Work Text:
Maybe the thing Jisung loved most about opening shifts was the quiet.
The café always felt softer in the early hours with the espresso machine humming like a sleepy animal, the lights still warming up, the air thick with the smell of roasted beans and something sweet rising in the oven. the world outside was barely awake, and inside, everything moved slow enough for Jisung to breathe.
He was wiping down the counter, half lost in the rhythm of it, when the bell above the door chimed, a small, delicate sound that barely stirred the stillness. He looked up.
A boy stepped inside. Not loud or hurried, just there, framed in the soft morning light like he belonged to it. Dark hair falling gently over his forehead, shoulders relaxed beneath a worn jacket, eyes scanning the room with a quiet, careful awareness. He moved like someone who didn’t want to disturb the air around him.
Jisung straightened without meaning to, smoothing his apron even though it didn’t need smoothing, fingers brushing the embroidered stars he loved so much.
The boy approached the counter, pulling out his phone. His fingers moved quickly, confidently, typing something before turning the screen toward Jisung.
I'm Deaf. Can I order a vanilla latte, extra hot?
Jisung’s breath caught in recognition. He'd taken ASL for two semesters last year. He wasn't fluent, not even close, but there was an older Deaf couple that came in every Thursday who helped him and he knew enough to try. Enough to want to try. So he lifted his hands, slowly, carefully, a little stiff around the edges.
VANILLA LATTE. EXTRA HOT. YES?
The boy blinked, surprised. His eyes softened, the faintest shift, like he hadn’t expected to be met halfway. Then he signed back, fluidly and effortlessly, like water moving through fingers.
THANK YOU.
Jisung understood it, barely because he thought it was “good” at first, and his smile bloomed, warm and a little shy. “You’re welcome,” he said aloud, hoping the boy could read his lips easily enough. The boy smiled and paid for his drink.
Jisung turned to make it, hands trembling just slightly, not from nerves exactly, but from the strange warmth blooming beneath his ribs. He focused on the familiar motions: the hiss of the steam wand, the swirl of milk, the way the cup warmed his palms.
When he set the latte on the counter, steam curling gently from the lid, he lifted his hands again.
READY.
The boy’s lips curved, small and soft and almost hidden. A smile that felt like a secret. He signed something else, a longer phrase, hands moving in a graceful rhythm Jisung couldn’t fully follow. The shapes blurred together, familiar but too quick.
Jisung blinked, cheeks warming. “Um, slower?” he said gently, fist circling his chest in apology. The boy repeated the sign, slower this time.
HAVE GOOD DAY.
Jisung understood, realizing the boy was using English grammar to make it easier on him, and his smile widened, gummy and bright. “You too,” he said, signing it clumsily.
The boy’s eyes softened again, a look that lingered for a moment longer than it needed to and warm enough to settle somewhere deep in Jisung’s chest, and then he left, the bell chiming softly behind him.
Jisung stood there for a long moment after, hands still warm from the cup, heart beating a little too fast, a little too bright. He didn’t know why that moment felt like the beginning of something but it did.
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The café felt different the next morning. Not louder or busier, just expectant. Like the air itself was holding something gentle and new, something that hadn’t been there yesterday but had settled in overnight, soft as dust on a windowsill.
Jisung tried not to think about it too much as he arranged pastries in the display case. He focused on the familiar motions; the careful placement of croissants, the soft clink of tongs against the tray, the way the glass fogged slightly when he leaned too close. But his eyes kept drifting toward the door, every few seconds, every few breaths.
And then the bell chimed.
He looked up. The boy from yesterday stepped inside, framed again by morning light like it followed him. His hair was a little messier today, falling in soft waves over his forehead. His jacket looked warm, worn in the way favorite things always were. He moved with that same quiet presence that was steady and unhurried, like he didn’t want to disturb the stillness around him.
Jisung felt something flutter low in his chest. He straightened instinctively, wiping his hands on his apron even though they were already clean.
The boy approached the counter, eyes softening when they landed on him. It wasn't a big smile — not even close — but something in the corners of his eyes warmed, and that was somehow worse. or better. Jisung couldn’t decide.
“Good morning,” Jisung said, voice gentle.
The boy didn’t reach for his phone this time. He lifted his hands instead.
GOOD MORNING.
The sign was smooth, practiced, fluent and somehow softer than yesterday, like he’d been thinking about this moment too.
Jisung’s breath caught. He understood it instantly, even if his own signing wasn’t nearly as graceful. He signed back, a little clumsy:
GOOD… MORNING.
