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The bell over the door chimed, the soft sound cutting through the low hum of the record playing behind the counter. Stephen didn’t look up right away—he never did. Fridays were routine now. Same door chime, same quiet footsteps, same faint smell of coffee and cologne and ink.
“Give me a second,” he called out to Tony, sliding the last of the inventory forms into the register drawer before turning.
And then he froze.
Because that was not the same.
Tony stood just inside the doorway, sunlight catching on the edge of his sunglasses and the black lace hem of the dress he was wearing. Not a costume, not some stage getup, but a perfectly ordinary sundress—soft fabric, thin straps, the kind that would’ve been unremarkable on anyone else. But on Tony, it was… breathtaking.
Combat boots. Notebook in hand. Hair a little too tousled, smirk a little too knowing.
Stephen’s brain short-circuited. For a long, mortifying second, he just stared. His mouth opened, no words making the leap from thought to speech.
“You’re wearing a dress,” he said at last. It came out flatter than he intended.
Tony looked down at himself, as if just noticing. “Am I? Oh, hell, so I am.”
Stephen blinked, jaw working soundlessly for a moment. He wanted to say something clever, something deflective, but the words refused to line up in his head. All he could manage was another quiet, “You’re wearing a dress.”
“Mhm,” Tony said, entirely unbothered. “You like it?”
Stephen’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “I—It’s… fine."
Tony grinned, the kind of grin that said he knew exactly what he was doing. He sauntered further into the shop, the sound of his boots soft on the worn floorboards. “Fine, huh? That’s the best I get? I’m crushed, Doc.” He dropped his notebook on the counter, leaning on it like he owned the place. “And here I thought I’d get at least a ‘you look nice today, Tony.'"
Stephen cleared his throat. Twice. “You look…” He trailed off, the word beautiful hovering traitorously close to the surface.
Tony's grin widened even more. "You don't have to say it. I know."
Stephen exhaled through his nose, dragging a hand down his face like that might reset his brain. “You’re impossible,” he muttered, turning toward the espresso machine—something practical, something grounding.
“Impossibly charming,” Tony corrected, tapping his fingers on the counter in a lazy rhythm. “Impossibly stylish. Impossibly—what’s the word? Irresistible?”
Stephen didn’t dignify that with a response. He focused on the hiss of the steamer, the clink of the portafilter, anything that wasn’t the sound of Tony’s voice or the flutter of that damn dress when he moved.
Tony hopped up to sit on the counter, lace brushing his thighs.
Normally, Stephen would tell him off. Tell him to get down before he broke something. Especially considering they were still open.
But right now? Stephen couldn’t seem to form the words.
He glanced up—just a glance, just to scold him—and immediately regretted it. Tony was swinging his legs, heels tapping against the cabinet, the lace of the dress shifting with every small movement. He looked comfortable. Like this was the most natural thing in the world.
“Customers,” Stephen managed, voice strained. “We still have—”
Tony waved a hand dismissively. “Please. The only people who come in at this hour are college kids pretending to read Kafka and old ladies who flirt with you for discounts.”
“That’s—” Stephen paused, frowning. “…irrelevant.”
"But accurate," Tony said, grin flickering into something just shy of wicked. He leaned back on his hands, tilting his head, studying Stephen like he was the one on display. “And you’re telling me you’d rather flirt with old ladies than talk to me? Brutal.”
“I’m saying,” Stephen muttered, “that maybe you shouldn’t be sitting on my counter.”
Tony glanced down, feigning deep thought. “Hm. No, feels right.” He kicked his legs a little, just to make a point, lace hem fluttering. “C’mon, Doc. Admit it. You missed me.”
The portafilter slipped out of Stephen's hand. He sighed, picking it back up. “You were gone for four days.”
“Five,” Tony corrected. “Which is basically a week. And a week is pretty much half a month, which might as well be a whole month. So...”
"Well, I—" What the fuck did he just say? "—What the hell kind of math is that?"
“So,” Tony went on, deliberately ignoring the question, “by my genius math, you’ve been tragically deprived of my presence for at least a month.”
Stephen groaned. “Please stop talking.”
Tony just smirked, bright and smug and oh so pleased with himself, like this was the exact reaction he’d been fishing for.
“Make me.”