loss averted."
The man stood, straightening his coat and simply left. Stone watched as the man strode out the door, he half-expected to never see him again.
But the next day, The man returned. And the next. And the next.
He eventually become a regular fixture at the café. He came in almost every morning, always ordering the same coffee. He wasn’t the most sociable customer—either absorbed in his notes or barking commands into his phone—but Stone had grown fond of his presence. There was something oddly endearing about the gruff, eccentric professor.
Sometimes, he would linger in the café and they would end up chatting. Well, Stone would ask questions, and Robotnik would go off on long tangents about his latest inventions or theories that flew over Stone’s head. But Stone didn’t mind. He liked listening, watching the way Robotnik’s eyes lit up when he spoke about his work.
“You’re awfully curious for a barista,” Robotnik had remarked once, eyeing Stone suspiciously.
Stone had simply shrugged. “You’re interesting.” Robotnik had scoffed but didn’t argue. And from then on, their conversations became more frequent.
Then weeks passed, and Robotnik remained a constant in Stone’s mornings. One particularly slow shift, Stone found himself mentioning the doctor in passing while chatting with Casey.
"Robotnik? Ro-bot-nik?" Casey repeated slowly, as if tasting the name. She frowned, deep in thought. "Why does that sound so—wait. Wait." Her eyes suddenly went wide. Without another word, she sprinted into the back room. A few seconds later, she returned, breathless, clutching a glossy magazine.
"Is he that Robotnik!?" she declared, slamming the magazine onto the counter, jabbing a finger at the cover, where a sharp-eyed man in red-tinted glasses smirked confidently beside a bold headline:
“The Mind Behind the Machine – Dr. Ivo Robotnik on the Future of AI robotics”
It was him.
Stone picked up the magazine, flipping through the pages until he landed on the article. “Doctor Ivo Robotnik, world-renowned inventor and professor, leading research on conscious, adaptive artificial intelligence…”
"Huh," Stone muttered, scanning the text. "I mean, I knew he was a professor and talked about robot stuff, but—"
"Keep reading," Casey interrupted, practically bouncing on her heels.
Stone raised an eyebrow but followed her instruction, scanning further down—until his eyes landed on another section. “…and has been voted one of the most eligible bachelors.” Stone blinked. "Oh."
Casey beamed, pointing aggressively at the words. "Oh?? OH?? That’s all you have to say?"
Stone groaned, already feeling the teasing creeping in. "Casey, please."
"Oh, Casey yes," she said, grinning. "My boss is having coffee dates with a world-famous genius-slash-heartthrob, and I had no idea!"
Stone rolled his eyes, setting the magazine down. "They’re not coffee dates."
Casey smirked. "Come on! You flirt with him"
"I do not flirt!"
"Mmhmm. Sure. You definitely don’t flirt with the ‘brilliant and mysterious Doctor Robotnik’—who, by the way, looks like a attractive movie villain in this photoshoot."
Stone rubbed his temples. "Casey—"
She grinned, wiggling her eyebrows. "Boss, I gonna need you to get his signature for my mag."
"I am not—"
"And maybe a phone number while you’re at it. Please!”
Stone groaned, shoving the magazine away as Casey cackled her way back to the kitchen. Still, as he went back to work, he couldn't help but glance toward the café door, half-expecting Robotnik to stride in right then and there.
Famous inventor. AI researcher. And one of the most eligible bachelors.
Stone sighed. That was just his luck.
But it had been over a year now, and somehow, he'd managed to keep things neutral between them. They exchange their usual banter and chatter. And Stone pretended like his heart didn’t speed up or his cheeks warmed every time the doctor walked through the door.
Because that would be ridiculous.
Right?
Meanwhile, in his office, Robotnik sat hunched over his desk, a red pen clutched in his gloved hand as he disappointingly goes through yet another insultingly mediocre assignment.
His students were hopeless.
Small-minded. Predictable. Lacking vision. Unwilling to push boundaries. They followed instructions well enough, but none of them dared to challenge convention. They regurgitated textbook theories without an ounce of critical thought, their so-called “insights” as bland as a decaf latte. None of them thought beyond. Outside. Further.
And yet, he was expected to teach them.
Robotnik let out a sharp breath through his nose and leaned back in his chair, dragging a hand over his face. What a waste of time.
His gaze flicked to the side, landing on the half-empty coffee cup sitting on his desk. The familiar Mean Bean logo staring at him. He reached for it, taking a slow sip.
The coffee had long gone lukewarm, but the taste was still rich, expertly brewed— perfectly made, as always. His fingers tapped absently against the paper cup as his mind drifted to the man behind the counter.
Stone
A simple man, living a simple life.
Robotnik had learned through observation and the occasional offhand remark, that Stone had once dreamed of becoming an artist. But instead of chasing that ambition, he had settled into the quiet comfort of running a café. A waste of potential, perhaps, but not entirely wasted.
Because Robotnik had noticed things about the café owner.
