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The espresso machine hissed steam into the morning air as Carlos wiped down the counter for the third time. He did not need to wipe the counter. The counter was clean. But cleaning gave him something to do while the man with the silver rings and the messy hair camped in the corner booth with his laptop open and a half-empty latte growing cold beside him.
"Your WiFi password changed again," Charles said without looking up from his screen.
"It did not."
"It did. I can tell. The signal dropped exactly four minutes ago."
Carlos set down the rag. "I did not change the password because I want you to stop coming here and using my internet to run your little fortune-telling business from my booth."
Charles finally looked up. His eyes were green today. Or maybe they had always been green. Carlos refused to notice things like that. "It is not a little business. I have clients. I have a waiting list. I am very good at what I do."
"You told Mrs. Rodriguez her husband was hiding a second family in Barcelona. Her husband works from home. He never leaves the house."
"I said the cards suggested travel. She interpreted."
"She cried in my bathroom for forty minutes."
"That is not my fault. People hear what they want to hear." Charles tapped his keyboard. "Also, the password is still the same. You are lying to me."
Carlos sighed and walked over to the booth. He did not sit down. Sitting down meant encouraging this behavior. "Why do you even need my WiFi? You have a whole parlor next door. With walls. And a door. And presumably your own internet connection."
"The energy in my parlor is bad. Too many sad people asking about dead relatives and cheating husbands. It clouds my vision." Charles gestured around the coffee shop. "Here the energy is good. Warm. Smells like coffee and cinnamon. And you make excellent lattes."
"Flattery will not get you free WiFi."
"It already has. For six months."
Carlos pressed his lips together. This was true. He had tried banning Charles twice. Both times, the fortune teller had shown up with a fresh pastry from the bakery down the street and an apology so charming that Carlos had caved within thirty seconds. He was a weak man. He accepted this about himself.
"Fine. Stay. But if you predict another apocalypse and scare away my lunch crowd, I am personally unplugging your router."
"No promises." Charles smiled. It was a small smile, almost shy, and Carlos hated how it made something warm settle in his chest. He turned away before Charles could see his face.
The bell above the door chimed. A young woman walked in with sharp features and sharper posture, her dark hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. She scanned the room with the efficiency of someone who knew exactly where she was going and exactly how long it would take to get there.
"You must be Yuki," Carlos said.
"I am. You must be Carlos." She extended her hand. Her grip was firm. "Pierre talks about your coffee constantly. It is annoying."
"Pierre talks about everything constantly," came a voice from behind her. Pierre Gasly appeared in the doorway, slightly out of breath, holding two paper bags from the bakery. "That is my charm. You love it."
"I tolerate it," Yuki corrected, but she took one of the bags from him and kissed his cheek. It was quick, almost perfunctory, but there was warmth in it. Carlos had seen enough couples to recognize genuine affection when it appeared.
"Table for two?" Carlos asked.
"Four," Pierre said. "Charles is here, yes?"
Carlos jerked his head toward the corner. Pierre's face lit up. He abandoned Yuki without apology and bounded across the coffee shop, dropping into the seat across from Charles with all the grace of an excited puppy.
"Charles. I have been trying to reach you for three days. Three days. Do you know how many emergencies can happen in three days?"
"You have never had an emergency in your life," Charles said flatly. "You once called me at midnight because you ran out of toothpaste."
"That was an emergency. The store was closed. I needed fresh breath for a date the next morning."
"You could have used baking soda."
"I am not an animal."
Yuki slid into the seat next to Pierre and stole a croissant from his bag. "He texted me seventeen times yesterday. Seventeen. About what, you ask? The color of his new couch."
"It is a very important decision," Pierre protested. "The couch sets the tone for the entire living room."
"The tone of your living room is chaos. No couch can fix that."
