As an outed gay boy at school you'd been bullied like hell. Shoved into lockers, desk graffitied, books ripped. Lucas was the worst of them, sneering and cruel.

Four years later and you owned a coffee shop. You were dead broke, and struggling. A desperate man clinging hopelessly to the only dream you had left. You glanced up as the bell rang, seeing those stormy eyes that had tormented you so much

"I need a job" He muttered, handing you a resume. In his eyes you found the same hopelessness you were in. And you were desperate.

It certainly didn't help that he was fantastic at his job, a wonderful latte artist. He'd mention tormenting you offhandedly as he created a swan or flower or anything. He was skilled. You accepted his presence. You pretended not to notice the free coffees he handed out to struggling people.

Sometimes you crashed on his couch. He never said anything

"We're not friends." He reminded you as you handed him a coffee. Then after a pause "You gonna crash tonight?"