Archive of Our Own ^beta

You didn’t mean to become a regular.

It started as a pitstop—just a place between your office and the train, tucked into a corner of the street where everything smells like stale exhaust and cigarette smoke until the coffee shop door swings open. Inside, the world shifts into warm lo-fi music and the gentle grind of espresso. A place with soft lighting, chipped mugs on high shelves, and the kind of baristas who wear rings and quiet smiles like secrets.

You’re not sure why you kept coming back.

No, scratch that. You know why.

His name tag says ‘VERNON’, written in loopy letters that don’t suit the sharpness of his features. He doesn’t say much, but you’ve clocked the way his eyes linger just a second longer when you order, like he's memorizing it—not out of habit, but because he wants to get it right.

Which is funny. Because he never gets your name right.

Not once.
Not even close.

You’d said it clearly the first time. Twice, actually. He'd nodded slowly, typed something on the screen, and then handed you a paper cup that read:
For: Yon
with a tiny heart next to it.

You blinked. You told yourself it was a fluke.

You came back two days later, needing caffeine and comfort.
He greeted you with a nod, typed something again, and gave you:
For: Yoom
The heart was there again. Smaller this time. Almost bashful.

Now it’s today.

You watch as he scrawls something on the cup without asking for your name. Again. When he passes it over, your fingers graze his—accidental, but electric.

You sit in your usual corner, unwrap the sleeve, and stare.

—

On the cup?

For: Yawn,
Have a soft day
– V

Close enough.

—

You take a photo of it.

You open your group chat.

[groupchat: emotional support crew]

You:
we have now reached stage 3 of the Name Apocalypse

Jia:
WHAT DID HE WRITE THIS TIME

You:
“Yawn”
I don’t know if he’s attacking me or flirting

Minsu:
nah babe if he was attacking you he’d spell it right
the heart is still there?

You:
yes.
and he underlined it this time. like, tiny little swoop

Jia:
oh my god

Jia:
okay but the question remains. does he do this for EVERYONE??

You:
that’s the problem.
I DON’T KNOW
I can’t just ask him
“hey do you give your tiny hand-drawn hearts to all your customers or just me?”

Minsu:
you could ask it in a note

You:
what is this?
a kdrama?

Minsu:
maybe…
it’s giving soft-launch slowburn anyway.

—

You tap your fingers on the cup, watching the marker ink bleed slightly into the cardboard. “Yawn.” Not your name, but not not your name now.

You wonder if he sees you as that: a little sleepy, a little soft. Someone who notices the heart but pretends not to. Someone who keeps coming back.

Tomorrow, you tell yourself.
Tomorrow you’ll see if he spells it better.
Tomorrow, you’ll start a tally in your notes app.

Tomorrow, you’ll come back. Obviously.

—

You return the next day. Obviously.

You walk in, pretending you haven’t been thinking about this since yesterday. Pretending you didn’t re-read the group chat at midnight, cheeks warm, wondering what Vernon’s handwriting might look like when he actually spells your name right.

He doesn’t ask for your name.

Again.

You watch as he writes, calm as ever, like this is routine now. Like this is your bit. Your thing.

When he hands you the cup, his fingers graze yours again. Intentional? You don’t know.
But his smile—crooked, like it’s holding in a joke—makes your stomach shift.

You wait until you're seated to look.

—

Cup Note:

For: Yern,
You’re not even mad about this anymore, are you?
– V

—

You almost laugh out loud.

Instead, you snap a picture, then open the group chat again.

[groupchat: emotional support crew]

You:
update: he’s now writing flirty commentary

Jia:
SEND.

You:
[photo attached]

Minsu:
OH.

Minsu:
he knows
he absolutely knows.

Jia:
"you're not even mad about this anymore"???
this is BANTER

You:
do I… write back??

Minsu:
YES.

Jia:
write something ON THE CUP
give it to him when you’re done

You:
that feels illegal somehow

Minsu:
do it coward

—

You dig through your bag for a pen. Stare at the blank side of the sleeve for longer than you should. Then you scribble:

I was never mad. Just waiting to see how far you’d go.
– Still Not Yern

You leave it on the table when you go. Face down. Your heart hammering.