Carlos retreated behind the counter to give them space. He watched as Pierre leaned across the table to show Charles something on his phone, their heads bent close together. They had known each other since childhood, Pierre had mentioned once. Grew up in the same neighborhood, went to the same schools, stayed connected through every move and life change. Carlos envied that kind of friendship. He had colleagues, acquaintances, people he exchanged pleasantries with at industry events. He did not have someone who would call him about toothpaste emergencies.
The morning passed in the comfortable rhythm of a coffee shop that had found its flow. Regulars came and went. The espresso machine sang its familiar song. Pierre and Yuki argued quietly about furniture while Charles typed furiously on his laptop, occasionally muttering something under his breath that sounded vaguely like a curse in Italian.
At exactly the moment when the lunch rush should have started, a man walked through the door.
He was tall. Broad-shouldered. Blond hair cut short, blue eyes that swept the room with clinical precision. He wore a leather jacket that looked expensive and boots that looked practical, and he moved with the confidence of someone who had never been told no in his entire life.
Carlos recognized him immediately. Everyone in the neighborhood recognized Max Verstappen. He owned the motorcycle repair shop three blocks over, the one with the waiting list that stretched into next year and the reputation for doing work so good that people drove hours to bring him their bikes.
Max walked straight to the counter. "Black coffee. Large. To go."
"Coming right up." Carlos reached for a cup. "Anything else?"
Max's gaze drifted past him, landing somewhere in the corner. His expression shifted. Not quite surprise, not quite recognition. Something in between.
"That guy," Max said. "The one with the rings. Who is he?"
Carlos followed his line of sight. Charles had stopped typing. He was staring back at Max with an intensity that made the air between them feel charged.
"That is Charles. He runs the fortune telling parlor next door."
"Huh." Max's eyes stayed fixed on Charles. "He keeps looking at me."
"He looks at everyone. It is part of the job. Reading people."
"No." Max shook his head slowly. "This is different. He has been looking at me for weeks. Every time I walk past this place, I see him through the window. Staring."
Carlos poured the coffee carefully, giving himself a moment to process this information. He had noticed Charles watching the window before. He had assumed it was boredom, or people-watching for inspiration, or simply the aimless gaze of someone lost in thought. But if Max had noticed it too, if it had been happening for weeks...
"Maybe he sees something interesting," Carlos said, keeping his voice neutral.
"Maybe." Max took the coffee. Their fingers brushed. Neither of them acknowledged it. "Thanks."
He left without looking back. But Carlos noticed the way Charles tracked his exit, the way his shoulders relaxed only after the door swung shut.
Pierre was already halfway across the room. "What was that? Who was that? Why were you staring at him like he owes you money?"
"I do not owe him money," Charles said.
"You were staring at him like he owes you something else then."
Charles picked up his latte. It was cold. He drank it anyway. "His aura is interesting. Very bright. Very focused. Like a laser."
"You sound like a sci-fi villain."
"I sound like a professional."
Yuki snorted into her tea. "A professional what? Creep?"
"A professional fortune teller who knows potential when he sees it." Charles set down the empty cup. "That man is going to be important. To someone. Maybe to several someones."
"To you?" Pierre asked.
Charles did not answer. He turned back to his laptop, but Carlos caught the faint flush creeping up his neck. Interesting.
The afternoon brought a lull. Pierre and Yuki left to argue about couches somewhere else. Charles remained in his corner, alternating between typing and staring at his phone with an expression of deep concentration. Carlos busied himself with inventory, restocking cups, wiping surfaces that did not need wiping.
At four o'clock, the door opened again. Carlos looked up, expecting a customer. Instead, he saw Max Verstappen standing in the doorway, helmet tucked under his arm, looking slightly uncomfortable.
"I forgot to pay," Max said.
"You paid. I remember."
"Oh." Max shifted his weight. "Right. Well. I wanted another coffee then."
Carlos raised an eyebrow but did not comment. He made the coffee. Max took it. He did not leave.
"Is he still here?" Max asked, trying to sound casual and failing completely.
"In the corner. Same spot as before."
"Good. I mean. That is fine. I was just wondering."
"You were just wondering," Carlos repeated.
