Ethan surprised me. I thought it'd cost me an arm and a leg to get him to forgive me, but a sincere apology was enough to calm the waters. He's more reasonable than I expected, and, damn, he's a good guy. Didn't see that coming. Making peace with him feels like a weight off my shoulders, and now we even chat without him wanting to rip my head off.
With Stanford's first quarter done, the Alpha Centauri house is half-empty. Some guys went home, others to get wasted on some beach. I stayed. No way I'm going back to my dad and his lectures about why I should study what he wants instead of what I love. I'd rather stay here, breathe easy, and take advantage of the university giving me a break on tuition payments. That buys me time to keep scheming about that damn scholarship, even though Ethan made it clear he's not helping. I don't blame him. At least now he's good company, and since he didn't go home either, I'm not so alone.
I was sick of relying on the cash my mom sends to survive. So when I saw the "Help Wanted" sign at The Coffee House, I knew it was my shot. Rose, the boss, wasn't sold on me at first. I went to her office braced for a hard "no," but I played my best card.
"Rose, if Ethan's already pulling in crowds after class, imagine what I can do," I said with my most convincing grin. "Two ridiculously hot guys behind the counter? This place'll be packed."
I don't know if it was my charm or if I caught her in a good mood, but it worked. After some back-and-forth, she hired me. I didn't realize Ethan was at the café until I tried on the apron and saw him standing there, looking like someone squirted lemon in his eyes. His green eyes, by the way, shift with his mood. When he's not hating me, they glow like they've got a life of their own. And in that moment, I didn't see hate—just a mix of shock and resignation.
"Ethan," Rose said, pointing at me like I was a puppy up for adoption, "you're in charge of his training. He's your responsibility. Make sure he's ready before next quarter, got it?"
Ethan sighed like he'd been asked to carry an elephant. "I'll do what I can," he muttered.
"Oh, come on," I said, flashing a grin. "I'm not wrong in saying this place is a battlefield, right?"
"Considering you're used to having your coffee served on a silver platter," he shot back, staring me down, "switching to this side of the counter's gonna be a shock. You're not the king here, Whitman."
I paused, taking the hit. "Damn, you have a shitty opinion of me," I said, half-joking.
"It's not an opinion, it's a fact," he said, raising an eyebrow. "I haven't forgotten the show you put on at the car wash. Flirting with girls while slathering yourself in soap isn't customer service."
"Why not?" I countered, shrugging. "I'll be serving hot girls here too, making the place more appealing. If you want, I can even take my shirt off."
"Don't you dare!" Rose cut in, her tone sharp enough to freeze the coffee.
Then, with a mischievous glint, she added, "Although, now that I think about it, a café with hot baristas turning up the heat isn't a bad idea. But keep your clothes on, Whitman."
I grinned, cheeky. "And if hot guys show up, Ethan can dazzle them. I'll just watch."
Ethan shot me a look that could've melted the espresso machine, but he didn't say anything. Rose let out a chuckle. "You train him well, Ethan. And you, Whitman, don't make me regret hiring you."
"I'll be good, I promise," I said, raising my hands in surrender.
Rose walked off, and Ethan glanced at me sideways. "You're not the same guy I met," he said, his tone somewhere between a warning and curiosity.
"No?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Now you're… more dangerous," he said, narrowing his eyes.
I laughed. "At least I know you hit hard, right?"
He held my gaze, serious, but after a second, a smile slipped out. He led me to the main counter with the intensity of a surgeon teaching a transplant. He started explaining everything like my life depended on it. "First, the basics: espresso, americano, cappuccino, latte, macchiato, mocha, flat white, ristretto, cortado, affogato…"
The names sounded like a tongue-twister. Coffee with milk, coffee without milk, coffee named after dessert. By the fourth one, I was lost. Ethan pointed to the espresso machine, a metallic beast full of levers and buttons that looked like it belonged on a spaceship.
"This is where the magic happens. Pay attention," he said, setting the portafilter with a precision I envied.
"Pfft, can't be that hard," I said, crossing my arms.
I stepped up, cocky, and touched what looked like a harmless valve. Big mistake. A jet of cold coffee shot out like the machine was having a coughing fit, soaking us both. My new apron looked like an abstract painting, and Ethan glared at me like he wanted to strangle me with a napkin.
"At least it was cold," I said, shaking coffee off my shirt, holding back a laugh.
Ethan stayed quiet, brow furrowed, but I saw the corner of his mouth twitch. Finally, he let out a short, resigned laugh. "I don't know how you turn everything into an epic disaster," he muttered, wiping himself with a napkin.
"Natural talent," I said, winking.
