Today is yet another quiet and lonely one at the un-crazed, quaint coffee shop you just started your job at. Maybe it was too warm for cappuccinos and too chilly for frappuccinos or maybe Starbucks has really been kicking your ass lately.

People who checked their Instagram on iPhones, had ombre hair, and nerd glasses (that were sure not for seeing better) was your only crowd. Not many showed up but when they did, they kept to themselves and didn't cause any trouble, making work very easy.

The only stresses in your mind about this job consisted of the worries for the cafe's stability; it wasn't bringing in much of a profit.

Then a new customer stepped inside. This man was alone and looked nothing like the usual groupies. His raven black hair straightened over his head and relaxed over shorter hairs underneath. A white, flowy shirt draped over his shoulders and tucked into his not-a-wrinkle-to-be-seen pants. And those piercing eyes- they stared you down every second he glanced in your direction.

You wondered to yourself whether he's about to murder you or if that's his natural face. Choice B was what you were hoping for.

The short man approached the counter where you stood shaking in your shoes; his pissed expression still plastered on his face.

Nervously smiling, you coughed up your sentence.

"Hello, how may I help you?"

"Black coffee," he said bluntly, feigning sustained eye contact.

"No 'please'?" you murmured only loud enough for yourself to hear. That's very rude and not so gentleman-like of him.

Though, you kept that grin nonetheless. There's no need to be loosing any customers; you can't afford to and neither can this shop.

"Alright," you chimed as you daintily entered his order into the cash-register, attempting to cover up your rising anxiety. "Anything else I can get you?"

Signs of his impatient character displayed in his crossed arms and sudden shift of his body weight onto his left leg.

"Just tell me how much I owe you," his tone short and sharp (no pun intended.).

Keep cool, _. He's probably just in a big hurry.

"Three dollars flat, sir."

If you said that any more serious, you would sound like a cadet answering her corporal. (ha.)

Abruptly, he paid up and took a seat at a raised table in the back corner. Your insecurities could have been getting the best of you, but you were sure he was tying to sit as far as he possibly can from where you stood.

You sighed before heading to the coffee machine and preparing his bitter hot drink.

What if I got him something extra? you pondered. I've already made him mad, I should probably give him something to help him forget the matter.

You entered in a cake pop into the cash-register, paid for it out of your pocket, and proceeded to bag a vanilla one, feeling generous and bothered every step of the way. Why bothered? Since you already battle with money complications, paying for a penny-pinching sugar snack will, guaranteed, take a good chunk out of tonight's meal. This guy better enjoy it.

Coffee and treat in hand, you made your way to the grump sitting down.

He eyed the excess item in your hand and then furrowed his eyebrows, not saying a word.

"I- it's on me," you struggled to muster up your words while looking down at your twiddling thumbs that were pressed against your stomach; a nervous toothy smile between your cheeks.

"A little treat should cheer you up."

Needless to say, it was hard for you to act nice to him. He wasn't exactly projecting the most positive aura at the moment.

The man's eyebrows raised slightly, his glare still locked on the bag as you gently handed it to him.

After he reached inside for the item, his face slowly fell back into looking dissatisfied. With a click of his tongue, he scowled at the cake pop and then at you.

Uh oh.

"... Something wrong?"

His eyes weren't leaving yours; expression staying the same.

Something is wrong you idiot, you repeated over and over in your head.

"What is this?" he snapped.

The tense muscles in your body settled; you were anticipating a harsh complaint about him being a diabetic or criticism on the flavor. It was only a harmless question that washed relief over you. Indeed, you were grateful it was something less.

That happy-go-lucky smile returned to its rightful place on your lips.

"It's a cake pop. It's a piece of cake on a stick."

Mouth squished into a thin line, the man glared back down at the delicacy in his hand.

"That's stupid. Why not have a regular piece of cake on a plate?"

"Because it's cooler," you effortlessly retorted, proud you didn't get tongue tied. Then, to play it off even smoother, you put your elbows on the table counter and rested your head in your hands.

He seemed impressed by your wit and let out a small and quick chuckle. Well, it was more of a strong puff of air coming out of his nose.

You saw the perfect opportunity to stick your hand out to him and drop your name while he's happy.

"I'm _."

To your surprise, he took your hand and firmly shook it. "Levi."

I think we got us a regular.