Chapter 1: Begin Again

~ Nine Years Later ~

"No, I can't just push it back an hour! It's a business meeting, not a fucking hair appointment!"

Miles huffed into the microphone of his Bluetooth earpiece, his knuckles turning white around the steering wheel in frustration. He was realizing quickly that he needed to start checking who was ringing him before he answers the phone. If only he could have realized just as quickly what a mistake it would be to hire his sister.

"Look, Frankie, I don't have time for your games right now. I really need you at work on time today, and I really, really need a damn cup of coffee."

He started, trying to get a word in edgewise between her incessant babbling. Every day was a new crisis, usually involving her boyfriend, and always resulting in her ditching work the day of. Or, if he was lucky, showing up extremely late.

"No...no...just…" He sighed, both a sigh of frustration and relief as a big, purple sign reading "The Dot" finally came into view at the end of the street.

"Just call me back in twenty minutes, okay? "

With that he hung up, taking a long hard look at the building nearing through his windshield. Miles had never cared much for The Dot. Sure, their coffee was okay - if he didn't mind being robbed for something he could have easily brewed with his Keurig for free, and with zero difference in taste. Which, usually, he did.

Leaving the comfort of his home for a cup of shitty coffee just couldn't be justified now that his time as a lifeless high-schooler was long over. It'd been nearly 10 years since the old "glory days" when all it took was an expensive hot drink and an order of bland fries in exchange for some agreeable head in the backseat of his car. If he said he missed it, he'd mostly be lying. But in his exhausted state of mind a little comfortable nostalgia was almost as satisfying as the thought of filling every ounce of his body with the most caffeinated thing he could find.

Keyword: Almost.

But more than anything, he chose to stop at The Dot that day because it was another two miles to the nearest Starbucks and there was currently a tomato-faced toddler attempting to break the sound barrier from his backseat. He had been surprised to hear from his sister that the old coffee shop was still around. Especially considering the news that his once beloved Chompy Chicken was no longer in business. Truth be told, he'd nearly forgotten the place existed.

It had been a while since he'd been able to come back to Toronto with enough time to venture beyond his mother's place. He had managed to keep himself plenty busy since moving away after high school. One degree worth of studies at The London Writer's Academy quickly turned into two. Then came his internship for The Telegraph and working on getting his first few books published. Before he knew it, the years had just flown by. In that time he'd watched through Facebook updates and text messages as his brother moved away and his mother moved on. Of course, everyone he'd ever known had tried to reach out to him upon the news of his father's passing the year before. But none kept in touch beyond his truthful assurance that he was "okay". He couldn't be bothered, though, by the dreams of things that could have been. He had made it, finally, to a point where his life was at some peace. He had faced all his demons, and he'd done it all before thirty.

...Or so he thought

Little had he known he would have one more demon to face, and this one took the form of a not even two-year-old hellion who had apparently devoted her life to ensuring he never got more than an hour of sleep.

He did a half-assed parallel park outside the coffeehouse and slumped out of the car, not trying hard enough to ignore the cries of that insufferable pest. Reluctantly he popped the door open, taking in the sight of four tiny, flailing limbs and that snot-covered face with about as much enthusiasm as he'd had for his last root canal. He stared at her for a long while, contemplating just why it would be so bad to leave her in there for a few minutes. It wasn't hot out – maybe 23 degrees at most. The Mustang had the standard security features. He wouldn't take long, just long enough to grab a cup of joe and wait for his head to stop pounding. She'd be fine…probably. But with as much as he had riding on his public etiquette, he wasn't exactly the sort of John Doe who could risk "probably".

As he crossed the street he couldn't help but imagine every last eye on him. First, trying intensely to figure out just how they recognized his face. The lack of sleep had clearly taken a toll on his appearance. He was sure he resembled something from The Walking Dead by that point, as that was certainly how he felt. Angered and lifeless, without enough energy in his being to even bother to shave his face in two weeks. Then, they would become that much more perplexed when the realization of who he was set in. Finally, they just watched – judged, rather – as their gaze shifted to the white-knuckle grip he had around the unsettled child tossed over his shoulder. They'd all catch her tear-filled face as he passed, noting the same tired, green eyes he was attempting to hide behind his shades. He contemplated shoving them all to the ground to revel in the sounds of their skulls shattering against the pavement. But Miles Hollingsworth III had never been one to crack under the impression of judgey idiots, and he'd be damned if he started now.