—

The next morning, there’s a post-it stuck on the register.

Customer of the Month: Still Not Yern ❤️

Vernon doesn’t say anything. Just slides over your drink with a sly smile.

You sit down in your corner and unwrap the cup.

—

Cup Note:

For: Yern Again (committed now).
Nice handwriting, by the way. I think we’re penpals now.

—

You nearly choke on your first sip.

Penpals.

You feel fourteen again, rereading a letter on lined paper, wondering if the boy on the other end meant what you hoped he meant.

You open the group chat.

You:
we’re penpals now I think???

Jia:
YOU’RE DATING.

Minsu:
THE BIT HAS TRANSFORMED INTO A COURTSHIP RITUAL.

You:
if he writes back tomorrow
I’ll die.

Jia:
then die pretty. wear lip gloss.

—

You leave another message on the sleeve before you go:

“What’s your name? I mean, really. I know the one on the tag isn’t the full story.”

You tuck it into the cup holder and walk out without looking back.

Tomorrow’s going to be something.

—

You think about skipping a day.

Just to regain some composure. To prove—mostly to yourself—that you’re not completely wrapped around the mystery of Vernon and his paper cup poetry.

But.

The post-it is still taped to the counter when you walk in:
Customer of the Month: Still Not Yern ❤️

He sees you the second you step in. No questions asked, no name offered.

Just a smirk, and then: “The usual?”

You nod, trying to keep it cool. You’re not cool.

When he hands over your drink, you wait. Expectant.

And this time, the note isn’t written on the cup itself—it’s a folded receipt, slipped under the lid, with a single staple keeping it closed like it’s some kind of classified file.

You wait until you're back at your corner table to open it.

—

Vernon’s Cup Note:

For: Not Yern (but dangerously close to figuring you out),
Real name’s Hansol. Most people don’t use it.
You can, if you want.
Also: you left your lip gloss on the table yesterday.
I kept it. Not weird unless you make it weird.
– Yours, if you keep writing back.

—

You clutch the paper like it might disappear if you blink.

[groupchat: emotional support crew]

You:
HE GAVE ME HIS REAL NAME

You:
ALSO STOLE MY LIP GLOSS. I THINK THAT’S ROMANCE??

Jia:
it’s literally marriage
tell me what the note says word for word
or I’ll report you for emotional hoarding.

Minsu:
“Yours, if you keep writing back”
is a confession .
he just proposed.

You:
I’m going to die in this coffee shop.

Jia:
at least the aesthetic is cute

—

You grab your pen. Flip over the receipt. Write back.

Hansol.
I’m honored. Flattered. Mildly horrified you kept the gloss but also… not mad.
Yours, if you spell my name right next time.

You hand it over when you drop off the empty cup at the counter. He watches your fingers brush the lid, but says nothing—just a soft grin playing on his lips.

Tomorrow can’t come fast enough.

—

You’re not supposed to look forward to coffee this much.

Or maybe you are. But not because of this.
Not because Hansol—because he finally spelled it right—starts writing more than cute quips and one-liners.

This time, the note’s on a napkin, wedged just under the sleeve of your cup.

—

Vernon’s Cup Note:

Name one person hotter than your local barista.
Go ahead. I’ll wait.

On the other side of the napkin, in smaller handwriting:

“Also—how do you feel about strawberry scones? We just started stocking them.
I saved you one. No pressure. Unless you want pressure.”

—

You tear off a piece of the scone with your fingers, still warm. Sweet. It leaves crumbs on your mouth and the sleeve of your sweater and you genuinely couldn’t care less.

[groupchat: emotional support crew]

You:
he SAVED me a SCONE
also basically called himself hot.
Do I laugh?
Agree??
Spontaneously combust???

Minsu:
the answer is always combust.

Jia:
so let me get this straight.
hansol: here is a snack, here is my name, here is my flirting
you: contemplates death instead of action
SLOW. BURN.

You:
i hate you but i’m also writing back hold on

—

You scribble your reply on the same napkin.

Name one barista who flirts harder than you.
Go ahead. I’ll wait.

