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The fourth seat to the left, just by the window. That was his spot.
Every Thursday and Saturday at 5 PM, like clockwork, he would walk through the café doors— Tall, composed, his sharp eyes scanning the room before settling on that same corner table. The one bathed in golden afternoon light, where the hum of the coffee machine was just distant enough to not be distracting, but close enough to still feel the warmth of the shop.
Not that you kept track or anything haha.
You also totally didn’t peek at his ID card that one time it slipped out of his wallet when he was paying. Nope. You just… happened to hear someone say his name.
Keiji Akaashi.
You repeated the name in your head like a mantra, as if it might unlock some deeper understanding of the man who always ordered the same thing but never failed to thank you with a quiet, polite nod.
He looked like something out of a film.And his hair—god, his hair was always perfect, dark and slightly tousled like he’d just run a hand through it. His eyes, sharp and observant, flicked over everything with quiet intensity—
Ahem.
Anyway.
Akaashi always had the same routine: black coffee, no sugar, and, if he was feeling indulgent, a chocolate muffin. You’d memorized his order by the third visit.
Today was no different. The warm glow of sunset spilled through the glass, catching the sharp lines of his face as he turned a page in his book. You’d been trying to get a look at this week’s book, but he had a habit of angling it just out of view. Today, however, luck was on your side. As you set down his coffee, you caught a glimpse of the cover:
How to Survive a Garden Gnome Attack: Defend Yourself When the Lawn Warriors Strike (and They Will).
You blinked. Then blinked again.
Well. You loved an educated man. Even if his education was… questionable.
Then, against your better judgment, let out a tiny snort.
Akaashi’s eyes flicked up— very aware of your reaction.
“Problem?” he asked, voice smooth but edged with amusement.
“Nope,” you said, a little too fast. “Not at all. Just, uh… interesting reading material.”
One brow arched. “You’d be surprised how often gnome-related violence goes unreported.”
Was he… was he joking? You couldn’t tell. His expression gave nothing away, but there was something in the way his lips twitched—just slightly—that made your stomach do a traitorous little flip.
“Right,” you said, nodding solemnly. “I’ll keep an eye out for any suspicious lawn ornaments.”
A beat of silence. Then Akaashi’s mouth curved into a small, real smile.
“Good,” he said, lifting his coffee. “Survival starts with vigilance.”
That damn smile didn’t leave your mind for another two weeks.
The next Thursday, Akaashi’s book was different.
Not The Zombie Survival Guide. Not How to Identify Alien Shapeshifters. No, today’s choice was somehow worse:
How to Fight Presidents: Defending Yourself Against the Badasses Who Ran This Country.
You nearly dropped his coffee.
“Really?” you said, sliding the cup toward him with deliberate slowness. “So, what’s the plan? World domination, or…?”
Akaashi didn’t look up. “Andrew Jackson once beat his would-be assassin with a cane. After being shot in the chest.”
You stared. “That’s… horrifying.”
“Also motivational.” He finally met your eyes, his expression unreadable. “Unlike William Howard Taft.”
“The one who got stuck in his bathtub?”
Something sparked in his gaze—recognition, delight—as if you’d just spoken a secret password.
“Exactly.”
On Saturday the book was still there—How to Fight Presidents—but today, something was different.
Akaashi wasn’t reading it.
Instead, he was watching you, chin propped on one hand, as you fumbled with the espresso machine. Like he was studying you instead of the page.
You nearly burned yourself.
“Uh.” You wiped your hands on your apron, suddenly self-conscious. “Did you… need a refill?”
“No?” he said blankly, like your question didn’t make sense.
“RIght, uh, okay.” You swallowed and tried to get back to work.
Two weeks later, you slid a loyalty card across the table with his usual order.
Akaashi raised an eyebrow.
“You’re officially our most consistent customer,” you said. “Ten stamps, and the next coffee’s free.”
He examined the card, then you. “You’ve been keeping count?”
“The café has been keeping count,” you corrected, cheeks warming. “Corporate policy. Very serious stuff.”
