nina @patchoff1 - Tumblr Blog

Feb 12

café music ✶ cl16

charles leclerc x coffee shop owner!reader

soulmate au.

summary: the voice in your head isn't yours but your soulmate's, and your favorite regular at work is starting to sound really damn familiar.

contains: soulmate au, coffee shop owner!reader, strangers to lovers, cursing, fluff, charles is a regular at reader's coffee shop, no use of y/n

word count: 5.2k

playlist: dive — olivia dean; something stupid — frank sinatra

a/n: hiii!! this is the second fic of my series of oneshots patch of soulmates, and this one was lovely to write! thanks to @lyricsandvenom and @starry-132173 for reading this first, as usual, and I hope you enjoy <3

series masterlist! ◦ masterlist!

You don't think too much of it when he comes in that first time.

He comes in through the front door. The bell jingles, interrupting the soft jazz coming through the café's speakers. You look up, and there he is — good-looking, light-haired, blueish eyes. You smile your usual customer service smile and, before you can greet him, he speaks.

"Hi. Good morning."

It's nice. His voice is really nice. It rings low, carries a thick Monegasque accent you could pick out anywhere. You get a lot of different people with different accents in the café every day. Besides, you have a nice voice with a Monegasque accent speaking in your head all the time. But you've met a whole damn lot of Monegasque people since moving to help your aunt with the coffee shop in Monaco. So.

"Hello, good morning. How can I help you?"

The man freezes. He stares at you wide-eyed, something between surprise, excitement, and terror flying through his expression. Your eyebrows immediately furrow at the sight and you open your mouth to ask him what's wrong, but he beats you to it again.

"Do we know each other?"

Your eyebrows furrow further, confusion painting itself across your face.

You can't possibly remember every customer, sure, but you like to think you're really good at remembering faces, and you have to admit that his is too damn beautiful to forget. You look him up and down just to make sure, and, just maybe, to admire the view, and you're certain you don't know him at all.

"I don't think so. I've never seen you before."

He blinks. He turns his head slightly to the side, like a curious cat staring straight into your soul, searching for answers, secrets, worlds. It takes him a couple of seconds to answer, but you're patient. You work in customer service.

"I guess not," is his cautious response, and he's sort of looking at you as if you're an alien. "I'm Charles."

You blink back at him. He reminds you of someone, but you can't figure out who it is.

"Hi, Charles. Are you okay?"

Charles (the name suits him, somehow) gapes at you like a fish out of water. He seems at a loss for words, which feels a little silly to you, but you're patient. You work in customer service.

"Yes. Yes, I am okay," he enunciates each word carefully, and you nod in encouragement. He looks up at the menu handwritten on the wall behind you. "Any… recommendations? To drink?"

You're impressed at how quickly he seems to get himself together, despite the awkwardness that lingers inside the empty shop. You smile politely at the question.

"The cinnamon cappuccino is probably my favorite drink on the menu," you offer calmly, and he nods in earnest, already taking out his wallet.

You prepare the cappuccino. You add more chocolate than usual, because this guy looks like he needs it. He pays for it, and then he thanks you, and then he bolts out of the café as if he's in a rush.

You don't even shrug. Some people are weird.

You read on the internet once that people wouldn't recognize their own voices if they heard it coming from someone else. You wonder if that's also true for your soulmate's voice.

Most people don't find their soulmates within their lifetimes. You suppose it makes sense — it's not enough to simply meet them, you have to recognize them, pinpoint that their voice is the one inside your head, and, worse, they have to recognize you too. Making sure that it's actually a match is probably the hardest part.

You've had people come into the café and say that that they knew your voice from their own thoughts. Every single time, you could confidently tell that they were wrong, because you could always tell they didn't have your voice. Every single time, you couldn't find even an inch of familiarity to the sound of their speaking.

The voice inside your head, the one that narrates your thoughts, counts grams of sugar and coffee, and reads your aunt's recipe book, is male. It has a Monegasque accent. Most times, it has a sing-song cadence to it that feels very unique. It annoyed you as a kid. You are used to it now.