"Yes." Max took a sip of his coffee. Burned his tongue. Did not react. "Do you know if he is single?"
Carlos felt something twist in his chest. He ignored it. "I do not ask my customers about their relationship status."
"Could you ask?"
"No."
"What if I paid you?"
"Still no."
Max frowned. He looked at Charles again. Charles was looking back. The eye contact lasted exactly three seconds before Charles ducked his head, focusing intently on his screen with the exaggerated absorption of someone pretending not to have been caught.
"Interesting," Max muttered. He turned and left, leaving the door swinging behind him.
Carlos watched him go. Then he watched Charles pretend to work. Then he watched the empty doorway and wondered why his hands were trembling slightly as he reached for the next cup to clean.
------
Three days later, Carlos found himself standing outside the fortune telling parlor with a container of soup and absolutely no explanation for why he was there.
The parlor was small. Cluttered. Velvet curtains hung in the windows, and the sign above the door read "Leclerc Readings" in gold letters that had started to peel at the edges. Carlos had walked past it hundreds of times. He had never gone inside.
He went inside now.
The interior was dim. Candles flickered on every surface, casting dancing shadows across walls covered in tapestries and framed photographs. A round table dominated the center of the room, draped in purple cloth and scattered with cards. Charles sat behind it, wearing a silk shirt that was probably too expensive for someone who stole WiFi from his neighbor.
"Carlos." Charles did not look surprised. "I was wondering when you would come."
"You were wondering?"
"I predicted it. Three days ago. Right after the blond man left your shop for the second time."
Carlos set the soup on the table. "I brought you food. You skipped lunch again."
"I was working."
"You are always working. You need to eat."
Charles looked at the container. Then at Carlos. Something shifted in his expression, something soft and vulnerable that he quickly masked with a smirk. "Are you worried about me, barista?"
"I am worried about my favorite customer starving to death in my booth. Bad for business."
"Of course. Business."
There was a pause. Carlos sat down in the chair across from Charles without being invited. The candles flickered. The cards lay face-down on the table, waiting.
"Read for me," Carlos said.
Charles blinked. "What?"
"Read my fortune. That is what you do, is it not? Read fortunes?"
"I do readings. Yes. But I usually charge."
"I brought you soup. Consider it payment."
Charles hesitated. Then he picked up the cards and began to shuffle them with practiced ease. His hands moved gracefully, the silver rings catching the candlelight. Carlos watched the motion, mesmerized despite himself.
"Cut the deck," Charles instructed.
Carlos cut.
Charles laid out the cards in a pattern Carlos did not recognize. He studied them for a long moment, his brow furrowing. Then he looked up at Carlos with an expression that was difficult to read.
"Interesting."
"What is interesting?"
"This spread. It is unusual." Charles tapped one card. "You have a connection to someone. Someone from your past. Someone who is going to reappear in your life soon."
"I do not have anyone from my past I want to see again."
"The cards say otherwise." Charles turned over another card. "And there is something else. A choice. A big one. It is coming faster than you expect."
"What kind of choice?"
"The kind that changes everything."
Carlos leaned back in his chair. "That is vague."
"Fortunes are vague. That is how they work. Specificity ruins the mystery."
"You are making this up."
"I am not." Charles sounded offended. "I never make things up. My predictions are accurate eighty percent of the time."
"What about the other twenty percent?"
"I blame the WiFi. Weak signal interferes with my connection to the spiritual realm."
Carlos laughed despite himself. The sound surprised him. He had not laughed much lately, not with the stress of running the shop alone, not with the weight of things he did not talk about pressing down on his shoulders.
Charles smiled at the sound. It was genuine, unguarded, and it transformed his face entirely.
"You should laugh more," Charles said quietly. "It suits you."
Carlos looked away. "I should get back to the shop."
"You should stay."
"I cannot."
"You can. The shop will survive without you for ten more minutes."
Carlos wanted to stay. He wanted to stay very badly. That was precisely why he stood up, pushed the chair back, and walked toward the door.
