Work Text:
Love hung in the air over Lumiose, unmistakable and warm.
The city looked different on Valentine’s Day—softer somehow. Pink ribbons fluttered from lamp posts, shop windows were dressed in hearts and paper flowers, and little stalls dotted the streets selling wrapped sweets and bouquets meant for giving. Couples wandered hand in hand: men and women, women and women, men and men, laughing openly, unapologetic in their affection. Lumiose welcomed them all.
You walked through it quietly, a familiar rhythm to your steps, one hand curled around the strap of your bag.
Inside that bag was your gift.
The thought of it made your stomach flutter—not with fear exactly, but with something close to it. Anticipation, maybe and hope. The small portrait you’d drawn rested safely inside: Grisham, captured the way you saw him most often, focused and calm behind the counter, eyes intent, expression softened by something just shy of a smile. You’d rendered it carefully, taking your time, coloring and shading until it felt right. Until it felt honest.
As you walked toward Café Nouveau Truck No. 1, you found yourself thinking about how much Lumiose had changed you.
You were still quiet person. Still reserved. You didn’t suddenly become the kind of person who struck up conversations with strangers or filled silence easily—and that was okay. But you weren’t as closed off as you used to be. You didn’t feel as small in crowds anymore, because somewhere along the way, you’d learned how to take up just a little more space.
You owed more of that than you liked to admit to Grisham.
At first, you hadn’t known what to do with him. You’d been shy with everyone back then, but with him it had been worse—because he was kind, and because he was handsome in a way that felt unfair. The kind of handsome that made you suddenly hyperaware of your hands, your voice, the way you stood at the counter.
Grisham had never made it awkward. He’d been professional, steady, polite. He took your order, made your coffee, thanked you for stopping by. No pressure. No lingering looks. No expectation that you be anything other than a customer. It was only after you started coming back—day after day, week after week—that things shifted.
You became a regular. You ordered the same thing every time: a Burn Up Roast and a small sweet pastry. And then, you’d sit at one of the outdoor tables with your sketchbook, losing yourself in lines and shading. Most of your them were of him, though you never let anyone see those—only quick studies, half-finished portraits, moments caught in graphite. Sometimes you drew other things: a harmless wild Pokémon that lingered near the truck, a passerby with an interesting silhouette. But when you flipped back through your sketchbook, Grisham was everywhere.
By the time you reached the truck, he had already seen you. You knew because he was holding out a cup before you even spoke.
“Hello, there,” he greeted, voice warm and familiar. “Here’s your usual, the Gris Special.”
From the side, Griselle leaned into view, smirking. “Right on time. Didn’t even need to ask.”
Heat crept up your neck, but you smiled as you accepted the cup. The mocha was perfect—rich, smooth, exactly how you liked it.
The Gris Special.
You’d told him once, during one of your longer conversations, when talking to him felt less like a test and more like…talking, and admitted that while the Burn Up Roast was your usual, your favorite drink was actually a mocha. Café Nouveau didn’t offer one.
You hadn’t expected anything to come of it. And yet, not long after, Grisham had started handing you a different beverage. Chocolate, espresso, milk—balanced just right. He’d called it the Gris Special, like it was nothing more than a practical solution.
When Griselle had casually mentioned it one day—“Here for your Gris Special?”—you’d assumed it was some kind of secret menu item. Something people in the know could order.
You hadn’t realized then how wrong you were.
You thanked them quietly and turned toward your usual table—but stopped when you heard Grisham’s voice again.
“Let’s take our break,” he said, already reaching for the sign beneath the counter.
Griselle blinked. “Now?”
“Now,” he repeated easily, setting the sign down.
She shrugged, clearly unbothered, and grabbed her drink before heading to another table where one of the regulars—a young woman who very obviously had a crush on her—was already waiting.
Grisham picked up a plate of sweet pastries and headed toward you.
You had just opened your sketchbook when he sat down. The chair scraped softly against the pavement, close—closer than you’d expected—and the suddenness of it startled you enough that your fingers snapped the book shut on instinct. Heat rushed to your face as you hugged it briefly to your chest, mortified.
Grisham noticed immediately.
“…I see,” he said mildly, one brow lifting just a fraction. “That must be a dedicated study. You do tend to draw every time you’re here.”
