I had never been this smitten before.

Skye became a regular over the week, leading to the discovery, through brief, nearly one-sided awkward conversations, that he was an artist, an avid reader and that he thought I was an idiot. I deduced the latter on Monday, as I delivered a steaming matcha latte and a microwaved croissant to his table.

Naturally, I tripped and splattered tea across the canvas he had sketched on. ″I－I am so sorry,″ I spluttered. Blood rushed to my cheeks. All eyes in the café were on us. Worse, Skye merely glared, trashed the ruin sketch and left without a word.

Prior, deflated was never an adjective I used to describe myself. I looked down on the mess I had made; ceramic chips scattered across the floor and table, stained carpet, soggy croissant and eraser shavings. ″Don′t just stand there!″ came the store manager′s gritty voice. ″Clean it up, Bradley!″

* * *

Needless to say, I was relieved that Skye strolled in the next morning. The line was empty, and despite his clear hesitance upon seeing me behind the register, he came forth. I swallowed hard, grasping for the apology I rehearsed overnight. ″Hey, I′m sorry about －″

″Don′t.″

My heart sank. His eyes didn′t meet mine. Instead, he perused the menu he had undoubtedly memorised. I blew it, I thought, the realisation sinking in alongside defeat. He hates me. I′d spend the rest of winter break admiring Skye from afar, not getting to know him the way I had fantasised.

It wasn′t like I could quit my job, either. I needed the money for tuition fees, and if I couldn′t keep this one, I would never land another part-time hustle in uptown Manhattan. Coffee grinders whirred behind the counter. It felt as if my heart was nestled amongst the coffee grounds, blitzed to bits.

″The usual?″ I choked out. My thymus pulsed against my sternum. He′s just a boy, I thought to myself, but I didn′t believe it for a second. Skye was so, so much more.

He nodded. I punched in the order and scribbled his name on a cup. As I slid it along the counter to Leanna, Skye placed a clump of bills on the countertop. $5.45.

″I hated that sketch,″ he muttered abruptly. I looked up as I printed the receipt. Under his breath, he added, ″I hate all my sketches.″

I gaped, lost for words. I hadn′t seen much of his work, but I caught a glimpse of the portraits he sketched in the corner booth every now and then. Mentally kicking myself, I mustered enough breath to respond. ″They′re beautiful.″

I would have added, ″Just like you″ if that didn′t strike me as the quickest way to get slapped.

He chuckled drily; a testament to the dark lines that circled his eyes. ″Hey, um ... can I buy you a drink?″ I ventured. Skye pursed his lips, curled at the edges in an amused smirk. ″Later, I mean,″ I rushed to add. ″Once you get off work. I, uh ... I kinda owe you one.″

He shook his head. ″You don′t owe me anything.″

″Please? I feel bad.″

He sighed, but then ... ″Okay.″

″Okay?″

″Sure.″

Shit. It′s a date. No, it′s compensation. It didn′t matter; all I wanted was to see him. I couldn′t watch him leave and wait till the next morning, only to glimpse his beautiful face, never wading past the shallows of his ocean eyes.

Cool it, Brandon. Keep it casual.

″Right, then. Chill. I mean, cool. That′s casual.″ Skye quirked a brow. ″Um. So, my shift ends at five,″ I added lamely.

″I freelance.″ Leanna called out his order. Skye leant over the counter and plucked a Sharpie from my shirt pocket, uncapping it with his teeth to inscribe the plastic cup with an address. He slid it across the counter, cheeks reddened ever so slightly.

″See you at five thirty.″ I stared, speechless. He faced me with a coy smile before stepping out onto 6th Avenue, shooting me a wink. ″Oh, and you owe me two drinks.″

Before I could speak, he was gone. Only this time, he′d left me an address and a fairly suspicious drink.