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The morning after his thirty-sixth birthday wasn’t the worst he'd ever had, but it was solidly in the top five. His skull throbbed in sync with the back door slamming open, and his stomach was somewhere between I could eat a horse and I might throw up if I smell toast.
He hauled the delivery crates in anyway, scrawled a barely legible signature on the form, and nodded at the driver like he hadn’t just winced pulling the pen out of his own pocket.
When he pushed up his sleeve to wipe sweat from his brow, there was a scribble on his arm. Just a small, lazy little hi sitting pretty on the inside of his forearm.
Billy squinted at it.
“Frenchie,” he muttered with a dry snort.
Of course it was. Had to be. Last night was whiskey and shots and Frenchie getting creative with a Sharpie while Billy was distracted losing at darts. He barely remembered getting home—he’d probably slept in his boots.
He didn’t give it a second thought. Just rolled his sleeve back down, grunted at a sack of coffee beans, and got to stacking like his spine didn’t click every time he bent.
Inside, the café was already alive.
M.M. sat near the back with a folder open and his laptop on, a pen behind his ear like he was daring someone to ask about it. Kimiko was in the kitchen piping something delicate and unnecessarily beautiful onto a cake shaped like a mushroom house. Frenchie had taken over the espresso machine and was flirting shamelessly with the grinder.
Billy stepped behind the counter and muttered, “How many times do I have to say you’re not on till duty when you're still legally drunk?”
Frenchie wiggled his eyebrows. “Is it my fault I make a sexy coffee?”
“Yes,” Billy said flatly, bumping him aside and reaching for the flat white ticket that had just printed. “And it’s a crime against beans.”
He kept his hands busy, moving on autopilot—coffee, cash, complaints, compliments. He barely noticed when his sleeve slid up again, too focused on remembering if oat milk frothed differently or if he was just shit at it hungover.
It wasn’t until the lull came—that golden ten minutes when everyone in the world was too full to move and the coffee rush had passed—that he finally glanced down again.
Right below the hi, in handwriting that didn’t match the first, was a new line:
Today’s my birthday.
Billy’s heart stopped. Just for a beat. Maybe two.
And then it kicked back in, louder than before.
Not Frenchie.
Not a prank.
His stomach swooped so violently he had to put the mug down before he dropped it. A couple customers were still milling around. Someone asked for a receipt. M.M. looked up from his laptop, eyebrows tugging together.
Billy didn’t say a word. Just turned, walked stiffly to the office, and shut the door.
He sat.
Stared at his arm.
His soulmate had written to him. On their birthday.
It was happening.
After eighteen years.
He barked a laugh that came out sharp and wrong. Then another. Then shoved both hands through his hair and slumped forward, elbows on knees, face in his hands.
“Fucking hell,” he whispered, voice cracking.
A soft knock came a few minutes later.
“Billy?” M.M.'s voice. “You alright?”
Billy made a noise. Could’ve meant yes. Could’ve meant my entire soul is having a moment, give me a sec before I go full romantic tosser on the floor.
Didn’t matter.
The door creaked open anyway.
M.M. stepped in, took one look, and sighed. “Shit. You got the writing?”
Billy looked up slowly, eyes a little red, like he’d just been punched in the nostalgia.
“Yeah,” he rasped. “It says hi. Then today’s my birthday.”
M.M. blinked. “That’s it?”
Billy nodded, exhaling like he’d run a marathon. “Little shit’s already got me by the bollocks, don’t even know their name yet.”
M.M. sat on the desk, not even pretending not to be smug. “Happy birthday, old man.”
Billy flipped him off, then dropped his face into his hands again. “What the fuck do I even say back?”
“What do you want to say?” M.M. asked, arms crossed as he leaned against the desk like he hadn’t just walked in on Billy having a full-blown emotional come-apart.
Billy dragged his hands down his face, groaning softly into his palms. “It’s been so long, mate. I don’t even know anymore.”
And that was the truth of it, wasn’t it?
He’d done all his waiting back when he was young and wide-eyed and believed in things like fate and magic handwriting. Then life happened—military, CIA, loss, laughter, that one time he nearly blew his own eyebrows off trying to roast a pig for a summer block party. Soulmates became… background noise. A habit. A wish.
