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The espresso machine hissed like a disgruntled cat, a sound that had become the grating soundtrack to Regulus Black’s life. Steam clouded his vision, and the rich, bitter scent of coffee, once a pleasant aroma, now felt like it had seeped into his very bones, a permanent, acidic stain. He wiped down the counter with a savage twist of his cloth, his expression a carefully constructed mask of icy neutrality.
This was purgatory in an apron. A necessary, soul-crushing purgatory, but purgatory all the same.
Every day, the same parade of humanity. The indecisive ones who stared at the board for ten minutes only to order a black coffee. The ones who spoke in a language of ridiculous, infantilizing sizes—‘venti’, ‘grande’—as if they were ordering a potion at a theme park. The overly cheerful morning people who deserved a special circle of hell. And the truly rude, the ones who snapped their fingers or complained about the temperature of milk steamed to a precise 65 degrees Celsius.
Regulus hated them all. The nice ones were almost worse; their boundless goodwill felt like a personal affront to his simmering misery.
He could do this. He repeated it like a mantra. He had to do this. The paychecks, modest as they were, were the bricks building his escape route. They paid for his tiny, shared flat and his university tuition, the two things that stood between him and the gilded cage he’d been born into. The cage his brother, Sirius, had shattered for both of them.
The thought of Sirius was the one warm ember in this cold, caffeinated hell. They had escaped the oppressive, dark-walled mansion of their parents together, a midnight flight fueled by desperation and a shared, silent pact. But where Sirius had become a phoenix, rising from the ashes as a carefree mechanic who laughed with his hands covered in grease, Regulus felt more like a ghost, haunting the sterile confines of ‘The Grind’, silently counting the minutes until his shift ended.
Sirius had burned the bridge; Regulus was the one quietly, diligently building a new one on the other side. He didn’t need to be a burner. He was a builder. Even if the construction site was driving him insane.
At 10:03 AM, the bell above the door chimed. Regulus didn’t need to look up. The shift in the atmosphere was palpable. The sunlight streaming through the front window seemed to get brighter, the generic indie music from the speakers suddenly sounded sweeter, and the very air hummed with a new, golden energy.
James Potter had arrived.
Regulus’s spine straightened almost imperceptibly. He focused intently on polishing an already-spotless portafilter, his heart performing a complicated, arrhythmic tap dance against his ribs.
“Morning, Reg!” a voice called out, warm and bright enough to power the entire city grid.
James Potter was a university student, a walking stereotype of a golden retriever encased in human form. He was all messy dark hair, glasses slightly askew, and a smile that could probably convince a corpse to sit up and ask for a juice cleanse. He radiated a wholesome, effortless kindness that Regulus found both baffling and utterly intoxicating.
And he was, without fail, the worst part of Regulus’s day. Because he was also the best.
James bounced up to the counter, his worn leather satchel slung over one shoulder. “How’s it going?”
“It’s going,” Regulus muttered, still not meeting his eyes. He could feel a treacherous heat creeping up his neck. Do not blush. Do not you dare.
“Fantastic! Same for me. Just the usual, please. Need the sugar hit before Professor Binns tries to euthanize us with twelfth-century economic theory.”
The ‘usual’ was an abomination. A grande (he refused to say ‘large’) caramel crunch frappuccino with extra whipped cream, extra caramel drizzle, and an extra shot of espresso, which, in Regulus’s professional opinion, completely defeated the purpose of the entire sickly-sweet endeavor. It was a dessert pretending to be coffee, a crime against the sacred bean.
“Right,” Regulus said, his voice clipped. He turned to the machine, his movements becoming sharp, precise, and utterly focused.
This was his secret ritual. While James chatted easily with another barista, Marlene, Regulus entered his zone. The milk was steamed to a microfoam so perfect it looked like white satin, even though it would be buried under a mountain of whipped cream. The espresso shot was pulled at the exact second it began to blond, ensuring maximum flavor without a hint of bitterness. He assembled the monstrosity with the solemn focus of a heart surgeon, layering the syrups with geometric precision.
Then came the finale. The whipped cream. And on its pristine white peak, with a steady hand that betrayed none of his internal chaos, he wrote the name. James.
Not a hasty scrawl. Not a simple ‘J’. It was calligraphy. Each letter was formed with deliberate, artful curves, the ‘J’ elegantly looped, the ‘a’ perfectly rounded, the ‘s’s’ flowing into one another. It was a love letter written in cocoa powder and stupidity. He would then strategically obliterate his artwork with a hail of caramel crunch topping, hiding his vulnerability under a layer of sugary rubble.
He slid the cup across the counter. “Four-eighty.”
“You’re a lifesaver, Reg, honestly,” James said, beaming that devastating smile directly at him. He always paid in exact change, his fingers brushing Regulus’s ever so slightly during the exchange. The contact was a tiny jolt of lightning, a spark that travelled straight up Regulus’s arm and settled in his chest, where it smoldered for hours.
“It’s my job,” Regulus replied, looking pointedly at the queue already forming behind James.
James just laughed, uncharmed and unoffended. “See you tomorrow!”
And he was gone, taking all the light in the room with him.
Regulus let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Pathetic, he chastised himself. You’re a Black. You were raised with notions of blood purity and celestial grandeur, and now you’re swooning over a boy who drinks liquid candy and has the emotional depth of a happy puddle. He was a grumpy, over-caffeinated barista with a chronic scowl and a student loan. James Potter was sunshine incarnate. Their orbits were not meant to intersect.
The weeks bled into one another, a monotony of steam and syrup. James came. Regulus crafted his perfect abomination. They exchanged the same thirty seconds of banal dialogue. The blush never ceased. The longing, stupid and hopeless, became a permanent resident in Regulus’s heart.