"What the hell are you two doing?" Rose appeared from her office, her glare sharp enough to cut glass. "Not even five minutes in, and you're already wrecking my café, Whitman?"
I looked at my dripping hands, scrambling for an excuse. "In my defense… Ethan's a terrible teacher."
"What?" Ethan spun around, incredulous. "You stuck your hands where they didn't belong!"
"You told me to touch something!" I shot back, pointing at him.
"Not that valve, idiot!" he said, giving me a light shove.
"Oh, sure, because you explain like it's an engineering manual," I said, laughing.
"And you don't listen even if I tattooed it on your forehead," he fired back, laughing too.
Rose burst out laughing, stopping us cold. "Enough, you clowns," she said, barely holding it together. "I'm warning you: one more disaster like that, and you're both out. First strike."
"Got it, boss," we said in unison, like scolded kids.
Rose shook her head, still smiling, and went back to her office. I looked at Ethan. The smell of coffee clung to his clothes, his skin, and for a second, I wanted to order a latte just to stay close. His green eyes were sparkling, not with hate, but with something warmer. I don't know what it was, but it made me grin like an idiot.
"Come on, genius, try not to flood the place again," he said, tossing me a sponge.
"No promises," I replied, and for the first time, I felt like working with him was going to be, at the very least, entertaining.
****
I'm finally getting the hang of this café gig. The machines don't hate me as much anymore, and I can whip up a latte without it tasting like sock soup. I'll be honest, I'm shocked at myself. Against all odds, I'm not a total disaster at this. They're letting me handle the basics solo now, and that's a fucking miracle.
While I'm wiping down the counter, the smell of coffee stuck to my hands, I turn to Ethan, who's arranging cups like they're chess pieces. "Hey, why didn't you go on vacation like everyone else? Didn't want to see your parents?" I ask, genuinely curious.
He pauses, lowering his voice like he doesn't want the whole world to hear. "They had travel plans, and I didn't want to be home alone. Plus, I make some extra cash here."
I look at him, intrigued. "You paying your own tuition?"
"Hell no," he says quickly, almost laughing. "What I make here wouldn't cover a decent chunk. But it helps with my expenses. That's why I joined Alpha Centauri: free room, food included. Less pressure on the wallet."
I nod, impressed. "That's fucking smart, Bennett."
Ethan flashes a small smile, just a flicker. "Yeah, at least I think before diving into messes like faking being gay for a scholarship," he says, throwing a sidelong jab that stings and amuses me at the same time.
"Ouch, that hurt," I say, clutching my chest like he stabbed me, though I can't help laughing.
Before I can fire back, a group of customers walks in, breaking the moment. Ethan straightens up behind the counter. "Forget it, we've got work. Get to it," he orders, pointing at the tables.
I adjust my apron, shaking off the jab, and dive into the tables. The tips are good, and not because of my coffee skills. Word's spread that I'm here, and the café's busier than ever. Among the customers, a group of girls catches my eye, especially a blonde who's been staring since she walked in. She's hot, with a vibe that screams "trouble" in neon. I try to focus on the other tables, but her eyes follow me. I wink at her, and she hits me with a smile that promises chaos. Every time our eyes meet, it's like a game I don't want to lose.
Suddenly, the blonde gets up and heads toward the back of the café, near the storage room. Ethan's busy at the counter, so I slip after her. It all happens in a flash. She steps close, goes on her toes, and plants a kiss that lights me up like gasoline. I grab her hard, push her against the wall, and kiss her back with everything I've got. It's electric, pure instinct. My body reacts without asking. She pulls back, shoves me against the wall with a look that could melt steel, unbuckles my belt, and drops to her knees. What can I say? It wasn't the best blowjob of my life, but after weeks of drought from this scholarship lie, it was like finding water in the desert. Before things could escalate further, I knew I had to get back. We fix ourselves up quick and slip back into the café like nothing happened.
I walk in, and Ethan's stare could cut glass. He's pissed, and he's not hiding it. I feel like an idiot caught red-handed. I try to say something, but he cuts me off.
"I don't know what the fuck you think this place is, or what you think of me," he snaps, his voice cold as ice, "but you're not working like that here. You can't go screwing customers."
I want to respond, but he keeps going, more heated: "If you want to do that, take it to a motel or your frat room. Got it, Whitman?"
His voice is a knife, and all I manage is a weak, "I'm sorry."
