Black Coffee, Red Necklace
Taylor stepped into the café with their sketchbook hugged to their chest like a shield. The soft chime of the door was swallowed by jazz playing through dusty speakers, and the smell—coffee beans and cinnamon—settled in their lungs like a familiar poem.
Their eyes scanned the room, bored at first, until— There.
Tucked awkwardly into a chair far too small for his broad frame, a man in a navy coat looked like someone had cut and pasted him into the scene by mistake. He was large, in a gentle giant kind of way, with strong hands wrapped tightly around a ceramic cup. His salt-and-pepper hair was neat, too neat, and he kept checking his watch like time was a slippery fish he couldn’t hold.
And his face?
Blushing.
He caught sight of them and immediately sat up straighter, knocking the table just enough to wobble the drinks. Taylor blinked, then smiled—a little crookedly, like they knew a secret.
Oh. He’s cute.
“Hi,” they said, voice smooth as black ink on wet paper. “Chris, right?”
Chris stood up way too fast and bumped the chair. “Yes! I mean—yeah. Chris. That’s me. Hi. Hello.” He offered a handshake, then pulled it back awkwardly. “Do people still… shake hands?”
Kuro raised a brow, amused. “Only if you’re trying to sell me a used car.”
Chris laughed, then immediately looked horrified at himself for laughing. He gestured to the seat across from him. “I, uh, got your drink. I hope it’s right. I saw it mentioned on your—on that post you made last winter. With the snow.”
Their brows lifted. “You remembered that?”
He nodded, cheeks tinting pink. “I have a weird memory for… things that matter.” He pushed a mug toward them and then, with all the subtlety of a panicked turtle, reached into his coat pocket. “Also—I got you something. You really don’t have to take it if it’s weird. I wasn’t sure if gifts on first meetings are creepy or cute or—anyway, here.”
It was a small velvet box. Inside? A simple ruby pendant on a silver chain. Nothing flashy. Just… thoughtful. Red like winter warmth. Like cherries and blush and the color he imagined on their lips when they smiled.
Taylor looked at it. Then at him.
“...You’re not creepy.” They picked it up and held it to the light. “You’re sweet. And very, very nervous.”
Chris chuckled, voice sheepish. “Is it that obvious?”
“You’re practically vibrating. But I like that. Makes you real.” They leaned in a little, sipping their drink. “So tell me, Mr. Real—what made you swipe right on me?”
Chris blinked. “You… looked like someone who’d see through me.”
Taylor tilted their head. “…And you wanted that?”
He nodded slowly, finally meeting their gaze with something stronger than nerves.
“Yeah. I think I did.”
The café around them seemed to shift—like time itself exhaled and softened.
It was the kind of place that felt preserved, not just in decor, but in intention. Exposed brick walls bore faded posters of jazz legends, their corners curling slightly as if leaning into the music. The floorboards creaked softly with every step, speaking in the hush-hush language of old wood. A fern in the corner looked like it had been there since disco died, and behind the counter, a barista with a nose ring and a dreamy expression moved as though choreographed, milk steaming like breath in winter.
The light was mellow—sepia-toned and forgiving—spilling through tall windows in a way that turned everyone inside into a painting. And in that painting, in that perfectly imperfect corner booth where shadows swam lazily around the edges of the table, Taylor and Chris were suddenly the focal point.
The pendant in Taylor’s hand caught one lazy shaft of sunlight and threw it back in soft red. It shimmered like a tiny heartbeat.
Chris watched them turn it between their fingers, and he looked a little like someone witnessing a miracle. Or maybe just hoping he wasn’t ruining one.
“You know,” Taylor said, voice laced with the same velvet comfort as the jazz saxophone humming low in the background, “if I were writing this moment, there’d be a metaphor about time stopping right here.”
Chris gave a crooked little grin. “What, like, I watched the universe pause so you could choose me?”
Taylor snorted into their cup. “Okay, that’s too poetic. Who are you, a love-struck Victorian ghost?”
He laughed again, easier this time. His body relaxed a notch, shoulders loosening, one hand curling around the base of his mug like he was grounding himself with the heat.
“I just meant… this feels like one of those memories,” he said, softer now, eyes skimming over their face. “The kind that sticks around long after everything else has gone fuzzy.”
Taylor’s smile curved slow and wide, like honey dripping off a spoon.
“You’re dangerously charming, Chris.”
He blinked. “Dangerous? I’ve been described as a human-sized golden retriever with anxiety.”
“Exactly,” they whispered, setting the pendant gently down and leaning forward so their forearms rested on the table. “The kind of dangerous that makes people fall without checking for parachutes.”
Outside, the world kept doing its thing—buses wheezed past, a kid skateboarding nearly ate pavement, a dog barked at its own reflection. But in the hush between them, time really did hesitate.
And for the first time in a long time, neither of them wanted it to move.
Not just yet.
