Ella arrived at "Brew-tiful Morning" with a mission. She'd stayed up until 2 a.m. practicing, and her right hand still smelled like oat milk. Marnie squinted at her as she tied on her apron.
"You're suspiciously perky. Did you finally sell your soul to the coffee gods?"
"Better. I'm going to start a grammar war. With foam." Ella pulled out a carton of oat milk, grinning like a villain plotting world domination.
The bell above the door jangled at exactly 9:17 a.m.—the same time he'd shown up yesterday. Ella didn't look up, but she felt his presence: the rustle of a crisp newspaper, the soft thud of a公文包 (briefcase) hitting the floor, and the faint sigh that meant he was judging the decor.
She took her time making his latte. steamed the milk until it was silky, poured it in with the precision of a surgeon, then leaned in with the拉花针 (latte art pen). There it was: a perfect semicolon, its top dot neat, the curve smooth as a comma but with more authority. She even added a tiny period next to it, just to show off.
"Grande oat latte," she said, sliding it across the counter.
He looked up, and for a second, she thought she saw something like surprise in his blue eyes. Then he picked up the cup, turned it slowly, and frowned.
Ella's smile faltered. "What? It's a semicolon. You asked for a semicolon."
"It's a weak semicolon," he said, like he was critiquing a Picasso. "The curve is too shallow. It looks like a comma with commitment issues."
"A comma with commitment issues?" Ella sputtered. "I stayed up until 2 a.m. drawing this! Do you know how hard it is to make a semicolon in foam? It's not like I'm writing on paper—this stuff deflates! It's temporary art!"
"Art is never temporary," he said, but there was a flicker of amusement in his voice. "Besides, I brought something to help." He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a small, leather-bound notebook. Not a laptop, not a tablet—an honest-to-goodness notebook with a fountain pen tucked into the spine.
He flipped it open and slid it across the counter. Ella leaned in. The page was covered in tiny sketches: semicolons, commas, exclamation marks, even a few em dashes. Each one was labeled with notes: "Semicolon: curve should be 45 degrees," "Exclamation mark: stem must be straight—no wobble," "Em dash: longer than a hyphen. Respect the dash."
Ella stared at it, then at him. "You… drew a diagram of punctuation marks?"
"I prefer to call it a 'style guide,'" he said, closing the notebook with a snap. "For your… artistic endeavors."
"Wow. You really are a walking dictionary, aren't you?" She grabbed a marker and scrawled on his receipt: "Semicolon 2.0 coming tomorrow. Prepare to be dazzled. - E."
He took the receipt, folded it carefully, and tucked it into his pocket. "I'll bring my red pen. For editing."
As he left, Marnie sidled up to Ella, wiggling her eyebrows. "He's totally flirting with you. In a 'I'll correct your comma usage until you fall in love with me' kind of way."
"He's not flirting. He's…" Ella searched for the word, "…mentoring. In a passive-aggressive way."
But later, when she was refilling the sugar jars, she found a napkin under the register. It had a single sentence, written in that neat handwriting:
"P.S. The semicolon wasn't that bad. B-."
Ella laughed, tucking it next to yesterday's napkin. A B-. Progress, right?
The next morning, she arrived to find a surprise: a small potted plant on the counter, with a note stuck to the soil: "For the barista who thinks commas are optional. It's a succulent. Low maintenance. Like your grammar."
Ella stared at it, then at Marnie. "Did he… bring me a plant? As a grammar insult?"
Marnie snorted. "Honey, that's the most romantic thing a grammar nerd can do. He's basically saying, 'I want to watch you grow… and maybe fix your apostrophe usage.'"
Ella rolled her eyes, but when she watered the succulent later, she smiled. Maybe Marnie was onto something. Maybe this grammar war wasn't so bad after all.
Just then, the bell jangled. He walked in, carrying a stack of books. He paused when he saw the succulent, and for a second, his composure slipped—his ears turned pink, and he looked away quickly.
"Nice plant," Ella said, trying not to laugh.
He cleared his throat. "It's… decorative. For the shop. It looked empty."
"Sure it is." She grabbed the milk pitcher. "Today's special: a colon. Because I'm feeling dramatic."
His lips twitched. "Make it good. I brought my style guide."
Ella grinned. Game on.