The paintings that adorned the café walls, oddly familiar in their brushstrokes despite all being unsigned. And once—just once—he had caught a glimpse of Stone’s hands as he prepared his drink, speckled with dried paint, the colours still clinging to his skin.
Robotnik swirled the last of his coffee, watching the dark liquid spin idly as he thought.
Stone…fascinated him.
More than he should.
With an irritated scoff, He rolled his chair back, stretching out his legs—only for his heel to knock against the metal trash bin beside his desk, making it rattle slightly.
His gaze flicked down.
Among the discarded papers and crumpled blueprints, something caught his eye—a crumpled flyer.
Robotnik stared at it for a moment before, with a sigh, he rolled his chair closer and reached in, plucking the paper from the bin and soothed out the wrinkles.
His eyes scanning the familiar, elegant text.
ANNUAL METROPOLITAN ART GALA: An evening for inspiration, innovation, and celebrating artistic brilliance.
Robotnik scoffed under his breath. The gala.
He was invited to this event every year. The organizers insisted on extending him a personal invitation, likely hoping his brilliant presence would add some sort of prestige to their event.
As if they truly expected him to mingle with a crowd of self-important critics and pretentious snobs droning on about “artistic vision.” A waste of time.
And every year, he tossed the invitation directly into the trash.
Yet, despite his distaste for such gatherings, his fingers lingered on the flyer, curling around the edges of the flyer, smoothing out the creases.
Would Stone be interested in something like this?
Robotnik knew the man painted, even if he rarely spoke of it. And had no doubt the man would fit in. His talent was evident—even if he refused to put his name on the paintings in his café.
Robotnik leaned back in his chair, drumming his fingers against the armrest. The gala was mind-numbingly dull on its own. But with the right company… well, he could make it an experiment, of sorts.
A small smirk curled at the corner of his lips.
Perhaps this year, he’d make an exception.
The Next Morning
Stone wiped down the counter, listening to the gentle clatter of Casey stacking cups behind him. The morning air was thick with the scent of fresh coffee and baked goods, just the usual pre-opening routine.
Then the bell above the door chimed and Stone still didn’t have to look up.
“Doctor,” he greeted, reaching for a jug, ready to brew Robotnik’s usual order.
“Barista,” Robotnik replied, stepping toward the counter with his usual self-assured stride. His coat billowed slightly as he moved, like he had timed it just right for dramatic effect.
Stone smirked. “You’re early.”
Robotnik hummed, slipping off his gloves and slipping them into his coat pockets. “Call it an adjustment in routine.”
That was… interesting. Robotnik was nothing if not a creature of habit.
Robotnik leaned on the counter, watching as Stone worked. There was something in his gaze—calculated, like he was considering something.
Stone started frothing the milk when Robotnik pulled something from his pocket—a folded paper, slightly creased. With a deliberate motion, he smoothed it out against the counter.
“I’ve been invited to an art gala,” Robotnik stated matter-of-factly.
Stone raised a brow as he poured steamed milk into Robotnik’s cup. “Didn’t peg you as an art guy.”
“I’m not,” Robotnik admitted, plucking a pen from his pocket. “But I find myself reconsidering.” Without another word, he began to write something on the flyer before sliding it toward Stone.
Stone glanced down. And the blinked.
Robotnik’s phone number.
His brain stalled for a second.
“I know this is last minute and sudden but…I’d like you to accompany me,” Robotnik said smoothly. “If you’re interested.”
Stone stared at the flyer for a second longer than necessary, heat creeping up the back of his neck. “You—uh—want me to go? With you?”
Robotnik tilted his head slightly. “You appreciate art, do you not?”
“Oh, I do, but—”
“Then it makes sense.” Robotnik picked up his coffee and took a sip. “No need to answer now. But do think about it and let me know your final answer.”
With that, Robotnik turned on his heel and strode toward the door, leaving the flyer sitting there in front of Stone. The bell chimed as he exited.
Silence.
Then—
A low whistle from behind him. “Well damn, boss.”
Stone stiffened as Casey emerged from the back, arms crossed, wearing the smuggest grin he had ever seen.
“Not flirting, huh?” she teased, sauntering up beside him. “That was the smoothest invitation I’ve ever seen,” she gushed. “I mean, damn, he just—he just slid his number over like it was nothing!” Casey wiggled her eyebrows. “That was textbook ‘ask the guy I like out to a fancy date.’”
Stone scowled. “It wasn’t like that.”
Casey snatched the flyer before he could grab it. “Ohhh, it was absolutely like that.” She squinted at the number. “Are you gonna call him?”
“I—” Stone swiped it back. “I haven’t decided yet.”
Casey smirked. “Because you’re too flustered.”
“I’m not flustered.”
“Mhm. You’re totally blushing.”
Stone opened his mouth to argue—but then Casey made a kissy face at him as she makes her way to the back. Stone rolled his eyes and turned.
Not flirting. And definitely not a date.
…Right?