To be complete truthful, the accent might've been one of the reasons why you agreed to move to Monaco of all places. That was a few years ago, and your soulmate hasn't shown up yet. To be fair, most people's don't — it feels like a long shot, now, and you guess you're over it. Most people don't find their soulmates within their lifetimes, which means you've accepted you won't find yours.

Charles, the weird but beautiful guy, comes back the following day.

"Hi," he beats you to it again, and you smile politely.

"Hello, good morning. How can I help you?"

He walks closer to the counter, eyes fluttering between your own and the menu behind you. He's still as good-looking as he was the previous day and still sounds awkward as fuck when he opens his mouth to speak, clearly a little uncomfortable.

"That cappuccino was good."

Your smile turns amused, slightly intrigued, and you can't help the snort that escapes you.

"I'm glad."

He clears his throat, shoves his hands inside his pockets.

"I'd like another recommendation. If possible."

"Yes, of course," you chirp happily, and then turn around to stare at the menu even though you wrote it yourself a couple of hours ago. Every customer enjoys a little bit of a show. "The strawberry matcha is really good, and we got fresh strawberries just this morning, so it's… Extra crisp, I'd say. If you want something to eat, the chocolate croissants came out of the oven 10 minutes ago or so. They're my favorite."

When you turn back to look at him, your eyebrows rise at the way he's studying you. Charles has that cat look back on his face, and, for some reason, it makes your cheeks flush.

He looks at you as if he's looking for something. He looks at you like a child seeing a favorite character in Disneyland but being unsure if they're real or not. It's almost endearing, in a way, if not incredibly awkward.

"Are you okay?" You find yourself asking him for the second day in a roll, and he blinks in surprise, his face immediately turning red with embarrassment when he notices he's been caught staring.

"Yes. Yes, sorry." He looks away while this deep mortification paints his scarlet skin. "I'll take the matcha. And the croissant. Yeah. Sorry."

You chuckle slightly at his words, punching the items into the cash register while he looks at everything but you, rocking on his heels while he waits.

Charles lets his credit card fall on the floor once before he picks it up quickly and pays, and a little smirk fights its way to your lips even when you're trying to be polite and professional. He's weird in a cute way, you think.

He keeps his eyes on the ground while you prepare his strawberry matcha, and soon enough he's muttering a soft thanks and rushing out again. You watch him leave with a small smile.

You wonder if he'll come back. You're not sure why, but you sort of hope he will. You like your regulars.

"You weren't here yesterday."

You look up from the book you're reading, startled, to find blueish eyes staring back at you. Your eyes travel towards the bell on the door, asking yourself if you were really so focused on the story you didn't hear it ring.

"Hello, good morning," you say out of habit, putting down your book and straightening yourself on the cashier's chair. "I don't work Thursday mornings."

He walks closer, leaning his forearms against the counter while he looks up at the menu and then back at you again.

"I thought you were the owner."

You smile, aware of how weird this is. Aware of how easy it feels to fall into conversation. That's not usual for you.

"I sort of am, yes."

He leans his head to the side. Curious cat.

"Sort of?"

"My aunt has owned this café for over a decade," you explain, fingers tapping against the cover of your book, tone still chipper yet softer, "she asked me for help a couple of years ago. I accepted. She's been retired for a few months, so I guess I'm the owner now — but, you know. It'll always be hers."

Charles listens attentively, drowning in every word, eyes slightly widened as he drinks every single one of your syllables. It feels intimate, somehow, to be heard like this.

"Do you make all the pastries?" He asks in stride, and the question makes you chuckle.

"No, no, we have chefs for that. They usually leave things ready before leaving for the evening and I just pop them in the oven in the morning. I make some of the cookies and most of the drinks, though."

He nods seriously. You wonder if this situation looks as insane as it feels to anyone watching it through the café window, both of you looking at each other while your jazz playlist plays through the speakers.

"So you're here on Thursday afternoons?"

You blink. Your fingers stop tapping.

"Are you stalking me or something?"

That seems to snap him out of whatever mood he's in, and he takes a few steps back.

