This is a disaster.I am standing in front of my locker — which is technically not a locker so much as a tiny metal cupboard that Milo and I share, and that smells faintly of old coffee beans and Milo's deodorant — wearing my hoodie. My favourite grey hoodie. The soft, oversized one with the frayed cuffs that I've had since sixth form. The one that makes me look like I'm still seventeen and not twenty-two, and definitely not like someone who works in a book café.In my right hand: the hoodie I'm about to take off.
In my left hand: the Uniform.The Café René uniform. Crisp white Oxford shirt — Mum ironed it, lavender softener, as usual — black trousers that are too long and I have to roll at the ankle, and the beige canvas apron with the little name tag that says ELIAN in wonky capital letters because Milo wrote it for me on my first day.I can hear Milo upstairs already doing the till. I can hear the rain starting to hit the windows on St Mary's Lane. And it's 2:58 PM. Nine minutes until Ethan. Nine minutes until 3:07 PM — the same time he's kept for weeks — when the bell will jingle and he will walk in, order his usual black coffee in that low voice that makes my knees do something weird.I pull the hoodie over my head. My hair goes full static. Great. Just great. I look like I've been electrocuted.I stare at myself in the tiny cracked mirror taped inside the locker door.
Hoodie Elian: soft, sleepy, invisible. The kind of person who hides behind books in the second-hand section and hopes no one talks to him.
Uniform Elian: white shirt, rolled sleeves, apron, rosy cheeks that go red the second anyone looks at him. The one Ethan has seen dozens of times and apparently not gotten bored of.Which is stupid. Why would he get bored? He's just a regular who finally spoke to me properly that first afternoon. A regular I've thought about far more than is normal.Milo bangs on the changing room door.
"ELIAN! Are you changing or are you having an existential crisis in there? Because your favourite customer's going to be here in, like, nine minutes — and if you don't get out here in the next sixty seconds, I'm telling him you own a hoodie covered in little dinosaurs!"I do not own a hoodie covered in little dinosaurs. (Okay, I do, but that's not the point.)I yank the white shirt on. Buttons. I always mess up the buttons when I'm nervous. I have to redo them twice. Apron on, tied at the back — Milo always ties it too tight, so I loosen it.I look in the mirror again. Okay. Uniform. Safe. Normal. Just Elian — the barista boy who lives in a quiet terraced house in Jericho, with Mum who makes tomato soup, Dad who reads the newspaper at dinner, and Oliver, who will absolutely notice if I act even slightly strange.I push the door open and start wiping the portafilter. It's already clean. I've wiped it four times. Milo watches me without saying anything — which means he's about to say something terrible.I drop it. It clatters. Milo doesn't look up from the till.
"Breathe. And do your top button up, El. You look like you're trying to impress someone.""I'm not—"The door opens. Rain smell, cold air — and Ethan.Today he's not in the three-piece suit. Just a navy jumper over a white shirt, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He looks younger. Less like someone rushing between meetings and more like… just a guy. And he's looking straight at me.He pauses at the counter.
"New shirt?"My ears burn. All the way down my neck.
"Oh — uh — yeah. Well, not new-new, I've had it forever—"Milo leans in, grinning.
"He put it on specially," he says brightly. "Wanted to look his best."I want to vanish into the espresso machine.Ethan smiles — not the polite smile he used to give, a real one, eyes crinkling.
"It suits you," he says, quiet enough only I hear. "Makes your eyes brighter."The portafilter slips and clatters again.He heads to his usual corner table. Coffee steaming in front of him — and something else. A small navy box tied with a white ribbon.Milo nudges me.
"He asked what you like to read. Said you mentioned looking for a book a while back."I walk over like my legs don't belong to me. He's sitting, so I stand close, and for once I don't have to tilt my neck quite so far to meet his eyes."What's this?" My voice comes out small."Open it," he says.Inside is a hardback, slightly worn at the edges. Brideshead Revisited. The exact edition I mentioned, the one I couldn't find anywhere. On the first page, a neat note:
For the boy who makes even quiet days feel brighter.
— EI can't speak.
"It's nothing really," he says quickly. "Just found it and thought of you.""This is the one I've been searching for weeks," I whisper. "How did you—""Asked Milo which edition you were after. Found it in a shop in Camden."Milo yells from the counter:
"ELIAN! IF YOU CRY, DO IT QUIETLY! CUSTOMERS ARE WATCHING!"Ethan laughs — warm, genuine.Then the bell jingles again.Oliver walks in. Hair damp from the drizzle, familiar white shirt, calm but watchful. He scans the room, finds me instantly, and stops. Standing too close to someone at the corner table, holding a book, face bright red.He steps over.
"El?"I freeze.Ethan looks up. Oliver looks at him.Oh.Milo whispers loud enough to hear:
"Oh. Shit."
Oh. Shit is right.That word still hangs in the air. I'm holding the book like it might break. Ethan sits calm, coffee in hand. And Oliver stands there — holding a brown paper bag I know instantly.Mum's bread. Fresh from this morning. I left it on the kitchen counter rushing to get here."You forgot this," Oliver says gently. "Left it at home. Mum said you'd need something proper to eat."My fingers tighten around the book. Heat rises in my cheeks. Milo whispers:
"This is better than anything on TV."I take a breath.