You laughed weakly, fingers tightening around the edge of the sketchbook. If he knew how many pages were filled with him—quick studies of his hands, the line of his shoulders, the way he leaned over the counter—you weren’t sure you’d survive the moment.
Your gaze dropped to your bag. Your heart kicked up again, nervous but steadying. You reached inside and pulled out the portrait, careful as you brought it into the light. It wasn’t large, but it didn’t need to be. The paper was thick, the colors rich, the work finished with the same care you gave any professional piece.
You held it in both hands for a moment, thumbs brushing the edge, gathering your courage.
Grisham was quiet. When you looked up, he was watching you with open curiosity, head tilted slightly, confusion softening his features. Then, with a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, you extended the portrait toward him.
“It’s…for you,” you said, voice quiet but sure.
He took it slowly, eyes flicking briefly to your face before returning to the painting. As soon as his fingers closed around it, you folded inward, shoulders drawing in as self-consciousness set in. Your hands twisted together in your lap, fingers worrying at each other as you watched his reaction from beneath your lashes.
“…This is me,” he said at last, not as a question but an observation. His eyes—open, focused, intent—moved with care over every detail.
The portrait showed him mid-motion, pouring a cup of coffee, composed and steady. It was simple in composition, but the craftsmanship was undeniable: the way light caught his hands, the quiet concentration in his expression, the ease of someone doing something they knew by heart.
He exhaled slowly. “You made this,” he said, voice lower now. “For me.”
You nodded. “I wanted to…thank you.”
His gaze lifted, thoughtful. “For what, exactly?”
You hesitated, fingers twisting together for a moment before you spoke.
“When I first came to Lumiose,” you said quietly, “you were…kind to me. From the start. You didn’t ask questions. You didn’t push. You just treated me like I belonged here.”
You glanced down, searching for the right words.
“I needed that more than I realized,” you admitted. “I…needed somewhere new. Somewhere that didn’t feel so heavy.” Your shoulders lifted in a small, uncertain shrug. “There were things back home I didn’t want to keep carrying with me.”
You drew in a breath, steadied yourself.
“One of my mentors suggested I leave for a while. Travel. Start over, even if just a little.” Your fingers tightened together. “So, I did. And when I saw Café Nouveau—everyone laughing, just…being comfortable—I thought…maybe it was a good place to stop.”
Your voice softened at the end.
“I’m glad I did.”
Grisham listened without interruption.
Then he reached across the table and gently closed his hand around one of yours. The movement stilled your restless fingers completely. When you looked up, you met his eyes—warm, steady, carrying something deeper beneath their composure.
“Change is rarely easy,” he said quietly. “Especially when it’s born from experiences that diminish one’s confidence or sense of worth. I’m sorry you were made to carry that.”
Your throat tightened.
“If my presence—or this place—helped you feel even marginally at ease,” he continued, “then I’m glad. Truly. Lumiose is better for the people who choose to stay.”
Your face burned as you looked down at your lap, overwhelmed in the best way.
That earned a soft, restrained chuckle from him—fond, controlled, unmistakably sincere.
Griselle wandered over just as you were finishing another sip of your mocha, clearly sensing that break time was ending.
Her eyes landed on the portrait in Grisham’s hands—and she stopped short.
“Well, damn,” she said, leaning in. “That’s really good.” She squinted at it, then smirked. “Honestly? I think it’s an improvement.”
Grisham sighed, long-suffering but unsurprised. “I fail to see how being rendered mid-pour constitutes an upgrade.”
You smiled into your cup, watching their familiar back-and-forth, the ease of it comforting. The mocha warmed your hands as much as it did your chest, rich and smooth and perfectly balanced. You took another sip without thinking.
Griselle noticed immediately.
“…Wow,” she said slowly, eyes narrowing. “You really love mochas, don’t you?”
You blinked, nodding a little. “They’re my favorite.”
Her grin widened, sharp and mischievous. “Oh. In that case—” She leaned closer, lowering her voice theatrically. “I should probably let you in on a secret.”
“Griselle,” Grisham warned, already suspicious.
She waved him off. “Relax, Gris.” Then she turned back to you. “You know you’re the only one who gets the mocha, right?”