"No! No, absolutely not. No. God, I'm sorry if that's what this sounds like. I—no." He shakes his head violently, clearly mortified. "The guy that made my drink yesterday didn't give me a good recommendation, so I just got the cappuccino again, and it wasn't as good as yours. I—I prioritize a good drink, okay?"

That's enough to make you laugh. He relaxes at the sound, looking at you sheepishly, and smiles. You smile back. It feels electric, in a way.

"I'm gonna tell Andrew that his drinks are getting formal complaints," you mutter, but your tone is playful, and he chuckles. You are weirdly fond of it. It's a little familiar. "So, how can I help you, Charles?"

"A good cinnamon cappuccino, to make up for yesterday," he orders, and it makes you laugh again, shaking your head in disbelief as you punch the order in, "and you can pick the pastry."

You look back up at him.

"Really?"

"Yes," he nods, "you're good with recommendations."

You grin at him, and his cheeks turn red.

"Okay. A good cappuccino and a mystery pastry coming up."

You and your weird guy fall into a nice rhythm. He comes in almost every morning (and every Thursday afternoon). He orders a different thing almost every day, and sometimes falls back into the cinnamon cappuccino. You usually pick the pastry. He makes quick small talk — how is Andrew, how is your aunt, did you watch the football game last night. Sometimes other customers walk in and your conversation lasts mere seconds. Other times, it stretches on for minutes, soft words exchanged across the counter. Maybe you give him a couple of free pastries and add extra chocolate in his cappuccino quite often, but no one needs to know.

The first time Charles decides to eat in the café instead of taking away his order, he's the only customer in the coffee shop.

You get a lot of movement in the early morning, and he usually comes by a good hour before the chaos of lunch time, which means you're usually alone. This day is no different, and he accepts your recommendation of an iced chai latte and a piece of pumpkin pie with a smile.

He actually takes one of the few seats by the counter, and you look at each other with a new wave of shyness that you both thought had already melted away throughout the last couple of weeks.

"So," for once, you speak first, always that hint of customer service on your words, looking down at the counter as you wipe it with a clean rag. "You've lived in this area for long? I had never seen you before you first came in."

"No, I actually moved nearby the week before we first met," Charles answers before taking a big bite of his pie, eyes widening with surprise, "this is really good."

"I told you so." You shrug, forcefully wiping at a coffee stain. "That's nice. What attracted you here? Was it our banger sign? I designed that."

He chuckles at the question, blue eyes looking up at you with a certain fondness that leaves you breathless. He swallows the piece of pie and takes a sip of his latte, and then his face turns incredibly red. You stare at him curiously, waiting.

"This is going to sound really weird," he warns you, but you swat the idea away with a small smile.

"You're really weird already," you say in return, and he smiles back.

"I saw you through the window," he says softly, and you blink at him. He groans, looking away. "I told you it was going to sound weird. Just—hear me out, okay? I was a new guy to the neighborhood, and I saw you through the window, and you—you know when you have a childhood best friend, but then one of you moves out of town and you never see each other again?"

You blink again, wondering where the fuck he's going with this. "Yeah?"

"I saw you through the window, and it was like seeing a lost childhood best friend again. You just felt so damn familiar I had to come in and look. You still feel really familiar."

There's a brief second when the two of you just study each other. His good-looking face, his beautiful eyes, his strong features. You weigh his words in your chest.

It's weird, yeah, but don't you feel it too? The way you were a little fond of him from day one, the way you were sure you'd heard his laugh before but couldn't pick out where.

"I'm, what, like a distant family friend you barely remember?" You ask lightly, trying to take away some of the seriousness from the conversation. He thanks you with a snort.

"Somewhat, I guess. It's nice, though." He takes another sip of his latte and you watch him quietly. "And you did win me over with the drinks and pastries."

You laugh softly, not even embarrassed of the way you're staring at him, and you wonder if you've got the same cat-like expression now that he always has when he studies you.

"I'm sure I did, I'm pretty good at this," the words slip out of you with a little too much truth in them. You watch as Charles' body tenses slightly, wide eyes moving to meet yours with that same mix of surprise, excitement, and terror they had when he came in for the first time. Your eyebrows furrow slightly, questioning, wondering. He chokes on his drink.