One Tuesday, everything felt… off. The espresso machine was temperamental, a customer had yelled at him over a five-pence price increase, and he’d burned his thumb on the steam wand. He was a tightly coiled spring of irritation, counting down the seconds until his shift ended at 2 PM. He was due to meet Sirius for a late lunch, and the promise of his brother’s chaotic, understanding presence was the only thing keeping him from walking out.
At 1:58 PM, he was untying his apron, his body already half-turned toward the back room and freedom, when the bell chimed.
No. No, absolutely not.
He turned, ready to direct the latecomer to the other, more willing barista, and the words died in his throat.
It was James. But not the James he knew. This James was rumpled. His hair was even more dishevelled than usual, his shoulders were slumped, and the brilliant smile was nowhere to be seen. He looked… defeated.
“You’re closing,” James said, his voice lacking its usual buoyancy. It was a statement, not a question.
Regulus’s internal clock, always precise, screamed at him. Two minutes. You are free in two minutes. Give a curt nod, walk away.
Instead, he heard himself say, “I have time.”
The words sounded alien in his own voice, which was softer than he’d intended.
James looked up, a flicker of surprise in his tired eyes. “Oh. Uh. Could I just get an Americano? Black. Actually, make it a double.”
No caramel crunch. No whipped cream. This was serious.
Regulus nodded, turning back to the machine. He didn’t question it. He poured his focus into this new, simpler task. The perfect double shot, hot water at the right temperature. It was a drink he could respect. He placed the minimalist ceramic cup on the counter.
James took it, his fingers wrapping around the warmth. “Thanks. Rough day.”
“I can see that,” Regulus said. He was leaning against the counter, his escape forgotten. Sirius would wait.
“Just… everything. Essays. Family stuff. Feel like I’m failing at it all,” James mumbled, staring into his coffee.
A strange impulse seized Regulus. He reached under the counter and—ignoring every rule about upselling and waste—placed a small, perfect, lemon-pistachio biscotti next to James’s cup. “It’s on the house.”
James looked at the biscotti, then at Regulus, a real, genuine, if small, smile touching his lips. “You’re not as scary as you look, you know?”
Regulus felt his cheeks flame. Damn it. “I’m plenty scary. You’re just… an exception.”
The words hung in the air between them, far more revealing than he’d ever meant to be. The shop was empty except for them. The silence was thick, charged.
James straightened up, his exhaustion seeming to lift slightly. He looked at Regulus, really looked at him, not as the surly barista who made his coffee, but as… a person.
“Regulus,” he said, and the sound of his full name in James’s mouth was a thrilling, terrifying intimacy. “I don’t actually like those frappuccino things. They’re disgustingly sweet.”
Regulus blinked. “What?”
“I hate them. I have to force it down every day.”
A confused frown creased Regulus’s brow. “Then why… for months… why would you order it?”
James took a step closer, his gaze intense, locking onto Regulus’s. “Because it’s the only thing on the menu that takes you more than thirty seconds to make. Because you always write my name. And I like watching you concentrate. I like the way you bite your lip when you’re focusing on the foam. I come here at the same time every day for you. Not for the coffee.”
The world tilted on its axis. The hissed espresso machine, the chalkboard menu, the scent of vanilla syrup—it all faded into a distant hum. All that existed was James’s earnest, open face and the seismic shift his words had caused in Regulus’s universe.
All this time. The stupid drink, the perfect letters, the blushes he tried to hide… he’d seen it all. And he’d been coming back for it.
“You…” Regulus started, his voice barely a whisper. “You what?”
“I think you’re brilliant,” James said, his voice soft but firm. “And mysterious. And you have the most beautiful handwriting I’ve ever seen. And I’ve been trying to work up the courage to ask you out for, like, two months. The disgusting coffee was my penance.”
Regulus couldn’t breathe. This was a joke. A cruel, beautiful joke. He was a ghost, a builder, a grumpy barista. He was not someone that James Potter, golden and bright, spent months pining over.
“You want to…” The words ‘date me’ stuck in his throat, too absurd, too wonderful to voice.
“Yeah,” James said, a hopeful, nervous version of his famous smile finally returning. “I really do. That is, if you think you could stand me for more than the time it takes to make a terrible beverage.”
Regulus looked down at his hands, at the small burn on his thumb, at the counter he’d wiped clean a thousand times. He thought of the escape he was building, brick by boring brick. He thought of the brother who had taught him that burning down your old life was only the first step; you had to be brave enough to build a new one, and brave enough to let good things into it.
He took a deep breath, pushing aside the fear, the ingrained cynicism, the voice that whispered he wasn’t made for this kind of light.
He looked up, and for the first time in that coffee shop, he let a true, unguarded, small smile touch his own lips.
“I suppose I could tolerate it,” Regulus said, his tone feigning its usual dryness, but his eyes, he knew, were giving him away completely. “But you’re ordering a proper drink next time. I have a reputation to uphold.”
James’s face split into a radiant, triumphant grin. “Anything you want. How about tomorrow? Seven o’clock? There’s a place that does decent coffee. And… actual food.”
“Tomorrow,” Regulus agreed, the word feeling like a promise, like a new beginning.
James grabbed his untouched americano and the biscotti, his step light again. “It’s a date.”
He left, and the bell’s chime sounded different this time. Less like an alarm, more like a celebration.
Regulus stood alone in the quiet shop, the late afternoon sun painting golden stripes on the floor. The air still smelled of coffee, but for the first time, it smelled… good. It smelled like possibility. He untied his apron, balled it up, and tossed it into the laundry bin with a sense of finality.
The job was still a means to an end. The people would still be irritating. But now, there was a new thread woven into the fabric of his days, a thread the colour of sunshine and a stupid, sweet smile. And for the first time since he’d started, Regulus Black couldn’t wait for his shift tomorrow.