The boy’s lips curved in a small, shy smile that tugged at something deep in Jisung’s chest. He signed again, hands moving in a gentle rhythm:
HOW ARE YOU?
Jisung blinked, brain scrambling to translate. He caught the shape of the signs, the movement, the meaning — but only just.
“oh- uh- good,” he said aloud, nodding quickly. Then he signed it too, slow and careful:
GOOD.
The boy’s eyes softened, warm and patient. He signed something else, longer this time, fluid and quick, like he forgot for a moment that Jisung wasn’t fluent.
And Jisung froze. His brows furrowed, lips parting slightly as he tried to catch up. The signs blurred together, familiar shapes but too fast, too smooth.
The boy noticed immediately. He didn't repeat the signs. He didn't apologize. He just waited, still and patient, his eyes gentle, like he understood Jisung was trying to translate.
Jisung took a breath. Replayed the movement in his mind. Pieced the meaning together slowly. “You… came early today?” he guessed, voice soft.
The boy nodded, smiling small and proud, like he was impressed Jisung had figured it out. And Jisung’s cheeks warmed. He turned to make the latte (extra hot, just like yesterday) and tried not to think about how his hands were shaking, again. He tried to focus on the familiar motions: the hiss of steam, the swirl of milk, the warmth of the cup seeping into his palms. But his hands continued to nervously tremble.
When he set the drink down, their fingers brushed, barely and light as breath, but enough. The boy lifted his hands again.
SEE YOU… LATER?
Jisung’s heart stuttered. He signed back, shy and earnest:
YES. LATER.
The boy’s smile deepened, soft and shy and glowing at the edges.
And when he left, Jisung stood there with his hands pressed to his cheeks, trying to calm the fluttering in his chest. Because a new rhythm had begun and it felt like something worth learning. And Jisung couldn’t wait for the next day.
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The afternoon shift always moved slower than the morning one with the sunlight stretching long across the café floor, customers drifting in and out like lazy waves. By the time Jisung’s shift was almost over, the room had settled into that warm, golden quiet he loved. The kind that made everything feel softer around the edges. He was wiping down the counter when the bell chimed. He didn’t have to look up to know who it was. Something in the air shifted, subtle but familiar, and when he finally lifted his eyes, there he was.
The boy with the quiet eyes, whose hands moved like water, who made the room feel gentler just by standing in it. He approached the counter with that same steady presence, jacket draped over one arm, hair a little wind tousled. His gaze flicked to the clock on the wall, then back to Jisung, something almost shy settling in the corners of his expression.
“You’re later than usual,” Jisung said, smiling before he could stop himself.
The boy lifted his hands.
YOU… FINISH… SOON?
Jisung blinked, surprised he understood it so quickly. “Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Ten minutes, actually.”
The boy nodded back, then gestured toward the seating area with a small, quiet question.
CAN I… WAIT?
Jisung felt something warm bloom beneath his ribs.
“Yeah,” he said, signing it too, slow and careful.
YES. WAIT.
The boy smiled, in that soft and small but real way that was so him and chose a table near the window, where sunlight pooled like honey across the wood. He sat with his hands folded loosely in his lap, watching the world outside with a kind of quiet patience that made Jisung’s chest ache in a way he didn’t have words for.
Jisung finished closing tasks as quickly as he could without looking rushed. Every few seconds, his eyes drifted toward the boy and the way the light caught in his hair, the way his fingers tapped lightly against his knee, the way he looked up whenever Jisung moved, like he was waiting for him. When his coworker clocked in and released him from his shift, Jisung untied his apron and hung it on its hook. He wiped his palms on his jeans, suddenly nervous and suddenly very aware of his heartbeat.
He walked over to the table and the boy looked up, eyes softening. “Hi,” Jisung said, voice quiet. The boy gave a tiny wave back. They sat across from each other, the table small enough that their knees brushed under it. Jisung felt the warmth of that touch all the way up his spine.
Jisung wanted to talk. He wanted to sign. He wanted to understand everything the boy said without having to ask him to slow down. But his mind was a jumble of half‑remembered signs and fluttering nerves.
The boy noticed, he always noticed. He reached for a napkin and a pen from the holder, sliding them toward Jisung with a gentle tilt of his head like an invitation.
Jisung exhaled, relieved. “Thanks,” he said, writing slowly.
I'm still learning. Sorry if I mess up.
The boy read it, then shook his head immediately, signing with a softness that made Jisung’s breath catch.
YOU TRY. GOOD.
Jisung felt his cheeks warm. He wrote again.
Can I ask your name?
The boy blinked, surprised maybe, then smiled. Not shy this time, something warmer. Something that reached his eyes. He lifted his hands, slow and deliberate.
