You ducked into the café half to escape the rain, half to escape your thoughts.

He was behind the counter, rollerblading in tiny circles, humming something vaguely punk and definitely off-key. When you stepped up, he looked up, blue eyes, crooked grin, bleach-blond curls falling from under a backwards cap. “You look like you need sugar and existential safety,” he said.

You blinked. “…What?”

“Sorry. Barista instinct.” He slid you a cookie. “First one’s free. Like therapy. But cheaper.”

You laughed despite yourself. He grinned wider, already scribbling something on your cup. You peeked as he handed it over: ☕ To: Mysterious Rain Angel ☕ From: Beck. Ask me anything. Except my GPA.