Your brow furrowed. “What do you mean? Don’t other people order it? I thought it was like a secret menu item or something.”
Griselle laughed. “Yeah, other people order it. They just don’t get that.” She nodded toward your cup. “Gris gives them whatever roast he feels like that day.”
“That is not—” Grisham started.
“But when you order it,” Griselle continued brightly, “you get a mocha. Every time.”
Understanding hit you all at once.
Your head snapped toward Grisham. “Is…is this true?”
He wasn’t looking at you. His gaze had drifted somewhere over your shoulder, jaw set, cheeks faintly—undeniably—pink.
Griselle hummed and then burst into laughter.
“Griselle,” Grisham said sharply.
She was still laughing. “What? It’s Valentine’s Day. Secrets slip. Besides—” She grinned at you. “You were bound to figure out he’s sweet on you eventually.”
Your breath caught.
“Griselle,” he repeated, very clearly not amused.
She clapped her hands together. “Oopsies.” Then, with a sing-song laugh, she backed away. “I’ll just—go do my job now.” And with that, she retreated to the truck at record speed.
Silence settled between you.
“I’m sorry,” Grisham said immediately, turning back to you. “That was not—”
“You…like me?” you interrupted, voice barely above a whisper.
He froze. Then, he fully blushed, color blooming unmistakably across his face. He reached up, adjusting his glasses out of habit, exhaled slowly, and nodded.
“I do,” he said.
Your heart fluttered, light and warm. You looked down, suddenly shy again—not from fear, but from the sweetness of it.
“Well, that’s a relief,” you admitted, quietly. “Because…I…like you too.”
This time, he was stunned. His eyes opened, surprise written plainly across his face.
“You do?”
You nodded, then added, almost apologetically, “Most of the sketches in my book are…of you.”
You braced yourself.
Instead, he smiled—small, sincere. “May I see them?”
You hesitated only a moment before opening your sketchbook. You turned pages together, shoulders nearly touching, his attention thoughtful and respectful as he studied each drawing. He paused at one of Charizard, brows lifting.
“This one,” he said. “That’s very well done.”
“Do you…want to show him?” you asked.
He nodded. “I think he’d appreciate it.”
You stood together and walked toward the back of the truck, where Charizard stood. You held up the sketch.
“Do you like it, Charizard?” you asked.
Charizard let out a happy, rumbling cry, tail flame flickering brighter. You laughed, delighted.
“Oh—wait.” You reached into your bag again. “I brought you something too.”
You pulled out a small bag of candied pecha, cheri, mago, and persim berries—pink and red and sweet—and tossed one gently his way. Charizard snapped it up happily, then leaned down to nuzzle you in thanks.
You laughed again, warmth blooming in your chest.
Behind you, Grisham watched the exchange with Charizard quietly, fondness settling into his expression as easily as breath. After a moment, he spoke.
“Do you have plans for today?” he asked.
You blinked, caught off guard by how casual the question sounded. “No,” you replied honestly. “Not really.”
He nodded once, as if confirming something to himself.
“In that case,” he said, tone measured but warm, “when I finish work… would you care to spend the rest of the day with me? Dinner, perhaps. At my place.”
You turned so fast you nearly startled Charizard.
“Dinner—?” The word barely made it out as you stared at him, stunned all over again.
Grisham met your gaze calmly, no trace of embarrassment left now. There was something assured in his posture, something quietly confident. “It is Valentine’s Day,” he pointed out gently, as if it were the most reasonable conclusion in the world.
He stepped closer, close enough that you could feel his presence, solid and steady. He leaned down just slightly, meeting you at eye level.
“Will you be my Valentine?” he asked.
Your face went hot—immediately, catastrophically red. You nodded before your brain could catch up, then gathered yourself just enough to add, softly,
“Only…only if you’ll be mine, too.”
For a heartbeat, he simply looked at you. Then, Grisham leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth—brief, deliberate, unmistakably affectionate.
It told you everything.
You barely managed not to short-circuit on the spot. Instead, you turned your head toward Charizard, who was watching the scene with what could only be described as a knowing, smug little smirk.
From the truck, Griselle’s voice rang out loud and triumphant—
“FINALLY!”