The Dot hadn't changed a lick since he'd last seen it. It was still just as crowded as ever. Still trying to mask the smell of teenage b.o. with the aroma of homemade Rice Krispie Treats and cake pops. He cringed as he caught sight of the first table to his right – a hoard of young men all sporting that same obnoxious yellow varsity jacket he'd gotten to know far too well. He watched one of the boys shoot a crumpled up receipt into an empty mug, sending the whole table into a thunderous applause. Behind them a group of power cheer girls rolled their eyes, leaning into each other with an appetite for gossip that did not go undetected. Back in his day that would have been Zoë Rivas or Mike Dallas at those tables. Now there sat a new breed, still waiting to start some ridiculous rumor or lead the Ice Hounds to an unexpected victory. Different faces, but the same old shit.

The whole scene was turning out to be more creepy than comforting. He huffed when he noticed the size of the line already snaking around the counter, having half the thought to just force himself awake a little longer to make it to that Starbucks up the road. He joined the wait as he contemplated, setting the child still writhing over his shoulder onto her feet. She tried to make a run for it, but he was quick, gripping at her small hand before she could get away.

"Nooo! Lemme GO!" She protested as she continued to twist and turn, her efforts ignored by Miles as he tried to peek around the workspace.

The baristas apparently hadn't changed either, for they were still too incompetent to handle more than one customer in a 15 minute span. Even the same old owner, whose nametag read 'Gavin', was waiting behind the register when Miles finally approached to order.

"Just a coffee. Black. Largest size you've got." Miles responded, knowing it was too late to dip out now.

He dug for his wallet with his free hand, pulling out a $20. When he glanced back up he was expecting to make uncomfortable eye contact with the middle-aged man balding beyond belief. But past Gavin's broad shoulder he caught a glimpse of something else - or rather, someone else - too oddly familiar to ignore.

Cornered behind the cappuccino machine stood a visibly flustered barista, mistakenly thinking he was out of sight as he fumbled with the strings to his apron. His performance was nothing short of awkward, but it wasn't the thrill of someone else's embarrassment that drew Miles to him. Nor was it the undeniably delicious looking, caramel colored substance swirling around the machine he was attempting to use as protection.

It was those hands.

Those long, spindly fingers struggling so dispassionately to knot the two strings together at the small of his back. Miles knew those fingers, and those hands. And the thin arms sticking out from the sleeves of the jet-black tee shirt worn underneath the smock. It matched the hair on his head, which was still exactly as Miles last saw it. Though, he could still easily remember the times before when it had been tried a platinum blonde or chocolate brown.

He knew that skin, and that jawline, and the series of little freckles that scattered out among their porcelain surface like stars in the sky. He knew those lips, and that he knew for certain, for when he saw them he could still feel their touch – so smooth, yet firm – against his own…

But it couldn't be.

Word on the street was that his high school sweetheart had moved to the states years ago. As far as Miles knew, he had scored a leading role on a television series that shot in New York City. There was no way in hell the man he knew would leave the limelight behind to come back to boring old Toronto to work at The Dot, selling overpriced coffee for under-priced pay.

"Uh…sir?" The low voice of the manager broke his train of thought like a rock on the tracks.

"Hmm?"

"I said…will that be all?"

"Uh…yeah." Miles responded with a nod, hurriedly digging for his wallet as best as he could all while refusing to let this curious doppelganger out of his sight. "What's my damage?"

"Seven even." Gavin responded, to which Miles' handed over the crumpled bill and waited for his change.

Miles took the chance to gander at that employee again, pushing himself up on his toes discreetly to get a better view. He was about as tall as Tristan had been, maybe slightly taller. Just as lean and clearly in shape, judging by the slight muscle definition that peeked through his sleeves and over the collar of his shirt.