“I really never thought I’d get one,” he said, voice low now, almost like it wasn’t meant to be heard. “Felt like it’d been too long. Like maybe I’d missed ‘em somehow. Like maybe I was the one who fucked it up.”
M.M. tilted his head. “You just had to wait for him to turn eighteen.”
Billy looked at him.
M.M.’s mouth twitched. “Wow, man. So young. Try not to corrupt them.”
Billy huffed a dry laugh, flipping him off again, this time with a smirk.
“Get out,” he said, grinning despite himself.
M.M. raised both hands in surrender and backed toward the door. “Just sayin’. Don’t go all emotionally constipated on him.”
As the door swung shut, Billy exhaled—slow and long—staring at the words on his arm.
Hi
Today’s my birthday.
His soulmate was out there somewhere, just starting their day, completely unaware that they’d turned his entire world upside-down with a two-word message.
Billy grabbed a pen from the desk, uncapped it with his teeth, and scrawled under the neat little birthday note:
Happy birthday, luv.
He stared at it for a beat longer, lips curving despite himself.
Yeah.
It was real now.
No going back.
He rolled his sleeve down and stood, smoothing out his shirt like he hadn’t just had a tiny midlife breakdown in the office behind the counter of Bitter Grounds.
The espresso machine hissed as Frenchie made something that probably wasn’t on the menu. M.M. had gone back to pretending he wasn’t listening from his corner. Kimiko was humming tunelessly in the kitchen, surrounded by edible flowers and knives.
Billy stepped back into the café like nothing had happened.
Except everything had.
❤️
He threw himself into work.
Or tried to.
The next customer asked for a double shot soy latte, and Billy gave them a chai with almond milk. Didn’t even notice until the woman looked at it like he’d handed her poison.
“Right,” he muttered, taking it back and making it again, this time slower, more careful. Not that it helped.
Two customers later, he short-changed a man fifty bucks and only caught it when Frenchie leaned over the till and drawled, “I believe you are attempting to fund his holiday, mon capitaine.”
Billy frowned, muttered an apology, handed the correct change over, and didn’t look anyone in the eye after that.
He was unraveling.
It wasn’t even that anything had gone wrong. It was the not knowing. The waiting. The way the skin of his forearm felt warm and expectant even though nothing had appeared yet. Every time he caught sight of it out the corner of his eye, his stomach flipped—hope, then disappointment, rinse and repeat.
He slammed a mug down too hard and chipped the rim. Swore under his breath. Burnt a batch of espresso and had to dump the whole thing. Kimiko appeared in the kitchen window just to frown at him and then vanished again.
Frenchie, to his credit, didn’t say much. Just watched him with an expression halfway between fond and this is going to be fun later.
Then M.M. stood up, pushed his chair back, and walked up behind the counter.
“Out,” he said, voice low and steady.
Billy blinked. “What?”
“You’re done. Go upstairs.”
“I’m fine—”
“You’re making the wrong drinks, you look like someone kicked your dog, and you just tried to charge a bloke forty-five cents for a six-dollar coffee.”
Billy opened his mouth, ready to argue.
Then shut it again.
He exhaled through his nose. Quiet. Defeated.
“Yeah. Alright.”
M.M. nodded once, firm and satisfied. “Go on. We’ve got it.”
Billy didn’t say thank you. Just wiped his hands on a towel, untied his apron, and muttered something that might’ve been a swear as he slipped through the back.
The stairs to his apartment were narrow and crooked, old wood creaking under his boots. He lived above Bitter Grounds in a one-bedroom with peeling paint, half his furniture stolen from junk shops, and the strongest kettle known to man.
He kicked the door shut behind him and leaned against it for a second. Just a second.
Silence.
No coffee machines. No customers. No distractions.
He rolled up his sleeve.
Still nothing new.
Billy swore under his breath, rubbed his hand down his face, and finally let himself sit.
He didn’t know what he was waiting for.
Only that he was.
❤️
The apartment was quiet, save for the hum of the kettle and the occasional creak of the floorboards shifting like old bones. Billy moved around on autopilot—pan on, toast in, eggs cracked with the kind of precision you only get after years in kitchens and barracks and warzones.
He didn’t need to eat. But doing something with his hands kept him from checking his arm every five seconds like some love-struck muppet.
Lunch was simple: eggs on toast, bit of salt, splash of hot sauce. He carried it to the little table by the window and sat down, chewing slowly, deliberately. Fork in one hand, his phone in the other—not looking at anything, just… holding it. Something to do.
