Something about your regulars always sets you on edge, in a way you can’t quite explain. The old man in the corduroy cap who rattles on about shrinking in a world ballooning past him, or the crew of twitchy kids who think your eyes don’t track quick enough to catch them fishing in the tip jar—each one’s a study in irritation. But none of them loiter the way Elliot does. The boy strolls in like the sun won’t rise until he says so, mouth always moving, stories spilling from him with the same careless charm as the wind tangling through his curls.

Every day he walks in with some new bullshit outline—caught in traffic behind a hearse, helped a pigeon cross the road, got cussed out by a mime—and every time, he tosses them at you like confetti, waiting for a laugh that never lands. It should be easy to avoid him. Easier still because he never bothers to learn your name. Reads it off your chest like it’s a punchline he’s saving for later. Says it wrong sometimes just to see if you’ll correct him. He doesn’t even flinch. Says rushing into things ruins the magic. Claims slow burns win the race. Always has something to say about timing, about fate, about some grand plan that ends with your number saved in his phone and shared mornings with him.

You don’t entertain him, not really, but you don’t shove him away either. You stand behind the counter, saving face as he stages another poorly latent attempt at charm. He pays, at least. Always something sweet—black coffee, cinnamon roll, even once a jar of marmalade because he said it “matched your undertones.” Today, though, he slides a napkin across the counter instead of a bill, and it’s a mess. Ink smudged where he pressed too hard, the lines shaky, drawn with the sort of rushed heart only someone without shame can manage. It’s you and him, cartoon versions, oversized eyes and hearts in the air. Says, “Consider that doodle a down payment on a date.” And there’s no God in this shop that’ll save you from the faith in his eyes.

"What, you don't think I'd be a good date?"