"Thank you for the soup," Charles called after him.
"Eat it while it is hot."
"I will. Carlos?"
He paused with his hand on the door handle.
"The blond man. Max. He came to see me yesterday."
Carlos turned. "He did?"
"He wanted a reading. Asked specifically about relationships." Charles's voice was careful, measured. "He asked if he would find someone. If there was someone meant for him."
"What did you tell him?"
"I told him the cards were unclear. That he would have to wait and see."
"That is not true."
"No. It is not." Charles picked up one of the cards, turning it over in his fingers. "The cards were very clear. They showed him with someone. Someone he has already met. Someone close."
Carlos's heart hammered against his ribs. "Who?"
"The cards did not say names. They never do. But they showed a coffee shop. And a fortune teller. And a barista who makes excellent lattes."
The silence stretched between them. Carlos gripped the door handle so hard his knuckles went white.
"That is not a reading," he said. "That is a confession."
"Maybe it is both."
Carlos opened the door. Cold air rushed in, extinguishing two of the candles. "I have to go."
"Carlos."
He stopped.
"Come back tomorrow. I will read for you again. Free of charge."
Carlos did not answer. He stepped out into the evening and closed the door behind him, leaning against the wall of the parlor and breathing deeply until his heart stopped racing.
------
Max started coming to the coffee shop every day.
It was subtle at first. A coffee in the morning. Another in the afternoon. Sometimes he stayed, sitting at the table near the window where he could watch the door of the fortune telling parlor across the street. Sometimes he ordered and left, but always with a lingering glance toward the velvet curtains.
Carlos watched this pattern develop with a mixture of amusement and something he refused to name. He watched Max pretend to read a magazine while actually watching Charles step out for air. He watched Charles pretend not to notice while obviously noticing everything. He watched them circle each other like planets caught in each other's gravity, drawing closer with each orbit.
On Thursday, Max stayed for three hours.
He ordered four coffees. He read the same page of his magazine seventeen times. And when Charles finally emerged from his parlor to stretch his legs, Max was out of his seat and at the door before Carlos could blink.
"Hey," Max said. It was not smooth. It was awkward and stilted and painfully earnest.
Charles stopped. "Hello."
"I am Max. We have not officially met. I came to your parlor yesterday."
"I remember."
"Right. Of course you remember. You are a fortune teller. You probably saw me coming."
"I did, actually."
Max laughed. It was a surprised sound, like he had not expected to find anything funny. "Did you see this coming too? Us talking right now?"
Charles tilted his head. "I saw something. I am not sure what it means yet."
"It means I want to buy you dinner."
"Dinner?"
"Dinner. Food. At a restaurant. Tonight."
Charles glanced over Max's shoulder, toward the coffee shop. Toward Carlos, who was watching them through the window with a towel frozen mid-wipe in his hands.
"I have plans tonight," Charles said.
"Tomorrow then."
"I have plans tomorrow too."
"The next day."
Charles smiled. It was sharp and knowing and full of secrets. "Ask me again in a week. If you still want to."
"I will want to."
"We will see."
Max watched him walk back to his parlor. He stood there for a full minute after the door closed, staring at the peeling gold letters like they held the answers to the universe.
Then he turned and walked back into the coffee shop.
"He is impossible," Max announced, sliding onto a stool at the counter.
"He is a fortune teller. They are all impossible."
"How do I get him to say yes?"
Carlos considered the question. He considered his own feelings, tangled and complicated and buried so deep he barely acknowledged them himself. He considered the right thing to do versus the thing he wanted to do.
"Be patient," he said finally. "Charles does not trust easily. He needs to see that you are serious."
"I am serious."
"Show him. Do not tell him. Actions matter more than words."
Max nodded slowly. "You know him well."
"I have known him for six months. He steals my WiFi and drinks my lattes and predicts doom for my regular customers. I know him well enough."
"And you do not mind? Me pursuing him?"
Carlos's throat tightened. "Why would I mind?"