He’d taken two bites when the tingle hit.
That subtle shift in the skin of his forearm—warm, familiar now. Like the brush of a voice he hadn’t heard yet but somehow already knew.
He set the fork down.
Rolled up his sleeve.
The writing came fast. Line after line, no hesitation.
Thank you
What can you tell me about yourself? I want to know everything.
When’s your birthday?
How old are you?
Are you male or female?
What do you do? Are you in school? Do you work?
Sorry I talk too much
Guess I write too much too lol
Billy stared.
And then laughed. A real one. Quick, quiet, caught off guard.
He leaned back in his chair, rubbed a hand over his face, and muttered, “Christ, you’re a bleeding essay.”
But the warmth that spread in his chest was unmistakable.
It was… nice. Excited. Real.
He didn’t write back immediately. He finished his eggs. Slowly. Thought about how to answer. What to say. How much to give.
And how little he wanted to stop.
❤️
Billy huffed a quiet laugh, rubbing a thumb along the edge of the message like it might smudge. It didn’t. Of course it didn’t.
He reached for the pen and leaned in, arm braced against the table.
My birthday was yesterday.
I’m 36. Yeah, bit of an age gap there—sorry about that.
I’m a man.
I run a coffee shop.
He paused, then added:
Not in school. Haven’t been in a long time. Not judging if you are—just a bit past that stage.
And don’t worry. You don’t talk too much.
It’s nice, actually.
He set the pen down. Sat back in his chair.
Then immediately folded his arms and glared at the wall like that might make the wait go faster.
❤️
The apartment was still.
Not the kind of still that felt peaceful—more the kind that had weight. Like the air had settled heavier than it ought to. No wind through the cracked window, no footsteps from downstairs. Just the low hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the pipes, old bones settling around him.
Billy leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, eyes on the window but not really looking at anything.
He’d said more than he meant to.
Not in words. Not exactly. But in tone. In the it’s nice bit.
It was true, sure—but truth was dangerous when you weren’t careful with it. And right now, he wasn’t feeling careful.
He stared at his arm again.
Nothing.
Just skin. Just the faint trace of what had already come and gone.
He rubbed it absently, thumb brushing the same spot Hughie’s messages had appeared, like maybe there was some way to coax them back faster.
It was stupid. He’d waited eighteen years for that first message—hi. It had barely been ten minutes since he’d written back, and already he was restless. Agitated in that quiet, gnawing way that sat just behind the ribs.
He stood up. Walked to the sink. Rinsed his plate, dried it, put it away.
Opened the fridge. Stared inside. Shut it again.
Wandered back to the table.
Still nothing.
Billy let out a slow breath through his nose, shaking his head at himself. “You’ve gone soft,” he muttered. “Absolutely fucking soft.”
He wasn’t even disappointed. Not really. Just... wound tight. Like if his soulmate didn’t write back soon, something inside him might rattle loose.
And that? That was new.
He wasn’t used to missing someone he’d never met.
❤️
The writing came in soft, quick strokes—Billy felt it before he saw it, the skin on his arm tingling like a nudge.
He looked down.
I’m a guy too. I’ve always been attracted to the same sex—this is a definite plus.
The age difference is to be expected to be honest. There’s 10 years between my parents and my dad’s the younger one lol.
That’s cool. I love coffee. Do I get free coffee when I figure out where your coffee shop is? ;)
It’s so funny writing out emoji's. I love it.
And finally—happy birthday for yesterday. We definitely have to celebrate together in the future.
Also, I’m sorry you had to wait so long for your soulmate. Hopefully I’m what you expect.
Billy didn’t move for a moment.
He just looked at it.
Then smiled. A real one this time, soft and crooked, the kind of smile he didn’t hand out easily. The kind that came with warmth in the chest and a strange lightness in the bones. He didn’t know what his soulmates smile was supposed to feel like, but that had to be it. Right there.
Hopefully I’m what you expect.
Billy huffed out a breath and shook his head, because expect didn’t even come close.
He reached for the pen, fingers resting on it for a second as he looked back at the words.
Then he wrote, neat and steady:
You're already more than I could’ve hoped for.
❤️
It had been a few weeks since the first message.
