Coffee worker x Tattoo Artist
The rain had been falling for hours, turning the streets into reflective mirrors of neon signs and street lamps. Soap’s coffee shop, a small corner spot with exposed brick and hanging fairy lights, smelled like freshly ground beans and baked cinnamon rolls. It was his favorite time of day — quiet, cozy, and just a little chaotic, with only the hum of the espresso machine and the soft drip of rain outside.
Johnny “Soap” MacTavish wiped down the counter for the tenth time that afternoon, muttering complaints about customers who “thought the world revolved around their caffeine cravings.” Behind the counter, his sketchbook lay open, filled with doodles: cartoonish skulls, abstract patterns, and one half-finished drawing of a mysterious hooded figure. He had no idea it was already drawing attention.
The bell above the door chimed softly, cutting through the rhythm of the rain. Soap looked up. His usual customer — quiet, mysterious, always in black — had arrived. Simon “Ghost” Riley. The tattoo artist from across the street. Hoodie pulled up, hands buried deep in his pockets, mask concealing any trace of expression. But Soap knew better. He always knew better.
“Back for your usual black coffee?” Soap asked, setting the rag down. His grin was wide, welcoming, and maybe just a little mischievous.
Ghost didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he glanced at the sketchbook, lingering on the half-finished drawing of the hooded skull. His eyes, the only visible part of him, softened for a fraction of a second.
“Thought you might like a refill,” Soap said, following his gaze. “Or are you just here to check out my world-class art?”
Ghost’s lips twitched in the faintest smirk. “Maybe a little of both,” he muttered.
Soap leaned on the counter, casual but attentive. “You’re usually so quiet. I like it when you talk, even if it’s just one word at a time.”
There was a pause, and for a moment, the shop seemed suspended in the rain — the world outside blurred, and all that mattered was the space between them. Then, a sudden crack of thunder rattled the windows. Ghost stiffened instinctively, shoulders tensing in a reflex Soap hadn’t seen before.
“Don’t worry,” Soap said softly, walking around the counter with a steaming cup in hand. “I’ve got coffee strong enough to scare away ghosts and thunder alike.”
For a heartbeat, Ghost’s guard faltered. He let out a low, almost imperceptible chuckle. “Thanks,” he muttered, quieter than usual.
“You’re welcome,” Soap replied, leaning back casually against the counter. “You could stay a while, you know. Storm’s not going anywhere, and neither am I.”
Ghost hesitated. The rain drummed against the roof, a steady, calming rhythm that seemed to coax something from inside him. Slowly, he nodded. He pulled up a stool at the counter, sitting down with careful, deliberate movements, like he wasn’t sure if staying put was allowed.
Soap took the empty seat beside him, setting down a small plate of cookies. “Don’t worry,” he said, smiling warmly. “I don’t bite. Well… not unless you ask nicely.”
Ghost’s eyes flicked to him, then away, and then back again. For a long moment, neither spoke. The hum of the espresso machine and the patter of rain outside filled the silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was… something else entirely. A kind of quiet intimacy neither had expected.
“You… draw a lot,” Ghost finally said, nodding toward the sketchbook.
“Depends,” Soap replied, flipping it open to a blank page. “Sometimes I draw to escape. Sometimes to annoy my coworkers. Sometimes… I don’t know. Just for me.”
Ghost studied the page, then the sketches already done. “You’re good,” he said simply.
Soap’s grin widened. “Thanks. I like to think so. Want to try?” He handed Ghost a pen.
Ghost stared at it for a moment, then slowly took it. A flicker of uncertainty passed over his features, but he began to sketch. At first, simple lines, careful shapes. Then, as minutes passed, more confident strokes — a skull, a hooded figure, and finally, a small coffee cup tucked into the corner.
Soap leaned over to glance. “That’s… actually really good.”
Ghost shrugged lightly. “Not bad,” he muttered, voice low.
Soap leaned back, studying him. There was something… different about Ghost here. Without the chaos of the streets, the weight of missions, and the constant tension, Ghost seemed almost human. Vulnerable, even. And it made Soap’s chest tighten in a way he wasn’t used to.
For the next hour, they worked in companionable silence, exchanging small glances and faint smiles. Soap made jokes about Ghost’s serious expression and his “dramatic skulls,” while Ghost smirked quietly at the absurdity of Soap’s humor.
Finally, Ghost stood, pushing back his hoodie. “I should… go. Work,” he muttered.
Soap frowned, but didn’t push. “Yeah… I get it. But hey,” he said softly, leaning closer, “you could come back tomorrow. Same time. We can… draw. Drink coffee. Maybe talk.”
Ghost paused, then nodded once. “Maybe,” he said, voice quiet but carrying something like hope.
As Ghost left, the bell chimed again, and Soap watched him disappear into the rainy night. For the first time in a long while, Soap felt something light — a spark of connection that hadn’t been there before. And he knew, somehow, it wasn’t going away.