"No reason." Max studied him for a moment. "No reason at all."
He left without finishing his coffee.
------
Pierre showed up at closing time with a bottle of wine and a desperate expression.
"I need your help," he said, setting the bottle on the counter with more force than necessary. "Yuki is going to kill me."
"What did you do?"
"Nothing. That is the problem. She wants me to meet her parents. Tomorrow."
"And you do not want to meet her parents?"
"I want to meet her parents. I want to marry her parents. I want to adopt her parents. But I am terrified. What if they hate me? What if I say something stupid? What if I accidentally insult their culture because I am an idiot foreigner who does not know how to behave?"
Carlos uncorked the wine. "You are panicking."
"I am panicking."
"Stop panicking."
"Helpful advice. Thank you. I am cured."
They sat in the quiet of the empty coffee shop, drinking wine from mismatched mugs because Carlos had not washed the glasses yet. Pierre talked about Yuki with the enthusiasm of someone who had fallen hard and fast and had no regrets about it.
"She is incredible," Pierre said. "She is smart and funny and she does not put up with my nonsense. She calls me out on everything. She makes me want to be better."
"That sounds like love."
"It is love. I am in love. It is terrifying."
Carlos refilled their mugs. "Love is supposed to be terrifying. If it is not terrifying, you are not doing it right."
"When did you become a philosopher?"
"When I started serving coffee to fortune tellers. It rubs off on you."
Pierre laughed. Then his expression turned serious. "Speaking of fortune tellers. Charles."
"What about him?"
"He likes you."
Carlos choked on his wine. "What?"
"He likes you. I have known him my whole life. I know what he looks like when he cares about someone. He looks at you the way I look at Yuki."
"That is ridiculous. He looks at everyone like that. It is part of his mysterious fortune teller persona."
"It is not. Trust me." Pierre leaned forward. "And I think you like him too."
"I do not."
"You do. I see the way you watch him. The way you make his coffee exactly how he likes it without him asking. The way you brought him soup last week."
"That was pity. He looked hungry."
"It was love. You looked in love."
Carlos set down his mug. "Even if I did feel something, which I am not saying I do, there is Max to consider."
"Max? The motorcycle guy?"
"He is interested in Charles. He has been coming in every day. He asked Charles to dinner."
"And Charles said no."
"He said ask me again in a week."
Pierre snorted. "Classic Charles. Keeping his options open. But here is the thing about Charles. He does not keep options open unless he is unsure. And he is only unsure when he already has a preference."
"What is his preference?"
"You, you idiot."
Carlos stared at the dregs of wine in his mug. "I do not know what to do with that information."
"You figure it out. You talk to him. You stop hiding behind espresso machines and pretending you do not care."
"It is not that simple."
"It is exactly that simple. Love is simple. People complicate it."
Pierre finished his wine and stood up. "I have to go. Yuki is waiting. But think about what I said. And Carlos?"
"Yes?"
"Do not let fear make your choices for you. I spent years doing that. It is a miserable way to live."
He left. Carlos sat alone in the dark coffee shop, surrounded by the ghosts of conversations and the lingering scent of espresso, and tried to figure out what he wanted.
------
The next morning, Charles did not show up.
Carlos waited. He made coffee. He cleaned the machine. He rearranged the pastries in the display case. He checked the clock more times than he cared to admit.
By noon, he was worried.
By one, he was pacing.
By two, he had locked the shop and was standing outside the fortune telling parlor, knocking on the door with increasing urgency.
"Charles. Open up."
Silence.
"Charles, I know you are in there. Your lights are on. Open the door."
Still nothing.
Carlos tried the handle. It turned. The door swung open.
The parlor was empty.
The candles were unlit. The cards were stacked neatly in the center of the table. A note sat on top of them, written in Charles's elegant handwriting.
Carlos -
I went to visit my mother. She is not well. I will be gone for a few days.
Do not worry about me. I will be back before you know it.
In the meantime, keep the WiFi password the same. I will need it when I return.
