Work Text:
Warmly-lit stores. Wet cobblestone. Gray clouds.
Your luck was immaculate. Betting your luggage on what was supposed to be a 25% chance of rain was your first mistake. Your sprint becomes but a stroll, accepting that you are wet, skirt lightly damped with a leather jacket being the only thing waterproof in your getup. Then you see it; your holy grail, coffee icons by the glass window, carrying the scent of coffee and bread. As you open the door, the bell rings, and the sound of pitter patter gets lightly drowned by soft jazz, clanking glass and gentle hullabaloo.
Coffee Beans. Brick wall. Pine-hued chairs.
You order your sweet treat just as fast as you walk in. Their best-selling drink and a pastry you couldn't quite look away from being prepared. In the meantime, you find a nice comfy spot, an arm chair and a small coffee table.
You're on your phone, replying to any missed messages. The orders your boss asked you to get? Already resolved; that one friend that sends an army of reels? Watched and reacted; and of course, your professor's bland criticism of that one output that took you weeks to do? Mentally noted with a hint of annoyance. In the midst of your quick look through your phone, another person had seem to gaze at your figure, softly, gently.
You hear your name, and you walk up to the counter to get your awaited treat, and slowly walked to your table, thankfully not spilling anything.
Once your order sits on your table, you feel the spirit of productivity. The change of environment, and that feeling of dressing up really did help after all. Your laptop lays on the table, taking up just enough space, opened to a site you frequent in for your work. A few slides, a collaborative canvas, the usual.
Before you could start, you hear a faint "Excuse me, miss."
Little do you know, the moment you locked eyes, you would be greeted with the most handsome man you've seen in your life.
A shy gaze settled on the prettiest quartz-hued eyes. He looked to be about your age, with teal hair that looked well-kept. His attire, perfect for the weather, made you assume he left with the rain in mind. Whoever this man was, he probably had women taking a second look when he walks, maybe even men. You fix yourself in the process, finding your back curving to almost like a shrimp from the lowness of the table. It's embarrassing, but You're sure everyone has somewhat done it before.
"Is it alright if I sit with you?"
You smile and nod. "Go ahead."
He sits, and you try to take up less space on the table. You're a bit frazzled, since this man you don't know decided to sit with you. He has a cup of coffee, similar to yours, and your mind raises with these little what-if's that makes you feel delusional.
'Surely, they've sat since there's a lot of people.' You look around. There's still a few empty tables, which leaves you to two options:
A. The Gods graced you with the organic encounter you've been praying for
B. They know something you don't and they're about to blackmail you for it.
You, at least, hope it's the former.
He pulls out a sketchbook and starts what you guess is his hobby or work. That calmed you down, at least, but you are now at the point where you try to ignore the man as much as possible to finish your own tasks.
Nonchalant, Cool as a cucumber.
If you lock eyes with him, you'll become redder than the hues of his own. It's a sick and twisted play—quite dramatic, but looking pretty to work does not equate to looking pretty to catch someone's eye.
You move the vectors to a desired location in your laptop, building layers of fun and quirky shapes to create your client's app-of-his-dreams, when suddenly-
Strike one.
You notice his gaze on you, and looked up to see him look away a split second, ears lightly tinted with soft red. You're hands are a bit clammy, and you feel the warmth on your cheeks. Maybe, a few sips of coffee should change the trajectory of your mind. You dare not to spiral into a series of assumptions and delusional conversations. On the other hand, the taste welcomes you like a friend you normally meet up with. Creamy, rich, and hot in a way that makes your face mellow. 'Let's not think about that situation, and think about the coffee.'
You say to yourself, typing furiously on your laptop.
Remember: Nonchalance is key.
You continued onward, changing your lorem ipsums to actual content. Helvetica, your knight in shining armor, in justify alignment. It tickles you pink, just looking at your work, that you don't notice his eyes lingering.
Passion. Unadulterated passion.
He sees it in your eyes, and he can't help but capture your essence to paper. He sketches earnestly, as if making his next masterpiece. First your head, then your stance. He notices the stiffness of your shoulders, and the way your jaw clenches subconsciously, and he thinks to himself what lies in your story. He fills in the details from the way your hair perfectly frames your face, to the way your lips curl when you find something beautiful. He knows that look very well. He does the same when the small silver chains completes the mannequin's attire. It's universal, that look of self-admiration amidst a sea of love-yourself quotes. His eyes soften at his work of art; 'Pretty Stranger. Graphite on paper.' When he looks back up, he finds your eyes on him, and he feels his cheeks redden.
That was strike two. Surely you knew by now what he was doing with his sketchpad.
On the other hand, you call yourself delusional. You smack yourself mentally in the process, nonchalance hanging by a single thread. Your heart beats fast at the second time you've caught him staring. 'Shhh! Don't assume anything!' You scold yourself, picking up the pace.
Time passes by, and the rain starts to clear up. You thank the gods out there, and decided to work home for the remainder of the day. The sunless sky, paired with the hues of five in the evening signals the end of your stay. From the moment you close the laptop, you meet his eyes one more. Strike three, yet he seems to be bolder.
Warmly-lit store. Wet cobblestone. Gray clouds. A handsome prince.
"Hey, miss," He says, stuttering just a tiny bit as you raise your brow, surprised that he talked.
"For you," He says, handing out a page from his sketchbook. You knew in your heart it was coming, yet you feel ashamed to assume.
"Wait, really? You're so nice!" You reply with a blush on your cheeks.
He drew you, eyes focused on the screen, with brows lightly furrowed, and lips pursed. He even drew you in different positions; one, your hand tucked under your chin, admiring your work; two, a closeup of your eyes. He was not lying when he said he did.
"These are so beautiful, I didn't expect to be someone's muse today. Thank you so much!" Your eyes glossed over each drawing until you saw a handwritten message right at the bottom-left. Gosh, his writing is elegant, almost like a photo you'd find in your moodboard.
It read,
'I didn't want to bother you, but you looked so beautiful while you were working. I couldn't help but draw you. I hope that's alright. I want to know about you more, so I hope you'll let me take you out on a coffee date in your free time.'
And below that, his name, and his number. 'Freodore.' It's such a cute name, you muse to yourself.
You smile at him, accepting that you are just as red as Rudolph's nose, bringing out your phone to add his phone number. An idea pops, and you felt like the smoothest person to ever live. You click on the text icon, and sent him a message. You hear a 'ding!' in his pocket, and you continue packing your bag.
Before you leave, you look at the stranger once more— although I guess he's more than that now, and even more when you put on your big girl shoes, and kiss him on the cheek.
Freodore, he's just as surprised (and as flustered) as you are. "Consider that as my gratitude. Can't wait to meet you again, Freodore."
The moment you leave, he checks his phone.
:I'm free on Saturday ;)
And below that he learns your name and that it rolls of his tongue so nicely, when he says it.
Once, to test the waters.
Twice, to feel
Thrice, to fall in love all over again.