He coughs loudly and you're immediately by his side, slapping his back.

"I'm okay," he sputters out in between coughs, clearly embarrassed, cheeks bright red, "I'm super okay."

"Are you sure?" Your eyebrows furrow further, and he nods too intensely.

"Yes. Yes, I'm sure." He coughs a few more times, and then the bell on your door rings.

You stare at him with something between confusion and worry, but he waves you off and nods towards the customer coming in. You shoot him another questioning look that is answered with a sure nod, and then you're back behind the counter.

"Hello, good morning. How can I help you?"

Charles finishes his food and his latte before you finish pouring the new customer's coffee, and he offers you a quick wave before leaving through the front door, little bell ringing in his wake. Something inside you aches.

He feels familiar, too.

For the first time in a month, Charles doesn't pass by the café.

You feel stupid, but your head snaps up every time the bell rings, looking for him in every customer, in every stranger passing on the other side of the window. It's a little silly, maybe, but he became a part of your routine, quick small talk before the rush of lunch time, quiet conversation while he sips at his drink and your jazz playlist fills the air with music. As weird as he is, you've come to quite enjoy his company.

He doesn't show up the following day, either. You linger around the shop while cleaning up, wiping down the tables like someone on a mission, wondering if you can will him into being here just so you can ask him what happened before you have to close shop.

By the fifth day, your head stops snapping up. On the eighth, when the bell rings on the late evening after you've already turned off the music, you don't even look towards the door.

"We're closed," you speak before whoever this is can react, hands busy with putting each chair on top of a table, apron severely stained after a busy day.

"Hi. I'm sorry for getting here so late."

Something inside you crackles with electricity. The voice rings clearer than the front door bell through the silent air, sending sparks in your direction. You recognize that voice. That accent. That sing-song cadence. It's so familiar your chest seems to burst with it.

When you look towards the door, it's just Charles. Still, your heart hammers between your ribs, trying to push itself out of your body, your eyes wide in a mix of surprise, excitement, and terror.

It's just Charles.

But, for one second, he sounds like something else. Someone else, even — someone who narrates your thoughts and reads your aunt's recipes.

"Hey." You put another chair down, staring at him across the café, slightly out of breath. "It's been a bit."

"I know. I'm sorry." His hands comes up to his neck, his face is sheepish, and you've missed his weirdness around your shop. "I've just been—busy, a little. How are you?"

"I'm okay." You cross your arms in front of your body, a little too aware of yourself. "You're a bit late, though. I've already cleaned up the kitchen and the coffee counter—you're gonna have to come back tomorrow. Or whenever you want," you add that last bit hurriedly, but he barely seems to mind.

"I expected that." Charles clears his throat, and you watch him shove his hands inside his pockets in that tell of nervousness you're starting to grow used to. "I was wondering if you'd like to grab dinner with me. When you're done."

You gape at him. Your heart rate manages to rise even more. You should worry about a heart attack at this point.

"What?"

"I enjoy our conversations," he says simply, shrugging, "I'm sorry I haven't been around much, but I checked on Google what time the shop closes and thought maybe I could pass by and we could—get something to eat. And chat. Like we do here, except you won't be at work."

For a few moments, you consider it uncertainly.

You've missed him these last few days. You're not sure how you feel about him just walking in when you've already closed and asking you out for dinner. You're not sure how you feel about how familiar his voice sounded just then, how it sent shivers through you.

Charles is a weird guy. He's also your favorite regular, and you've been a little fond of him from the start.

So when you say sure, he immediately starts helping you with the chairs, asking what else you need to do before the two of you can leave. You laugh at his eagerness, directing him to where the tea cup cabinet is and showing where each cup goes. You don't usually like closing by yourself, but you're glad for it today. This way, the two of you can linger around the café as he helps put things in their places, exchanging soft smiles and quiet giggles before leaving for what is basically a date. It's a date, right?

He picks the restaurant, tells you it's a place he's been going to every once in a while. When you ask why he makes a habit of becoming a regular at every place he goes to, he shakes his head and says he's only a true regular at your shop. Your cheeks flush at how low his voice is when he says it.