M-I-N-H-O.
Fingerspelling each letter like he wanted Jisung to catch every single one. Jisung repeated it under his breath, tasting the shape of it. “Minho,” he whispered, the name settling into his chest like it belonged there. Minho watched his lips, then nodded with a small but pleased soundless laugh escaping him. Jisung smiled back, unable to help it.
“I’m Jisung,” he said, tapping his chest. He grabbed the napkin again and wrote his name. Minho signed it back,
J-I-S-U-N-G
Slow and steady, like he was memorizing it. Jisung couldn’t take his eyes off of Minho. The way he had this light behind his eyes, the way Minho mouthed the name, the way Jisung had seen his name so many times in his life but the only way he ever wanted to see it again was spelled by Minho’s hands. Jisung nodded and Minho smiled. Their knees brushed again. Neither of them moved away.
The sunlight shifted across the table, warm and golden, and for a moment, the whole world felt quiet in a way that made room for something new, something soft, something careful, something beginning. And now they had names for it.
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The next day’s afternoon light had settled into that warm, golden haze that made the café feel softer than usual, like everything had been dipped in honey. Jisung was wiping down the counter, humming under his breath, when the bell chimed. He didn’t have to look up to know who it was.
The air shifted, familiar now, and when he finally lifted his eyes, there he was. The boy with the quiet eyes, the boy whose hands moved like water, the boy who made Jisung’s stomach flutter in ways he tried very hard not to think about. Minho.
He approached the counter, jacket half‑unzipped, hair a little more wind tousled, cheeks pink from the cold. His gaze flicked to the clock, then back to Jisung, something shy settling in the corners of his expression.
“Hi,” Jisung said, smiling before he could stop himself. Minho lifted his hands.
HI.
Jisung signed it back, slow and careful and a little less clumsy. Minho ordered his usual, extra hot vanilla latte, but he didn’t go sit down. He lingered near the counter, fingers tapping lightly against the wood, eyes flicking between Jisung and the empty tables like he was working up to something.
Jisung made the drink, trying not to stare too obviously. When he set it down, their fingers brushed, soft and warm enough to make Jisung’s breath catch. Minho inhaled, then lifted his hands.
YOU… WANT…
A pause. His fingers trembled, barely noticeable unless you were watching for it. Jisung was.
…GO OUT… WITH ME?
Jisung froze completely. The signs hung in the air between them, and his brain that was usually so quick and eager suddenly felt like it had been unplugged. He replayed the movement in his mind once, twice, three times.
Go out. With me. Go out with me.
Oh.
Ohh.
Ohh.
His heart thudded once, hard, then again, faster. His breath stuttered and his hands twitched like they wanted to sign something, anything, but every sign he’d ever learned evaporated from his memory in a single, catastrophic moment. and he just… stared.
Minho’s expression shifted, hope flickered then dimmed then folded in on itself. He looked down, shoulders curling inward, and signed quickly, too quickly, like he wanted to erase the moment before it could hurt more.
FORGET I ASK.
And he turned, actually turned, and started to walk away. Jisung’s heart lurched. “Wait— no—” he blurted, voice cracking, hands scrambling up in front of him. “No, no, that’s not— I didn’t—” He nearly knocked over the tip jar in his panic, stumbling around the counter so fast he almost tripped. He reached out, fingers brushing the boy’s sleeve and Minho stopped hesitantly, like he wasn’t sure he should.
Jisung’s breath shook as he lifted his hands, clumsy and frantic and desperate, and signed:
YES.
The sign was messy, too big, too rushed.
YES. I WANT.
Another fumbled sign.
DATE. WITH YOU. YES.
Minho blinked. Once. Twice. Then his eyes softened, slowly, like dawn creeping over the horizon, and the tension in his shoulders eased by degrees. Jisung swallowed, cheeks burning. “I’m sorry,” he said, signing it too —
SORRY.
Slower this time. “I just… forgot how to think for a second.”
Minho let out a soundless laugh, small and breathy and disbelieving and shook his head gently. He signed again, slower now, careful:
TOMORROW?
Jisung nodded immediately. “Tomorrow,” he echoed, signing it too —
TOMORROW
Clumsy but certain.
The boy’s smile bloomed in that soft, shy way that was his, glowing brightly at the edges.
They stood there for a moment, neither moving, the café quiet around them. Sunlight pooled across the floor, warm against their shoes. Jisung felt something settle inside him. Something gentle, something hopeful, something that felt like the beginning of a new rhythm.
Minho lifted his cup, fingers brushing Jisung’s one more time.