"Oliver, this is Ethan. He comes in most days. Ethan, this is my brother."Milo cheers quietly behind me.
"Excellent. Very smooth. Ten out of ten."Ethan stands. They shake hands — firm, steady.
"Nice to meet you," Ethan says."You too," Oliver says. He glances at the book in my hands. "That's the one you've been after?""You knew?" Ethan asks."He's talked about it," Oliver says. "For weeks.""I wasn't going on about it!" I say. "I was just mentioning!"Ethan's mouth tugs up.
"Sounded worth finding."Oliver lifts an eyebrow — that familiar look. He glances between us, then at the open box on the table. Something softens.
"He brought it for you?""Yeah," Ethan says simply. "He wanted it."I make a noise that's half surprise, half nothing.Oliver looks at me properly — shirt, apron, everything. He reaches out and gently straightens my collar.
"Bit crooked," he says quietly.My face burns.
"Oliver!"He doesn't step back right away.
"He gets like that when he's nervous," he says to Ethan. "Buttons, collars — all of it.""I noticed," Ethan says, soft.Oh no. They're comparing notes.Oliver gives the paper bag to me.
"Best head off. Mum's waiting. Don't forget to lock up. And eat something.""I will! Lock and eat — got it!"He nods to Ethan as he leaves.
"See you around.""See you," Ethan says.Silence. Then Milo:
"OKAY. YOUR BROTHER IS VERY NICE AND THAT WAS SWEET. BUT TABLE TWO NEEDS WATER!"Ethan sits back, smiling.
"He cares about you a lot.""He just thinks I still need looking after," I say, twisting the ribbon."He looks at you like you matter most," Ethan says.I glance at the note again.
"Did you mean it?" I ask. "What you wrote?""Every word," he says. "I've been thinking about it since I got back. About you."My chest feels light, like something's uncurling there.Then Milo again:
"IF YOU'RE GOING TO STAND THERE SMILING, AT LEAST BRING ME A CUP!"Ethan laughs, stands up, and leans in low.
"Saturday? I'd love to take you out properly. No rush, no café. Just us. And bring the book — I want to hear what you think."He winks, grabs his cup, and heads out. The bell chimes.And I stand there — book in one hand, bread in the other — grinning so wide my cheeks hurt, while Milo throws a cloth at me.
I am standing in front of my locker — which is technically not a locker so much as a tiny metal cupboard that Milo and I share, and that smells faintly of old coffee beans and Milo's deodorant — wearing my hoodie. My favourite grey hoodie. The soft, oversized one with the frayed cuffs that I've had since sixth form. The one that makes me look like I'm still seventeen and not twenty-two, and definitely not like someone who works in a book café.
In my right hand: the hoodie I'm about to take off.
In my left hand: the Uniform.
The Café René uniform. Crisp white Oxford shirt — Mum ironed it, lavender softener, as usual — black trousers that are too long and I have to roll at the ankle, and the beige canvas apron with the little name tag that says ELIAN in wonky capital letters because Milo wrote it for me on my first day.
I can hear Milo upstairs already doing the till. I can hear the rain starting to hit the windows on St Mary's Lane. And it's 2:58 PM. Nine minutes until Ethan. Nine minutes until 3:07 PM — the same time he's kept for weeks — when the bell will jingle and he will walk in, order his usual black coffee in that low voice that makes my knees do something weird.
I pull the hoodie over my head. My hair goes full static. Great. Just great. I look like I've been electrocuted.
I stare at myself in the tiny cracked mirror taped inside the locker door.
Hoodie Elian: soft, sleepy, invisible. The kind of person who hides behind books in the second-hand section and hopes no one talks to him.
Uniform Elian: white shirt, rolled sleeves, apron, rosy cheeks that go red the second anyone looks at him. The one Ethan has seen dozens of times and apparently not gotten bored of.
Which is stupid. Why would he get bored? He's just a regular who finally spoke to me properly that first afternoon. A regular I've thought about far more than is normal.
Milo bangs on the changing room door.
"ELIAN! Are you changing or are you having an existential crisis in there? Because your favourite customer's going to be here in, like, nine minutes — and if you don't get out here in the next sixty seconds, I'm telling him you own a hoodie covered in little dinosaurs!"
I do not own a hoodie covered in little dinosaurs. (Okay, I do, but that's not the point.)
I yank the white shirt on. Buttons. I always mess up the buttons when I'm nervous. I have to redo them twice. Apron on, tied at the back — Milo always ties it too tight, so I loosen it.
I look in the mirror again. Okay. Uniform. Safe. Normal. Just Elian — the barista boy who lives in a quiet terraced house in Jericho, with Mum who makes tomato soup, Dad who reads the newspaper at dinner, and Oliver, who will absolutely notice if I act even slightly strange.
I push the door open and start wiping the portafilter. It's already clean. I've wiped it four times. Milo watches me without saying anything — which means he's about to say something terrible.
