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Simon hated the morning shift. People flocked in in masses, rushing and crowding around the counter impatiently as if their morning coffee mattered more than anyone else’s. Or more than his own sanity. Everyone was ruder than customers during the night shift, no caffeine coursing through their veins. They always stared more at the scars that cut their way through the left side of his face, caring less for basic human decency, apparently. He hated the noise, he hated the rush. He hated being up at six a.m. to open up the shop by seven, especially because his arm was acting up, burning pain and numbness tingling down to his fingertips, which meant falling asleep at a decent time was a luxury he received less and less often. He hated that Ava refused to hire another barista, so he would be on the morning shift all alone today, having to take over for the barista who was supposed to work this shift but had quit the day before after being told he couldn’t refuse a customer just because he quote, didn’t “like their vibe.” (Simon hadn’t bothered to learn his name, but he thought it was something like Mark. Mike? Matt? He honestly didn’t give a shit.)
The sun had made its home high in the sky, lighting up the sheet metal walls around him. For a coffee shop named Eden, the modern and brutalist architecture was a weird choice, but he didn’t have the power around here to make any actual changes. Ava had almost made him take down the few houseplants he had placed around the cafe until a couple of reviews had rolled in, complimenting them and the “warmth” they gave the small shop.
He’d made it through the majority of his 7-hour shift with only a couple minor inconveniences (It’s not his fault that they’re out of sugar-free caramel syrup. No, he can’t go make more. He literally doesn’t know how to do that. Yes, he’s the only employee here today. No, they can’t come behind the counter and make their own latte, what the fuck?) His shift was over in two hours, he reminded himself. In two hours he can go home, curl up around his cat, Tokki, and hopefully sleep the full day until his next shift.
The door opens, and he looks up from where he’s stocking the milk fridge. A man walks into the shop in suit thats’s probably expensive enough to pay for Simon’s rent for like a year. He looks over the menu, and Simon shuffles impatiently behind the cash register, trying to look busy but also not like he’s ignoring the customer. He admittedly doesn’t hate making coffee, but he hasn’t managed to get any better at interacting with people in the six months he’s worked here. Sometimes he wonders if Ava only hired him because he was literally the only choice.
The man glares down at Simon, looking skeptical. “Do you even know how to make a decent Americano?” he asks, eyes lingering on the left side of Simon’s face.
He barely stops himself from rolling his eyes, instead nodding slowly at the man in front of him. “It’s just espresso and hot water, man. I don’t think even I can fuck it up that badly.”
The man wrinkles his nose at Simon, but hands him his card anyway. Simon takes it, charging him for the largest size they have without asking. The asshole can afford it.
He gives him the card back, pulling a shot of espresso and filling a medium size cup with water. He places the drink on the counter, noticing the door open behind the man and his, frankly ugly, suit. He starts to turn back to the cash register, but the man stops him.
“This should be iced,” he says, voice sharp and angry. Simon looks up at him, his whole face is red and pinched as if Simon’s committed an unforgivable grievance, and not was simply unable to read his mind.
Simon nods, more to himself than the insane man in front of him. “Sure, whatever,” he says, reaching forward to grab the cup. Before he can, the man grabs it and tears off the lid, and-
Damn. This is going to hurt.
Hot coffee hits Simon in the face, drenching his hair and the entire front of his apron. It burns, and he closes his eyes tightly, tears immediately welling up in his eyes. Memories try to claw into his mind, but he shuts that down quickly. There’s no way he’s having a breakdown right now, all because of some rich asshole. He can hear the man arguing with someone, then hears the door open and close.
“Goddamnit,” he mumbles under his breath, reaching forward blindly, hoping to find the rag that hasn’t been wiping up steamed milk all day.
“Here,” a voice says softly from in front of him, and napkins find his hands.
“Thanks,” he says gruffly, wiping at his eyes. His whole face stings still, but he takes a second to rejoice that he hadn’t bothered to use the hot water the coffee machine produces, instead opting for the water from the broken espresso machine that never heats up past 100 degrees. He could tell the guy was an asshole, okay? He didn’t deserve hot coffee.
