𝙃𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝘼𝙐 , dreamwastaken+wilbursoot ✔

But I watched your eyes

"Clay," I said, elbowing him. "What do you want?"

His eyes were still scanning the menu. "See, I always get the same thing, but I look every time anyway."

I couldn't help but grin; it was true: Clay always ended up getting a mocha latte, but spent five minutes thoroughly observing the menu nevertheless.

"One vanilla latte, please." I told the barista behind the counter. He looked to be about our age, with short fluffed dark brown hair and a sweet face, his lips pulled into a genuine smile, the kind of person who was impossible to dislike.

He nodded and marked our order, opening his mouth to state the price, when Clay finally looked down from the menu, his green, gaze meeting the barista's.

For a moment, I watched him falter, his eyes slightly widening, not as if he was surprised, but as if he was seeing something beautiful for the first time.

"Clay..." I said again after a moment, feeling strangely out of place - almost like a third wheel, which didn't make any sense at all, and yet . . .

"I'm - sorry," He said, blinking as if coming out of a daze. "Yeah, I'll just... have the same, a medium vanilla latte."

"Okay," The barista said after a moment, offering a wary smile, his deep brown eyes never leaving Clay's. "That'll be twelve twenty-one."

I swallowed, suddenly feeling uneasy, though I couldn't pinpoint why; maybe I'd simply eaten something bad, or maybe . . . maybe it was because of Clay, the way his eyes looked when they met the barista's.

He's done this before. It was okay for him to behave like this, but if I did anything remotely like he does to me. Suddenly I become the bad guy. "No mocha latte?" I questioned him quietly.

"I feel like trying something different." He shrugged indifferently.

｡:°ஐ

The familiar smell of filter coffee rose and dissipated into the crisp air, causing my nose to tingle. We watched the skilled hand of the barrister make the coffees and pour just the right amount into the mugs.

With a smile the barista set the mugs in front of us. Wisps of hazy white rose from the hot brown liquid. Clay took the warm cup into his hands, his tense muscles relaxing as his sipped slowly at his coffee. The smell of freshly grounded coffee beans stimulated every single feeling of bliss.

He drank it slowly, his addictive tongue whirled around the very existence of coffee.

I mentally smacked my head. Don't be ridiculous, I told myself, and yet I couldn't help but feel a sense of drowning hopelessness as my gaze dropped to the barista's nametag, the letters dark and bold, spelling out his first name.

'George.'