You fold it once, twice. Slip it beneath the sugar jar on your table before you leave, where you know he’ll find it.

As you reach the door, you hear him say—soft, like it’s only meant for you:
“Nice choice on the comeback.”

You don’t turn around. But your ears are red all the way home.

—

Rain wasn’t on the forecast.

But here you are. Standing just inside the café doors, dripping slightly and staring at your phone like it’ll summon a miracle ride.

Vernon notices. Of course he does.

He appears at your side without a word, just a folded napkin and a to-go cup already waiting on the counter. Your name’s spelled right again—annoyingly so. Handsomely so.

—

Vernon’s Cup Note:

Forecast: 100% chance of you forgetting an umbrella.

[written smaller underneath:]
“Lucky for you, I didn’t.”

—

He’s holding it in his hand when you look up. The umbrella, not the note. (Though he’s definitely reading your expression like it’s a note too.)

You blink. “You carry an extra umbrella?”

“I carry hope,” he replies, deadpan.

You huff a laugh, nerves short-circuiting. “So this is… a rescue?”

“No,” he says, and there’s something different in the way he says it this time. “This is a request.”

You don’t understand at first—not until he steps closer and gently reaches for your hand.

Your heart stumbles.

With the kind of confidence that only comes from meaning it, Vernon takes a pen from his apron pocket. He holds your palm steady. Carefully writes out a phone number.

And underneath that:

“Call me. Or text me. Or just send a heart. I’d really like to take you out, Y/N.”

He looks up, smile crooked. “Unless you’d rather keep talking through coffee cups and sarcasm.”

You glance down at your palm. Then up at him.

You don’t even have to think. “I like the cups. But I think I’d like you more.”

—

[groupchat: emotional support crew]

You:
HE WROTE HIS NUMBER.
ON. MY. PALM.
asked me on a DATE.
AM I DREAMING OR IS THIS THE K-DRAMA ARC

Jia:
the prophecy… has been fulfilled…

Minsu:
your order: him.
literally.

You:
soft launch starts tomorrow.
i’m texting him in five minutes.

Jia:
five???

Minsu:
BOLD.
DO IT NOW.

—

You do.

And maybe it’s still raining.
And maybe your heart won’t calm down.
And maybe Vernon replies with:

So… Saturday?

But there’s no maybe about how good it feels to finally order what you’ve been secretly craving all this time:

Him.

—

Epilogue; “Tall Iced Crush, One Sugar”

The date isn’t flashy. It’s not candlelight or violins or any of the things your friends teased you about. It’s just Vernon, standing outside a quiet secondhand bookstore with two cups of coffee and a slightly nervous smile.

(He still spelled your name right. And drew a tiny heart.)

You sip from the cup before he can say anything, and hum in appreciation. “Still my favorite barista.”

He grins. “Still your only barista.”

You bump shoulders, but don’t pull away.

The conversation flows easier than you expected. He tells you about how he started writing notes on cups as a joke for a coworker. You admit you once thought he might be doing it for everyone.

He raises a brow. “Did you think everyone got poems about how they forget umbrellas?”

You laugh, flustered. “Okay, fair.”

When he catches you brushing your fingers over your palm — where the ink from his number has barely faded — he goes quiet for a moment. Then:

“Hey,” he says. “Come here a sec.”

You step closer. He takes your empty cup and swaps it for a new one — one he had hidden behind his back.

This time, he’s watching you read it.

—

Vernon’s Final Cup Note:

Wanted: Someone who likes rain, bookstore dates, and leaving room in their life for something real.

Found.

—

You’re smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. He notices. He always does.

So you take a step forward and say it plainly — no heart on a cup, no scribbled message between lines.

Just,
Me too.

And then he leans in, brushing his nose against yours, asking without words.

You answer with your lips.

The kiss tastes like coffee, like rain on pavement, like long-awaited timing.
Like something starting, not ending.

—

[groupchat: emotional support crew]

You:
soft launch cancelled
HARD LAUNCH INCOMING
i kissed the barista.

Jia:
!!!!!!!!!

Minsu:
coffee shop AU turned canon.
we were here.
we were witnesses.
this is history.