And, oh, how you notice the way his voice sounds during dinner, while he laughs, while he tells you about getting all his haircuts at his parents' salon. You notice everything about it — the way it lingers in the air, the way it reaches out to you, the way it would've annoyed you as a kid, but you're used to it now.

But would you recognize your soulmate's voice if you heard it outside your head? You're not quite sure. You take a quiet walk through Monaco after dinner is over and you fight over who gets to pay the bill (he does, he grabs it too quickly), and you breathe in the night air with a suspicious peace in your body that rattles your chest. The wind is crisp and comforting. Charles walks by your side.

"So, you're from Monaco, right?" You ask, hands inside your pockets to chase away the cold breeze. "What got you to move to my side of town?"

He snorts, a smile on his face when he looks at you.

"I just moved out of my parents' house and wanted a nice place. The neighborhood is nice enough." You hum in agreement, so he keeps talking. "You… Are not from Monaco? Right?"

"Right." You nod, eyes traveling across the beautiful streets. "My aunt needed help with the café. I had just finished university and I guess—I guess I was a little lost on what I was supposed to do next. It was a big change, but it felt right, I guess."

"It does feel right."

Your gaze finds his in the comforting night, and you notice the way his cat eyes fall down to your lips for just a moment before they flutter back towards your irises, his skin turning a soft shade of pink that sends a small shock down your spine.

You stop walking, and he stills in place.

"Why didn't you come by the café this week?"

He seems surprised by the question but doesn't back down. You appreciate the way he's willing to be honest. You appreciate the way being honest feels so simple.

"Ah, I was a little freaked out," he admits, and your eyebrows rise, encouraging him to continue. "The whole familiarity thing, you know? It felt like too much. I got nervous." He pauses, voice taking up a degree of confidence and certainty that gives you butterflies. "But I'm not freaking out now. You—you're really nice, and fun. I've enjoyed seeing you every day more than I could put into words. And I'm not freaking out anymore."

You study him for a couple of seconds. Charles, your weird regular, standing in front of you with his heart on a platter after disappearing for a little over a week, taking you out for dinner, still looking down at your lips every once in a while and studying your face as if he's looking for something, making sure you are there, making sure you are real. Your heart bangs against your ribcage with a surety you can't ignore.

"I'm glad you came back," you answer calmly, "I missed you. You always made the morning pass by quicker."

A full grin takes over his mouth, the shade of red on his face growing darker when you take one of your hands out of your pocket and reach out towards his. He interlaces your fingers together, thumb rubbing affectionately on the heel of your palm, and it all feels like fireworks exploding in the Monaco skies while you walk under the stars with your favorite regular, who sneaks glances at you way more than he does at the beautiful night sky.

You give him your address and he walks you home. You talk all the way there, making fun of your coworkers and a few passersby on the streets. When you get to your place, Charles kisses your cheek softly as a goodbye, fingers still holding on to yours while the small touch sets your body on fire. Before he can pull away, your free hand takes a hold of his upper arm, keeping him in place when you lean forward and kiss his cheek, too. When your lips touch his skin, it's already burning.

"Not bad for a first date." There's not a hint of that chipper customer service tone on your voice — it's playful and teasing and raw, and he laughs breathlessly, inhaling deeply as if trying to breathe the sound of you into his lungs.

"I guess not," he nods, and you both just look at each other for a second, two curious cats wondering what happens next.

It's you who pulls him towards you again, pressing your lips to his for a quick moment before you're all but running away, slipping into your apartment building and running up the stairs like a tempting teenager, grinning at the sound of his voice yelling out your name by the gate. You can hear his smile and it just feels right, because you knew you needed to kiss him just like you knew him from that first day when he walked through the café door.

He's a regular. You'll see him tomorrow.

You don't have to say it, do you? It's in the sound of his voice. He falls right into step with you.

A few days later, after quite a number of late dinners after work and stolen kisses through the streets of Monaco, Charles wakes up at 4am and shows up at the café while you're unlocking the door. You look at him as if he's fucking crazy (he is, apparently) and he offers to help set things up for the morning.