SEE YOU. TOMORROW.
Jisung swallowed, cheeks warm.
SEE YOU.
He signed it back, heart fluttering. Minho left, the bell chiming softly behind him. And Jisung stood there with his hands pressed to his chest, breath unsteady, smile stretching wide and helpless across his face.
Tomorrow. A date. With Minho.
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The café looked different when he wasn’t behind the counter. The lights felt warmer, the air felt softer, the quiet felt heavier but not uncomfortable, just full, like it was holding its breath with him.
Jisung stood just inside the doorway, fingers curled around the strap of his bag, heart thudding too loudly in his chest. He scanned the room once, nerves buzzing under his skin. And then he saw him.
Minho. Sitting at a small table near the window, hands folded neatly around a warm cup, setting sunlight spilling across his shoulders like it had been waiting for him. He wasn't looking at the door, he was watching the street outside, expression soft in a way Jisung hadn’t seen before. Gentle.
Jisung swallowed and his hands shook just a little. He walked over, each step feeling too loud even though the café was quiet. When he reached the table, Minho looked up and the moment their eyes met, something in Minho’s face softened even further, like he’d been holding tension he didn’t realize until it eased. Jisung smiled, small and nervous and helpless.
“Hi,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. Minho gave a tiny wave back before signing.
NICE TO SEE YOU.
The sign was slow today, softer, like he wanted to make sure Jisung caught every movement.
Jisung sat down, trying not to fumble with the chair, trying not to stare too obviously at the way Minho’s eyes followed him with quiet warmth. His hands rested on the table, fingers tapping lightly against the wood in a nervous habit he couldn’t stop. He’d practiced and reviewed every sign he knew and spent half the night watching videos tracing movements in the air and still his hands trembled.
Minho noticed because of course he did. His gaze flicked to Jisung’s fingers, then back to his face, something gentle settling in his expression. He signed slowly:
YOU OKAY?
Jisung nodded too quickly. “Yeah— yes— I’m good,” he said, signing it too —
GOOD
A little stiff, but understandable. Minho smiled proudly. And they talked. Slowly. Carefully. Hands moving between them like a shared language they were building piece by piece.
Minho signed fluidly, but slower than usual, deliberate and patient and giving Jisung time to catch up. Jisung responded with a mix of signs and soft spoken words, checking Minho’s eyes to make sure he understood, fingerspelling when he needed to, cheeks warming every time Minho nodded like he was doing it right.
And he was doing it right. Well, until he wasn’t. Minho signed something, a simple question judging by the tilt of his head, and Jisung froze. The sign was familiar. He knew it. He’d practiced it. He’d seen it a hundred times but his mind blanked completely.
“Uh— wait—” he stammered, cheeks burning. “I— I know this one— I swear—”
Minho blinked, patient, waiting. Jisung grabbed a napkin and scribbled quickly:
What does that one mean again? Sorry!!!
Minho read it, then let out a soundless laugh in that soft and breathy way he did but that also held something fond. He shook his head gently, not in disappointment, but in reassurance. He lifted his hands slower this time, clearer and gentle. He demonstrated the sign once then again. Then held it, letting Jisung see the shape of it.
Oh! Jisung’s face lit up. “Right— right, I knew that,” he said, flustered, signing it back —
NIGHT
Smoother than yesterday, more confident, more certain. Minho’s smile widened, not big or showy, but warm enough to melt something inside Jisung’s chest.
“Thank you,” Jisung whispered, signing it too —
THANK YOU
And this time, the movement was fluid, natural, like it belonged to him. Minho watched his hands with a softness that made Jisung’s breath catch. The cool, guarded boy from the first day, the one who’d held himself like a wall wasn’t here today. This version of him was gentler and warmer. His shoulders relaxed, his eyes bright, his hands moving with a kind of quiet ease that felt like trust.
They talked until their drinks went cold. They talked until the sunlight shifted across the table. They talked until the café began to empty, the quiet settling around them like a blanket. And when it was time to go, neither of them moved. Not at first.
Jisung stood slowly, heart thudding. Minho rose too, jacket draped over his arm, eyes soft in the dimming light. He lifted his hands.
I HAD… GOOD TIME.
Jisung’s breath hitched. He signed back —
ME TOO.
Shy, earnest, cheeks warm. Minho hesitated, just a breath, then signed:
SEE YOU… TOMORROW?
Jisung nodded immediately. “Tomorrow,” he whispered, signing it too —
TOMORROW
Smoother than it had ever been. Minho smiled, soft, shy, glowing at the edges. They parted at the door, steps slow, reluctant, like neither wanted to break the moment. And as Jisung walked home, hands still warm from where Minho’s had brushed his, he realized something simple and terrifying and wonderful:
He didn't want this to end. And tomorrow suddenly felt very close.