His dark locks curled against his scalp. Although Tristan had chosen to straighten his hair for most of highschool, Miles remembered that he'd rocked his natural curls for a while during senior year. Miles wished like hell that he could catch the boy's eyes, for Tristan's were a beauty that was unforgettable. Their ever-changing blue-gray-almost green color was truly one-of-a-kind.

"Hey, uh what's his story?" Miles asked absentmindedly, never taking his eyes off maybe-Tristan even as he collected his change. He leaned on the counter, trying to come off as cool as possible despite his heart attempting to burst through his chest. "Is he new?"

Gavin turned over his shoulder to catch the same view as Miles. His head shook in disfavor when he turned back, letting out a frustrated huff.

"Yeah, sorry about him." The older guy spoke with a voice that told Miles he was not too keen on the other barista. "He uh, just started and..."

"Where's he from?"

"Uhh the states. New York, I think." Gavin shot Miles a wary look, but it went unnoticed. Miles was too preoccupied by the feeling of his heart now dropping to his gut. "But uh, he grew up somewhere around here."

Then it clicked, and Gavin glanced from the employee back to Miles with an incitement smirk.

"Why? You know him?"

"Actually, yeah. I uh, I think so."

Miles murmured, feeling flushed all over. He couldn't quite grasp the sudden feeling of anxiety sweeping over him. All he knew was that if that was really Tristan...his Tristan...or, well, formerly his Tristan… he needed to know.

…..

"Oh! Tristan! Tristan, over here!"

A camera flashed. In that moment the world around him illuminated with nothing but bright white. The faces in the crowd, all the microphones and cameras, the crimson carpet beneath his feet - all gone. The serious chance that he could have been left blinded completely came with no warning. Still, he stopped.

Smiled.

Never blinked.

Offered a poised wave as he moved along.

He was still seeing spots, but to the public, he remained unfazed. He learned that trick quickly after his very first red carpet in 2021 when a photographer from Clevver News stunned him so severely he almost took down Rachel Bloom.

"Tristan Milligan! Can we get some love for your fans over at Seventeen Magazine?!"

Tracing the direct source of the request was impossible in the sea of fans and publicists crowded outside the barriers. He blew a kiss in the general direction, and the crowd roared with excitement.

"Mr. Milligan! Mr. Milligan!"

He came to a halt in front of the reporter anxiously pushing his microphone over the railing. His crystal eyes fell and then rose again.

Slowly.

Drinking up every inch of this boy as if he was dying of thirst.

He was undeniably attractive, in that nerdy chic sort of way. Tall and thin, but clearly still muscular. A fair complexion with a nice, natural tan. Curious green eyes and chocolate brown hair just long enough on top to grip his fingers into. The way his slacks sat tight around his lap - as if to give a peek at what's to come - sealed the deal.

"Hello, Mr. Milligan. Clark Madison from E! News." Dick Print introduced himself, exuding confidence in an obvious attempt to hide how flustered he'd become from Tristan's stare down.

His demeanor was almost...nostalgic. Almost as though he reminded Tristan of someone. Had he slept with him already? He couldn't recall.

"Who are you wearing?" Clark finally choked out, and Tristan chuckled a little deep in his throat.

"Mm. Alexander Mcqueen, of course." He answered, his voice grave and his gaze intense.

Bulge was charming, but clearly hadn't done his research. Tristan stored his name in the brain vault for later use. He would have a lot to teach him when he fucked him that night.

"Mr. umm...Mr. Tristan? Mr. Tristan?!"

To his right stood a girl no taller than his knees, timidly waving around a printed version of his latest headshot. He zeroed in on her with his best loving smile. He had never been the child type - most of them were too sticky and loud for his liking. But the press would eat this one up. It could even get him a spot on Ellen, if he really played his cards right.

"Hi sweetie." Tristan cooed as he knelt in front of her, already feeling the heat from a thousand cameras at his neck."What's your name?"

"Zoey." She announced proudly, shoving her picture so closely to his face he expected paper-cuts. "Could I get your auto-gwaph please?"

"My best friend's name is Zoë!"