- C
Carlos read the note three times. He folded it carefully and put it in his pocket. Then he walked back to the coffee shop and resumed his shift like nothing had happened.
But he kept his hand in his pocket, touching the edge of the paper, feeling the weight of words unsaid.
------
Four days later, Charles returned.
He walked into the coffee shop at exactly the moment when Carlos was closing up. He looked tired. His hair was messier than usual, his shirt wrinkled, his eyes shadowed.
"You are back," Carlos said.
"I am back."
"How is your mother?"
"Better. She will recover. It was a scare more than anything serious."
"I am glad."
They stood in the doorway of the coffee shop, the evening light filtering through the windows, dust motes floating in the air between them.
"I missed your coffee," Charles said quietly.
"I missed you stealing my WiFi."
"That too."
Carlos locked the door behind them. They stood in the empty shop, the espresso machine silent, the chairs stacked on tables, the world outside fading into twilight.
"Why did you really leave?" Carlos asked.
Charles looked at him. Really looked. His green eyes searched Carlos's face for something, some answer to a question he had not yet asked.
"I needed to think."
"About what?"
"About you. About Max. About what I want."
"And what do you want?"
Charles stepped closer. Close enough that Carlos could smell his cologne, could see the tiny imperfections in his skin, could count the rings on his fingers.
"I want to stop predicting the future and start living it."
He kissed Carlos.
It was soft. Gentle. Questioning. As if Charles was afraid Carlos might pull away.
Carlos did not pull away.
He cupped Charles's face in his hands and kissed him back, deeper, surer, pouring six months of denial and longing into a single moment.
When they broke apart, Charles was smiling. It was the real smile, the one he hid behind sarcasm and mystery and carefully constructed walls.
"I did not see that coming," Charles admitted.
"Liar."
"I swear. The cards did not show this."
"Maybe your WiFi was down."
"Maybe." Charles laughed. "Or maybe some things are better when they are a surprise."
Carlos kissed him again. Slower this time. Memorizing the shape of his mouth, the warmth of his skin, the way he fit perfectly against Carlos's body.
"What about Max?" Carlos asked eventually.
"Max is a nice man. Handsome. Successful. But he is not you."
"He asked you to dinner."
"He did. I said no."
"You said ask me again in a week."
"I lied. I knew I would not be here. I knew I would be with you."
Carlos pulled back slightly. "How did you know?"
Charles touched his chest, right over his heart. "I did not need cards for this. I just knew."
------
The coffee shop became theirs.
Charles moved his operation permanently to the corner booth. He stopped charging for readings, instead accepting payment in lattes and pastries and the occasional kiss from the barista when no one was looking.
Max came in one more time. He saw Charles sitting in Carlos's lap behind the counter. He saw the way they looked at each other. He nodded once, paid for his coffee, and left without a word.
He came back a week later with a different girl. She had red hair and a loud laugh. Max smiled at her in a way that was genuine, not desperate.
"Good for him," Charles said, watching them through the window.
"Good for him," Carlos agreed.
Pierre and Yuki got engaged. Pierre proposed in the coffee shop, down on one knee, ring box shaking in his hands. Yuki said yes. The entire shop applauded. Charles cried. Carlos pretended he was not crying too.
Life settled into a rhythm. Mornings were for coffee and quiet conversations. Afternoons were for readings and regulars and the comfortable chaos of a small business. Evenings were for locking the door and turning off the machines and falling into bed together, exhausted and happy and full of something that felt like forever.
One night, lying in the dark, Charles spoke.
"I love you."
Carlos turned to look at him. The moonlight filtered through the curtains, casting silver shadows across Charles's face.
"I love you too."
"Good. Because I predicted this. From the very beginning."
"You said you did not see it coming."
"I lied. I saw it coming the first time I walked into your shop. You were wiping the counter. You looked annoyed. And I thought, that one. That one is mine."
Carlos laughed. "You are impossible."
"I am a fortune teller. It comes with the territory."