He opens his eyes, and-
Holy shit.
The man in front of him is fucking beautiful. His soft blue eyes are worried, kind. They’re bluer than maybe anything Simon has ever seen, what the fuck? His hair is golden, lit up by the sun behind him. It’s messy, like he keeps running a hand through it and doesn’t realize it’s going everywhere. His glasses are so far down his nose that Simon wonders for a second if he even needs them, because no way are they helping from down there.
The man blinks, eyebrows knitting closer. “Are you okay?” He asks, and damn, Simon has just been staring at him. Fuck. Way to go.
“Yes! Yeah. Shit. Sorry about that. Thanks for, uh. Stepping in with the napkins. Kinda like an angel or something, saving my ass.” He tries to pretend that isn’t the most embarrassing thing he’s ever said, refusing to backtrack. He looks up, half expecting the man to be sprinting out of the cafe. He wouldn’t blame him.
He’s surprised, however, when he sees the other man is still there, red rising up on his cheekbones. It brings out the blue in his eyes even more somehow. If Simon never sees him again, he’s glad at least that he gets this; warm blue eyes and blush tinted skin.
The man seems to shake himself, taking a deep breath in. “Well, I don’t know about that, but- um. Are you sure you’re okay? I can’t believe that- that jerk did that. Should I call someone? The cops? An ambulance? You could have second-degree burns, and I think that legally could be considered assault. Probably.”
Simon chuckles, a sound he’s not used to hearing from himself. “I’m really okay. I didn’t use the actually hot water.”
He doesn’t say that he wouldn’t call the cops even if there was a gun to his head and thieves ransacking the cafe. His parole officer had told him at their final meeting that he doubted Simon would even make it a year, and while he would theoretically not be leaving this scenario in handcuffs, it wasn’t really worth the risk.
The man in front of him tilts his head, looking for all intents and purposes like he’s looking at an equation he can’t quite understand. Before Simon has the chance to speak, the man sticks his hand out, crossing the barrier of the counter so fast that Simon flinches.
“Shoot! Sorry. I probably shouldn’t do that after you literally just had coffee thrown all over you. Sorry, sorry. Darn. I was just going to introduce myself? Shake your hand. I guess.” The man pauses, cringing. Simon wonders if he’s always like this. Speaking first and thinking second. It’s almost cute.
Before the man can pull his hand away, Simon reaches forward, shaking the man’s hand. His skin is soft, fingers cold. It’s nice. Simon runs so warm that the coolness is soothing, and he looks at their hands. His calloused, scarred hands can’t feel nice, and he starts to pull away, but the man squeezes harder.
“Grace!” He says, too loudly. Simon raises his head, looks back into bright blue. “My name. It’s Ryland. Grace. Ryland Grace. Sorry. Not sure why I said it like James Bond.”
Simon has no idea who that is. Apparently this shows on his face, because the man- Ryland, apparently, looks shocked.
“Really? Like. You know!” He pulls his hand out of Simon’s, leans on the counter in a way that is probably supposed to look suave, but he just looks moments from falling over. He lowers his head, looks at Simon through his eyelashes.
“The name’s Bond. James Bond,” he says slowly, adopting a frankly awful British accent. As if Simon would magically understand if he said it again, but British.
Simon shakes his head, hoping the man isn’t too disappointed by his lack of pop culture knowledge.
“I, uh-” He pauses, picking at the skin around his nails, a habit he hadn’t been able to since he was a kid. It doesn’t help that half the time, his fingers on his left hand are numb and he doesn’t notice that he’s pulling the skin off. “I don’t get out much,” he finishes, smiling up at the man in front of him through the hair falling in front of his eyes.
Ryland’s face is red again, and he wonders if it’s too hot in here.
They stare at each other for a moment, before Simon realizes that he is, in fact, still at work.
“Shit. Uh, sorry, man. What can I get started for you?”
Ryland’s eyes widen, tracing his face. “Huh?”