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The hallway outside his apartment was too quiet. Then again it was really late.
Jisung tried to turn the key gently, really he did, but the lock clicked louder than he meant it to, and he winced, whispering a frantic “Sorry, sorry—” to the empty hallway as he slipped inside. The door shut with a soft thud.
And then everything inside him detonated.
He didn’t scream, he couldn’t, not with neighbors on every side, but his whole body jolted with the force of the emotion he’d been holding in since he left the café. He pressed his back to the door, hands flying up to cover his face, knees bending like he might actually collapse under the weight of how much he liked this boy. A tiny, strangled sound escaped him.
“oh my god— oh my god— oh my god—” He slid down the door until he was sitting on the floor, legs splayed out, head tipped back, trying to breathe quietly even though his chest felt like it was full of fireworks. He kicked his feet once in a small, frantic little flail then clapped both hands over his mouth because the loud squeak he made was not neighbor friendly.
He curled forward, burying his face in his knees, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. He was crashing out. Hard but in the best possible way.
He scrambled up, pacing in a tiny circle, hands in his hair, whisper laughing into the empty room. "He's so cute— why is he so cute— why did he look at me like that— why did he slow down every sign— oh my god—”
He grabbed a throw pillow off the couch and smacked it against his face, muffling another helpless giggle. Then he hugged it to his chest, bouncing on his toes, trying to keep the springs of the couch from squeaking when he flopped onto it. He kicked his feet again, quietly and violently and joyfully.
He replayed everything; the way Minho had waited for him, the way his hands had moved so gently across the table, the way he’d demonstrated that one sign twice just to make sure Jisung got it, the way he’d smiled when Jisung did.
Jisung melted into the cushions, pillow still clutched to his chest, cheeks aching from smiling so hard.
“I’m seeing him tomorrow,” he whispered into the fabric, voice breathless and warm. And the grin that followed was so bright it felt like it lit up the whole room.
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The apartment was dim when Minho stepped inside, but he didn’t bother turning on the lights. He didn’t need them. He knew every corner of this space by memory; the way the hallway curved, the way the kitchen tile felt colder under his socks, the way the shadows stretched long across the living room floor. Three shapes emerged from the dark almost immediately.
Soonie first, tail high. Doongie next, blinking slow and sleepy. Dori last, pausing in the doorway like he was deciding whether Minho deserved his attention tonight. Minho crouched down, shoulders relaxing for the first time since he left the café. he lifted his hands automatically, signing without thinking:
HELLO. I’M HOME. GOOD CATS.
They didn’t understand most of it, not really, but they recognized the rhythm of his hands, the softness in his expression. Soonie chirped. Doongie rubbed against his shin. Dori stared like he knew something Minho wasn’t saying out loud.
Minho laughed, silent with his shoulders shaking, and stood to feed them. He moved around the kitchen with a lightness he hadn’t felt in a long time. His hands kept signing in the air even when no one was looking, fingers moving fast, fluid, eager, the way he only signed when he was excited, when he forgot to hold himself back.
FOOD. WAIT. OKAY. EAT.
The cats meowed like they understood every word. He leaned against the counter, watching them eat, and the smile tugging at his mouth was impossible to fight. He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the echo of something warm and fluttering beneath his ribs.
The date replayed in his mind in images. The way Jisung had walked toward him, nervous and bright, the way his hands had trembled but kept trying, the way he’d lit up when he remembered a sign, the way he said “thank you” like it meant something, the way he’d said yes.
Minho exhaled, soft and shaky. He signed into the empty room, hands moving fast, almost messy with how much he was feeling:
I LIKE HIM. A LOT. HE’S SWEET. SO SWEET.
TOMORROW. I SEE HIM TOMORROW.
The cats didn’t look up. But Minho didn’t need them to. He pushed off the counter, heading toward his bedroom and the smile stayed with him, small, helpless, glowing.
He’d gone on a date, a good one, a soft one. One that made the world feel a little warmer. And tomorrow, he’d get to see Jisung again.
Minho paused in the doorway, hand resting lightly on the frame, and let himself feel it, really feel it. The quiet, blooming joy he’d been holding back all evening.
Soonie blinked up at him for a moment as he signed one last thing in the dark, hands slow and gentle now, like it was a confession that could reach all the way to Jisung:
GOOD NIGHT. SEE YOU TOMORROW.
And for the first time in a long time, he fell asleep smiling.