Page 4 of Should Our Hearts Catch Fire

Fucking great. Just tell each other your whole life stories, why don’t you?

Ellis grinds his teeth, trying to recall all the stupid meditation techniques he's succumbed to in his attempts to manage anxiety and stress. It might finally come in handy now and prevent him from flipping his shit in a public place swarming with people.

You can always leave, you know?

Yeah, he knows. So why doesn’t he? Whenever he thinks of turning around and marching out, the strange feeling in his gutfrom before makes a comeback, rooting him to the spot. He must be coming down with something.

It’s fine. He’ll get his coffee and fuck off, making sure to avoid the place in future. Should be easy enough, because there can’t be anywhere else with such a ridiculous name.

He takes a deep breath when it’s almost his turn, the woman who ordered a simple, medium cap tapping her card to the terminal. He watches as the barista steps away from the till and grabs a new takeaway cup and a pen to write—

The fuck?

Ellis fucking bristles. He assumed the barista would write the type of the coffee on the cup, but he's sure that the short order the woman placed shouldn't take up the whole circumference of the cup. Did he just write his number on there?

“Are you kidding me?” Ellis hears himself speak. Both the woman and the barista snap their heads up to look at him with identical shocked expressions.

“Sorry?” the barista says.

From up-close, he looks even younger; all smooth skin and a mop of unruly, shaggy blond hair. He’s tall though, almost as tall as Ellis, give or take an inch or so. For some reason, that little observation annoys him. A pair of wide, amber eyes fix on him, swimming with confusion.

“There's a line of people waiting to order, and yet you seem to find the time to flirt with a customer and write your number on the cup. Good to know that you have your priorities straight. I'm sure your boss would love to hear it.”

He doesn’t feel any better once the words are out, his anger spiking when a voice inside his head that sounds exactly like his dad speaks.Resorting to making threats over stupid coffee? How pathetic are you?

He doesn’t realize he’d closed his eyes until someone clears their throat and he’s prompted to open them. The woman from before has moved on, and now it’s just him and the guy behind the till.

The barista doesn’t look like someone who was just reprimanded, rather harshly, by some dickhead in an Armani suit. There’s a softness in his gaze as he rakes it over Ellis’ face, a softness that has no place here after what Ellis just said. It’s making him uncomfortable, at a loss for how to react. His throat feels dry and uncooperative, and he has to resist a sudden urge to turn around and hide in his car. His brain really must be playing tricks on him, because he swears that there’s a golden glow to the guy’s eyes that wasn’t there a few seconds ago.

Thankfully, the guy blinks, breaking the weird not-quite spell that had Ellis in a chokehold for a moment. His eyes are a perfectly normal color—of course they are—and Ellis can breathe again.

“I'm sorry to have made you wait. What would you like?” the barista asks, not a trace of resentment or sarcasm in his voice.

Ellis exhales in a whoosh, pulling himself back together with the hope that he’ll leave this strange place within the next few minutes.

“A long black, the largest size you have. Two extra shots,” he parrots his usual order and watches as the barista reaches for a large cup. Halfway through Ellis’ order, he stops, eyebrows raised.

“You want...five shots?”

“Can you count?”

The guy hesitates. "Our large has three shots."

“So youcancount. Good on you,” Ellis snarks, too aggravated and out of sorts to feel guilty. The guy is probably seconds away from losing his shit.

“Sugar or milk?” he asks in that same, gentle voice.

“No, I take mine black.” Just like his heart.

The barista nods, typing the order in the till. “Anything else to go with it?”

Having foregone breakfast, Ellis has been eyeing the pastry display. The cinnamon rolls in particular look sinful, and he hasn’t indulged in so many carbs in a long time. But the last two minutes have effectively killed his appetite.

“No.”

“Can I have your name?”

“You can just call out the order, no?” How many people can possibly have the same order as him?