Akaashi hummed, slipping the card into his book as a makeshift bookmark. “Then I suppose I’ll have to keep coming back.”
The shift was gradual. At first, your conversations with Akaashi were brief—comments about the weather, the coffee, or the concerning piece of literature he chose for that week. But over time, they stretched.
Five minutes became ten. Ten became your entire fifteen-minute break spent perched on the chair across from him, stealing sips of your own coffee as he dissected the strategic weaknesses of a bestselling thriller’s antagonist.
And—most surprisingly—he listened when you talked. Really listened. Like when you ranted about your literature professor’s vendetta against happy endings, and the next week, he slid a marked-up copy of Jane Eyre across the table.
He seemed to soften up a bit too. Or maybe you just started to understand him more.
The micro-squint when he was amused but refusing to smile. Or the way his thumb tapped the edge of his book when he was deciding whether to say something.The rare, devastating half-laugh—more a sharp exhale through the nose—that made your pulse stutter.
So now you spend your break Googling “advanced latte art” and attempt a swan after Akaashi asked you to ‘surprise’ him with coffee this time.
When you set it in front of him, Akaashi studies it for a long, silent moment.
“…Is that a…pigeon?”
“It’s abstract,” you mutter.
He takes a sip. Pauses. Takes another. Your stomach knots.
“Well?” you prompt.
“The coffee is excellent.” He sets the cup down. “The art is a crime.”
You groan, but he’s already reaching into his bag. He slides another book toward you: Latte Art Techniques for Beginners.
“You’re insufferable,” you say, but you’re already flipping through it. “And a nerd.” you added.
“I’ll return it when I’m done,” you mumble, fighting a grin.
Akaashi nods. “See that you do. I’ll quiz you.”
“What.”
Akaashi’s routine never wavers, he always came at the exact same time on the exact same day.
It was a rainy Saturday, half past five pm. His seat was empty
You tell yourself it’s fine. Maybe he’s busy. Maybe it’s because of the weather..
(Maybe he got tired of this.)
You wipe down the counter for the third time, glancing at the clock. 5:45 PM. The rain drums harder against the windows.
Finally the door opens and you let out a small sigh of relief.
There he is. Hair damp. Jacket soaked. No umbrella. Gorgeous as ever.
“You’re late,” you blurt out before you can stop yourself.
Akaashi runs his hand through his wet hair with a sigh. “I was fighting presidents..”
You stare.
He stares back.
“So…Traffic.” you assume.
He grins and pushes his fogged-up glasses up the bridge of his nose with his finger. “Yep.”
He doesn’t go to his usual seat. Instead, he lingers at the counter, watching as you make his coffee.
“You noticed,” he says, in an almost teasing tone.
"Hm?" You pretend to focus very hard on the steam wand.
"That I was late."
"Sorry, can't hear you!" you say loudly, gesturing to the grinder. "Wow, this thing sure is loud today, huh? Haha!"
Akaashi doesn’t respond, he just watches you, amused, as you slide his coffee across the counter.
Your fingers brush, just barely, and your stomach does that stupid flip again.
His grip lingers for half a second longer than necessary and you can’t stop smiling for the rest of your shift.
When he finally fills the loyalty card, you hand him his free coffee—except you’ve swapped his usual black coffee for a mocha.
Akaashi eyes it with hesitance.
“You’ve been branching out in your reading,” you eye the “Why Cats Paint: A Theory of Feline Aesthetics” book peeking out of his bag, “so, branch out in your taste too.”
He takes a sip. And another. “...Acceptable.”
You chuckle. “High praise.”
Akaashi sets the cup down and pushes the full loyalty card back toward you.
“Start a new one,” he says.
“That’ll take another ten visits.”
“I know.” He holds your gaze, deliberate. “I’ll be here.”
And as you take the filled out card from him you notice scrawled on the back in neat, unfussy handwriting:
A phone number.
You bite your lip, but the grin breaks through anyway. When you look up, Akaashi's watching you over the rim of his mocha, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.