After that, the vibe's thick as the coffee we serve. Ethan's furious, and I can't blame him. Ditching him at the counter while I sneak off to do… that wasn't my best move. My impulsiveness, once again, fucking me over. The rest of the day's hell. Ethan doesn't talk to me, just gives clipped orders: "Clean the machine," "Take this to table three." I try to crack a joke, lighten the mood, but he shuts me down with a look that says, "Don't even try." And that's how it goes for a couple of days. The café's nearly empty, but the tension between us fills the place.
To top it off, Joe and Jackson keep showing up, chatting with Ethan like they're best buds. I don't know why, but seeing them together gets under my skin. Jackson's a walking wall of peace, love, and a bit of muscle, all laughs and backslaps, but Joe looks at him like he wants to hang off his arm. I don't get their dynamic, and I'm not sure I want to. It just bugs me that Ethan's laughing with them while barely giving me two words.
And then there's my dad, who won't stop calling, pissed that I didn't go home for the break. What did he expect? That I'd run back to hear his sermons about how I need to be a big-shot businessman like him? My sister's in New York, working, so I'd be stuck alone with him and his lectures. My mom's the only one who gets why I stayed. She sends supportive texts, but it's not enough to shake this shitty feeling.
I feel like an asshole about Ethan. I don't want to leave things like this. I like talking to him, his no-filter jabs, the way he laughs when I let my guard down. It's different. With Chris and Joe, it's sports, parties, empty stuff—sometimes not so empty. With Ethan, it's… I don't know, realer. I want that back. I don't know how, but I'm not letting this sit in awkward silence.
****
The Alpha Centauri house is emptier than my bank account before tips. With the break, most of the brothers bailed to their homes or to blow cash on some beach. Only a handful of us are left: Joe, Ethan, a couple of other guys, and me. Entertainment's a joke—either we're playing poker with chips as bets or killing each other in video games until our eyes burn. Sometimes I go out with Joe to the movies or a bar, but since the disaster with Ethan, I've slammed the brakes on girls. It's not just about him; I've got to keep up the gay charade for all of Stanford. If someone catches me with a blonde in a motel, it's goodbye scholarship, goodbye everything.
The day on campus was a yawn. The place is a ghost town, like everyone decided the break's already ancient history. But I'm not made of steel—I'm drowning in stress and need to blow off steam. I've tried talking to Ethan, but it's like slamming into a brick wall. At the café, he dodges me like I've got leprosy. Those green eyes of his hit me with a look that's half-anger, half-something I can't figure out. Fuck, seriously. I don't want this to be permanent, but every time I try, I screw it up more.
The shift at The Coffee House was a goddamn marathon. Thirty customers, maybe more, storming in like a stampede. The counter was a warzone of cups, foam, and impossible orders. By the time we closed, my arms were screaming, and my feet were begging for mercy. As we lowered the shutters and cleaned the last glasses, the stench of stale coffee and disinfectant wrapped around me like a toxic cloud. I couldn't take it anymore. I grabbed Ethan's arm and dragged him behind the counter.
"Enough with the pissed-off act," I said, locking eyes with him. I held him tight, feeling the heat of his skin. "Come on, I fucked up, I know. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have ditched you with a full counter to hook up with that girl in the back."
Ethan's stare could've cut steel. "You think a 'sorry' fixes everything? You left me slammed at the counter to go mess around with a customer. That was way out of line, Noah."
"I know," I admitted, letting go of his arm. "It was stupid. I didn't think."
"That's your problem," he shot back, his tone scorching. "You live like everything's a party, hooking up with girls wherever. But this is my job. Our job. Not some cheap motel."
"It's not like that…" I protested, feeling like a scolded kid.
"Oh, it's exactly like that," he cut in, his voice dripping with reproach. "If you want to fuck up your reputation, go for it. But don't drag me down with you."
I swallowed my words, scrambling to reach him. "Ethan, please. We were getting along. I don't want this to go to shit over one dumb move."
He looked away, incredulous. "And what do you expect? That I act like it's nothing?"
"No. I'm hoping you'll give me a chance to make it right," I said, with all the sincerity I had left. "I don't want to be the asshole who leaves you hanging."
"You say that now… but then you pull the same shit," he muttered, sighing with exhaustion.
"Not this time. I swear."
Silence dropped like an anvil, heavy as the steam from the espresso machine. Ethan leaned against the counter, wiped out. "I'm dead. I've been working like a mule these past few days. Maybe that's why I'm so pissed."
"Sounds like an excuse," I said, testing a small smile.
He shot me a glare, but the edge had softened. "Maybe it is."
I stepped closer, lowering my voice. "I know a way to blow off some steam."
He raised an eyebrow, skeptical. "It's late, Whitman. What can we do at this hour? Hit a bar so you can pick someone up?"
"Shut up," I said, laughing. "Just change… and follow me."