Simon holds up a menu, waves it around a bit. “For coffee? Cause this is a coffee shop?”
He didn’t think it was possible for the man in front of him to get any redder, but somehow, against the bright yellow rain jacket he was wearing, his face seems to almost glow.
“Oh! Yes. For sure.” He looks at one of the menus laying in front of him, shifting his weight back and forth as he stands. It’s a strangely cute habit that Simon isn’t entirely sure why he’s noticing. “Sorry about that. It’s been a long day. Well, actually, it’s been a short day? It was only a half day, but I guess when my kids hear half day, they think that means the whole day doesn’t really matter, so no one wanted to pay attention. I almost gave up and turned on Bill Nye, honestly.”
Simon also has no clue who Bill Nye is, but he really doesn’t want a repeat of the James Bond debacle, so he just nods.
“Your kids?” He asks.
Ryland’s entire face lights up, and he nods. “Yeah! I’m a middle school teacher. Science. So they’re not really my kids, I guess. Does it sound creepy to refer to them as my kids?”
Simon shrugs, a bit overwhelmed from the sheer amount of words Ryland has said in the past minute.
“I’m not entirely sure what the right answer to that question is,” Simon says, nervous to let him down. The longer he talks to the man in front of him, the more boring he feels. The shop seems brighter just from Ryland’s presence, and he can’t tell if he wants to bask in his warmth or hide behind the counter in fear of getting burned.
Ryland laughs, grinning at him. Simon doesn’t think anyone's ever smiled at him this much in his life.
“Sorry, that was a weird question, wasn’t it? Didn’t mean to put you on the spot.” He runs his hand through his hair, and Simon follows the movement with his eyes, watching as his hair puffs up in different directions. Why is the most beautiful man in the world in his coffee shop on a random Friday? Why did he not bother to pull his hair back this morning? Why does he not know who Bill Nye is?
“Did you want to order coffee?” Simon asks, then grimaces. Real creative, man. Way to shut the guy down.
Ryland visibly dims, but nods. “Oh! Yeah. Sorry, again. Can I just have a cold brew with cream and brown sugar?”
Simon nods, hating that he’s the reason Ryland is no longer smiling at him, but not surprised. He’s always been good at ruining good things.
He finishes Ryland’s coffee in silence, the only sound the quiet music playing over the tinny speakers.
“How much do I owe you?”
Simon shakes his head, sliding the drink across the counter. “Don’t worry about it. Who knows if I would’ve been able to wipe my face off without you here.”
Ryland’s mouth drops open slightly, and he looks confused. “Are you sure? I just rambled at you for like five minutes while you were trying to do your job.”
“I wouldn’t do it if I wasn’t sure,” Simon says, looking into Ryland’s eyes to hopefully make it obvious he’s appreciative.
“That’s- That’s very kind, thank you! I kind of thought you were wishing I’d shut up and leave.”
Simon tilts his head to the side, thinking. “Only a little,” he deadpans.
Ryland, to his relief, laughs. “Okay, good to know. Um. Well. I should go, but, I’ll see you again soon?”
“If you come back, then sure.”
Ryland nods rapidly, walking backwards toward the door. “Awesome! Great. Thank you-” He freezes, hand on the door handle.
“Shoot. I never got your name.”
A laugh escapes Simon, and it startles him, how genuine it feels.
“It’s Simon,” he says softly, watching as Ryland nods slowly. His face is red again. Maybe it’s hot outside?
And fuck it. Might as well be brave, just once. If it backfires, Ryland will never come back to the shop and he won’t have to worry about it anyways.
Ryland leans against the door, but before he can leave Simon speaks up.
“I usually work nights.”
Ryland pauses, looking confused for a second. Then, his face lights up, smiling at Simon so kindly that he almost feels like he deserves it. Heat rises up on his cheeks all the way to his ears.
“See you later, Simon!”
The sun still shines through the windows, but he swears the whole shop is dimmer than it was before without Ryland in it. Every time he blinks he sees bright blue eyes and a brighter smile.
Damn. He’s fucked.