I drop it. It clatters. Milo doesn't look up from the till.
"Breathe. And do your top button up, El. You look like you're trying to impress someone."
"I'm not—"
The door opens. Rain smell, cold air — and Ethan.
Today he's not in the three-piece suit. Just a navy jumper over a white shirt, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He looks younger. Less like someone rushing between meetings and more like… just a guy. And he's looking straight at me.
He pauses at the counter.
"New shirt?"
My ears burn. All the way down my neck.
"Oh — uh — yeah. Well, not new-new, I've had it forever—"
Milo leans in, grinning.
"He put it on specially," he says brightly. "Wanted to look his best."
I want to vanish into the espresso machine.
Ethan smiles — not the polite smile he used to give, a real one, eyes crinkling.
"It suits you," he says, quiet enough only I hear. "Makes your eyes brighter."
The portafilter slips and clatters again.
He heads to his usual corner table. Coffee steaming in front of him — and something else. A small navy box tied with a white ribbon.
Milo nudges me.
"He asked what you like to read. Said you mentioned looking for a book a while back."
I walk over like my legs don't belong to me. He's sitting, so I stand close, and for once I don't have to tilt my neck quite so far to meet his eyes.
"What's this?" My voice comes out small.
"Open it," he says.
Inside is a hardback, slightly worn at the edges. Brideshead Revisited. The exact edition I mentioned, the one I couldn't find anywhere. On the first page, a neat note:
For the boy who makes even quiet days feel brighter.
— E
I can't speak.
"It's nothing really," he says quickly. "Just found it and thought of you."
"This is the one I've been searching for weeks," I whisper. "How did you—"
"Asked Milo which edition you were after. Found it in a shop in Camden."
Milo yells from the counter:
"ELIAN! IF YOU CRY, DO IT QUIETLY! CUSTOMERS ARE WATCHING!"
Ethan laughs — warm, genuine.
Then the bell jingles again.
Oliver walks in. Hair damp from the drizzle, familiar white shirt, calm but watchful. He scans the room, finds me instantly, and stops. Standing too close to someone at the corner table, holding a book, face bright red.
He steps over.
"El?"
I freeze.
Ethan looks up. Oliver looks at him.
Oh.
Milo whispers loud enough to hear:
"Oh. Shit."
Oh. Shit is right.
That word still hangs in the air. I'm holding the book like it might break. Ethan sits calm, coffee in hand. And Oliver stands there — holding a brown paper bag I know instantly.
Mum's bread. Fresh from this morning. I left it on the kitchen counter rushing to get here.
"You forgot this," Oliver says gently. "Left it at home. Mum said you'd need something proper to eat."
My fingers tighten around the book. Heat rises in my cheeks. Milo whispers:
"This is better than anything on TV."
I take a breath.
"Oliver, this is Ethan. He comes in most days. Ethan, this is my brother."
Milo cheers quietly behind me.
"Excellent. Very smooth. Ten out of ten."
Ethan stands. They shake hands — firm, steady.
"Nice to meet you," Ethan says.
"You too," Oliver says. He glances at the book in my hands. "That's the one you've been after?"
"You knew?" Ethan asks.
"He's talked about it," Oliver says. "For weeks."
"I wasn't going on about it!" I say. "I was just mentioning!"
Ethan's mouth tugs up.
"Sounded worth finding."
Oliver lifts an eyebrow — that familiar look. He glances between us, then at the open box on the table. Something softens.
"He brought it for you?"
"Yeah," Ethan says simply. "He wanted it."
I make a noise that's half surprise, half nothing.
Oliver looks at me properly — shirt, apron, everything. He reaches out and gently straightens my collar.
"Bit crooked," he says quietly.
My face burns.
"Oliver!"
He doesn't step back right away.
"He gets like that when he's nervous," he says to Ethan. "Buttons, collars — all of it."
"I noticed," Ethan says, soft.
Oh no. They're comparing notes.
Oliver gives the paper bag to me.
"Best head off. Mum's waiting. Don't forget to lock up. And eat something."
"I will! Lock and eat — got it!"
He nods to Ethan as he leaves.
"See you around."
"See you," Ethan says.
Silence. Then Milo:
"OKAY. YOUR BROTHER IS VERY NICE AND THAT WAS SWEET. BUT TABLE TWO NEEDS WATER!"
Ethan sits back, smiling.
"He cares about you a lot."
"He just thinks I still need looking after," I say, twisting the ribbon.
"He looks at you like you matter most," Ethan says.
I glance at the note again.
"Did you mean it?" I ask. "What you wrote?"
"Every word," he says. "I've been thinking about it since I got back. About you."
My chest feels light, like something's uncurling there.
Then Milo again:
"IF YOU'RE GOING TO STAND THERE SMILING, AT LEAST BRING ME A CUP!"
Ethan laughs, stands up, and leans in low.
"Saturday? I'd love to take you out properly. No rush, no café. Just us. And bring the book — I want to hear what you think."
He winks, grabs his cup, and heads out. The bell chimes.
And I stand there — book in one hand, bread in the other — grinning so wide my cheeks hurt, while Milo throws a cloth at me.
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