"It's not even 5am yet," you chastise him while he slips in, body relaxing at the welcoming sound of the door bell ringing. "What are you doing here?"

"You told me you'd be alone in the shop today," he tries, and you're not even sure how he picked up the throwaway comment you made earlier in the week, complaining through text that none of the other cashiers or baristas could make it to work on this day. "I thought I could help."

You stare at him is disbelief, shaking your head as you lead him to the back, telling him where to leave his things while you find him a clean apron. You can barely believe he's actually here, but it makes you warm.

"So, boss," he says when he's properly dressed, hands behind his back, and you can't help but snort at the ridiculous sight. "What do we do first?"

"I'm baking cookies today." You throw a hairnet towards him that he miraculously catches. "You can probably help with that. We need the cookies to be inside the oven before 5:30am, preferably."

"Yes, boss," he salutes, and it looks so stupid you have to laugh. He smiles, enjoying the sound, and it sends another wave of warmth through your body.

You work together nicely, like a well-oiled machine. Charles follows your directions with ease, and this huge sense of calm and belonging washes over you while your elbows brush against each other, bodies too close as you roll the dough into small balls.

He counts the grams of sugar and flour aloud and, God, it's too familiar. It's right there.

"Why do you like jazz that much?" He asks while the dough bakes, working beside you to set up all the tea cups and mugs by the coffee machine as if he's done this a thousand times. You wonder if he learned just from watching you do it.

"What do you mean?"

"The café playlist. It's always jazz."

Your hands still. You listen to the music closely for a few seconds. He watches you with a fondness you've felt from day one. You guess the universe has its magics.

"I like the piano," you answer simply before returning to work.

"I can play the piano," he tells you, and you can only shoot him a surprised glance before the bell on the front door rings.

He actually fits quite easily by your side. He carefully takes the pastries from under the counter while you take orders and prepare drinks, and he's good with the small talk and calming conversation most of your customers look for.

When you tell him you'll pay him for the work day, he says he truly only wanted to spend the day with you. You kiss him behind the closed café doors, arms around his neck while the sky gets darker and darker, giggling by the cash register because everything seems to fit right in. His lips brush against yours again and again, his eyes hungry, and you melt under his touch, a whispered thank you for the help escaping you in between hushed kisses.

You don't have to say it, so you don't — the two of you already know the truth, and that's enough.

You only acknowledge it a couple of months later, one night in his apartment, when you sit down on the floor by his piano and stare at him eagerly. His fingers travel through the keys, playing a familiar tune — some song from your café playlist, one that plays on the speakers all the damn time.

Then he hums, and you know that sound, because you've heard it every other day ever since you first heard this song.

"Most people don't find their soulmates within their lifetimes," you say, and the piano stops. Charles turns his neck to look at you on the floor, blueish eyes so soft they make your chest ache with the amount of affection you feel for him. You smile. "When did you know?"

"First time I stayed at the café to eat. I don't remember exactly what you said — but you spoke to me without any customer voice at all for the first time, and I clocked it immediately." He looks shy, hand coming up to scratch at the back of his neck. "I freaked out. But you already know that. You?"

"During our first date, I think. But you always sounded familiar."

He smiles, and the world glitters around him.

"Like a lost childhood best friend?"

You laugh, body warm and heart swollen.

"Yeah. Like a lost childhood best friend."

Weird little guy. He gives you that cat look before he starts playing again, finally closing his eyes as he picks up the humming and you sigh, enjoying it quietly, humming the same tune with the exact same voice inside your head.

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HIIII omg I hope you guys enjoyed reading! I loved writing this one and oh it is so special to me. likes, reblogs, and comments are appreciated! have a good day <3

series taglist: @wertyuizxcvbnm @ellelabelle

#cl16 #charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc fic #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 x you #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #formula one x reader #formula 1 x reader #formula one imagine #𐙚⋆.˚ my works #𐙚⋆.˚ cl16 #𐙚⋆.˚ patch of soulmates #cl16 x reader #cl16 x you

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