Tronnor One-Shots

The Tale of a Caffeinated Angel

A/N: This is the sequel to my one-shot The Tale of the Cute Barista. They are quite knitted together, so make sure you read that one first. But, most importantly, enjoy!

"'...And suddenly we see

That love costs all we are

And will ever be.

Yet it is only love

Which sets us free.'"

For a week, I've seen him. With my physical eyes, with the eyes of my dream-self, with my heart pleading every second for me to hop over the counter and scoop him into my arms. For a week. He's been a mannequin under a stylish skin; something of such appeal, but behind a plastic barrier of my own reserve and of his. I remember the first time he walked into the shop, his short legs encased in tight, black denim, carrying him with a cute and quick-stepped stride. However, he held himself within a bubble of isolation, his downcast eyes seemingly trained to avoid human connection; guarded, an image of someone who typically mumbled and was unfriendly. He seemed this way, until he raised his honeydew eyes and placed his order with a sweet voice. A little twist of a smile. Stunning me with a kind burst of sunshine. At that first nanosecond of eye contact, my heart spasmed a little, because his beauty reached from his top to his toe to the swirls of hazel circling his pupils. Oh, how I wanted to know him.

Oh, and how I am grateful as I sit with him now. How grateful am I to watch his tongue push a concluding stanza from his mouth, to witness the most gorgeous blush spread across his cheeks. I snap my fingers in applause, as if we are at a poetry slam instead of a run-down pizza parlour, and his face just gets redder.

"That was a beautiful poem, Connor." I praise, gently taking his hand from across the table. It is soft and small, with callouses on some of the inside knuckles. "Did you write that?"

Connor smiles with his teeth, watching our hands as our fingers unslot with a tender caress then tightly intertwine. He shakes his head. "Nah, I can't really write. It's Maya Angelou. Touched by an Angel."

"Well, you make it sound so gorgeous. How do you memorize it all?" I prop my chin on my hand, leaning in to get a better look at his sweet-featured face.

Flustered, Connor tugs his beanie over the tips of his ears. "Like I told you, poetry is a hobby of mine. Reading, writing, memorizing, making them into songs when I'm in the shower." He giggles with an angelic embarrassment. "Don't tell anybody about that last one."

I grin deliriously. "So you do write poetry."

"Yeah." Connor blushes. "But it's all kind of shitty..."

I bite the tip of my tongue impishly, leaning closer to him. "I don't believe a negative word you say about yourself. Your voice is like artwork, and the photographs for your gallery that you've shown me are printed ecstasies, no less. I'm pretty sure you can do anything you put your mind to, so can I hear some of your work? Please?"

Connor's eyes widen exponentially. "I-I, um...wow, you're so...forward. It's...you're making me blush, ah! Why are you so nice?!" He giggles, pulling his hand away from mine so he can hide his face behind his palms. I laugh along with him, reaching my hands over the table to gently remove his from blocking my view to his eyes. "Sorry." He apologizes. "I don't really take compliments that well."

"It's okay. I can be a little overbearing sometimes." I laugh, though I am not sorry for any of the truths I've expressed to Connor.

The green-eyed beauty plays with his hands. "Are you sure you want to hear them?" He asks nervously. "They might be really bad, I...I'm not a very interesting person. My creativity is lacking." He then refuses to meet my eyes, so I take matters into my own hands, literally...I take his hand in both of mine, holding his knuckles near my lips.