Now, Billy’s forearms looked like a half-kept journal—ink curling and fading, messages layered over each other like conversations whispered under breath. He’d given up pretending to hide them. The others had long clocked it anyway.
Frenchie gave him looks like he knew exactly what Billy had written most days, even when he didn’t. Kimiko smirked every time Billy vanished into the back for thirty seconds just to scrawl something dumb like can’t decide if this guy’s haircut is ironic or tragic. M.M. made no real comment beyond a dry “you writing poetry now?” the day Billy got caught smiling at his wrist mid-shift.
Billy wrote fast between customers. Messages like:
H, just had a man complain the croissant was “too flaky.” What did he think it was, a fucking bagel?
Lady just told me she only drinks water blessed by a psychic. I told her we filter ours through Frenchie’s ego.
Sometimes H wrote first. Always as H, always chatty, full of jokes and little glimpses into his day. It’d become their thing—messages that looked like nothing to anyone else but made Billy pause in the middle of grinding beans just to reread a sentence twice.
They never used full names. Couldn’t. The rules wouldn’t let them.
Just B and H.
Some days Billy wanted to ask. Not a name. Not an address. Just… something. Something closer.
But every time he thought about it, he ended up writing something like:
Long day. Wish the customers had a volume knob.
H replied quick, his writing always sharp and slanted, like it was rushing to be heard:
Maybe they’d be quieter if you didn’t glare like a pissed off bouncer. That’s the vibe you give off, B. It’s part of your charm.
Billy had smiled at that one for a long time.
No one else needed to know.
❤️
Things came to a head on an otherwise normal Thursday.
The bell over the door rang, and a tall, lanky bloke walked into the shop. Cute face. Nervous shoulders. Billy didn’t think much of it until three other lads followed in behind him.
He clocked it instantly—too close, too quiet. Whispers and side-eyes. A nasty sort of glint in their expressions that made Billy's gut tighten. Predators in discount hoodies.
Billy kept wiping down tables, watching from the corner of his eye.
The first guy, the lanky one, stepped up to the counter and ordered his coffee, voice soft but steady. When he turned with his drink, Billy saw the flick of movement just in time.
One of the three pricks behind him raised a hand, clearly about to slap the coffee from his grasp.
Billy was there before it landed.
He caught the guy’s wrist in mid-air—tight grip, no room for argument—and shoved him back. Hard.
"You want to try that again, mate?" Billy growled, already moving toward the other two.
The shop went quiet. A few customers watched from their tables, frozen mid-sip.
The would-be coffee slapper stumbled into his mates, who were already backing up.
"Out," Billy barked. "All three of you. Now."
They hesitated for a beat too long.
Billy took one step forward.
They scrambled out like rats, shoving the door so hard it clanged against the frame on their way out.
Billy exhaled slowly, watching until they were halfway down the block. Then he turned.
The guy—the one with the coffee—was still standing there, blinking like he hadn’t quite caught up.
“You alright, sunshine?” Billy asked, brushing his hands off on his apron.
“Mmhmm,” the guy replied, voice breathless. “Kevin and his cronies have always been dicks. I guess leaving school changed nothing.”
He smiled at Billy then, shy and boyish, holding out a hand. “I’m Hughie, by the way. Thanks.”
Billy stepped closer, hand half-lifted before he froze.
There, on Hughie’s wrist—clear as day—was Billy’s handwriting.
His own words.
Long day. Coffee’s shit. I think I miss you.
Billy looked down at his own arm. The reply was still there, written just this morning.
He met Hughie’s eyes, heart thudding once, loud and certain.
It couldn’t be. But it was.
He took Hughie’s hand.
The moment their palms touched, it hit—warmth, recognition, something deep and humming under the skin. A pull that settled in his chest and said home.
Hughie gasped softly, eyes wide with wonder before his whole face lit up in a grin. “I knew it would work.”
“What’s that, sweetheart?” Billy asked, not letting go.
Hughie squeezed his hand. “Only that I’d find you if I went into every coffee shop in New York.”
Billy huffed out a surprised laugh, utterly charmed. “And what number was this, then, luv?”
“Only six,” Hughie said smugly.
Billy stared at him a moment longer, fingers still wrapped around his.
Then he said, soft and full of something he hadn’t let himself hope for in years:
“Well, Hughie. welcome to Bitter Grounds.”