He added as he removed the pen from his lapel and took hold of her picture. Using his knee for support, he scribbled his signature across his own face, adding a "Much Love" for character. The girl beamed as he handed it back, thanking him with a gap-toothed smile.

"No. Thank you!" He responded with a wink before sauntering off once more, letting his strut sync in rhythm with the sounds of the commotion.

"Tristan! Hey, Tristan!"

"Mr. Milligan! Can we get a word for Buzzfeed?!"

"Tristan Milligan! Have you ever considered screenwriting?!"

"Tristan! Over here!"

"Mr. Milligan! What are your plans now that you've been written off your hit series, Blood Vessels?!"

"Mr. Milligan, what is your next project?!"

"What's next for Tristan Milligan?!"

"Tristan!"

"Mr. Milligan!"

"Tristan!"

"Mr. Milligan!"

"Tristan!"

"Tristan!"

…

"TRISTAN!" Another voice called, this one cross and much too familiar.

Tristan frantically startled out of his flashback, dropping the apron strings he didn't realize he'd been fumbling with for the past 10 minutes. Suddenly he was no longer on the red carpet, surrounded by waiting press and adoring fans. He was in hell. Or at least, his version of hell - which took the form of an old coffee shop crammed with puberty-laden teenagers. And his Lucifer? The manager - A.K.A the middle aged, balding, white man who was currently scrutinizing him with unquestionable dissatisfaction.

"Sorry, uh, Gavin." Tristan stammered, avoiding the man's heated glare as he returned to his apron strings, re-assembling them into a sloppy bow behind his back. "I was just...uh...my apron came undone."

He laughed a little under the pressure, and for a brief moment the bitter man before him actually joined in. Sarcastically, of course, for it only took a matter of seconds before his face fell back to a serious slate.

"You've got a customer." Gavin announced, holding the order ticked out for Tristan to grudgingly take. "One XL Black for table 6 outside."

Tristan wanted to remind the man that he could read just fine. But he bit his tongue, instead offering a sweet smile as their mutually intimidating eyes locked together.

"I'm on it." He assured the higher-up, who continued to watch him for a moment even after Tristan had began to walk away.

Tristan scoffed to himself as he grabbed a cup from the stack, hoping like hell someone heard him. There weren't many things Tristan truly hated. Large reptiles came to mind first, followed closely by flannel shirts and bugs that fly. He wasn't a fan of country music, or any man who has to use words like "man-bun" or "guy-liner" to protect their toxic masculinity. He always thought cauliflower tasted like vomit, and had recently began to worry there was a serious possibility he was destined to be forever alone and would have to seek companionship from an overweight cat named Mittens.

But the ONE thing he'd decided he really, truly hated with a fiery passion...was coffee.

He hadn't always hated coffee. In fact, he was truly convinced that he never would have survived four years at Degrassi Community School if he'd never been introduced to skinny iced vanilla lattes. But what was once his sweetest guilty pleasure quickly became his greatest annoyance - all thanks to this insufferable hell that was The Dot.

It wasn't just serving drinks to inconsiderate teenagers or cleaning stubborn brown stains out of his clothes that he hated. No, it was coffee itself – every tiny little element that made up or contributed to the existence of coffee in any way. He hated how the sounds of a hundred quarts of coffee being spun away in various machines rang through his ears even hours after his shift had ended. He hated the way the grainy powders or brittle beans felt between his shoes and the floor every time some lazy juvenile didn't clean up their own mess. He hated the way the smell of café' con leche stuck to him like a department store cologne he never asked to sample. After just two weeks of working there he'd even began to hate the taste, because it'd become physically impossible to sit back with his favorite nonfat caffeinated treat without the bitter taste of failure finding its way into the mix.

This time last year, he would have laughed directly in the face of anyone who had the balls to tell him he'd end up back in Toronto making overpriced coffee for underpriced pay instead of living his dream in The Big Apple. After graduating from the rehabilitation center and spending another year re-adapting to independent living, he bolted to New York so quickly he'd hardly had time to pack his belongings. The first 28 months post-move were rough. He spent endless days chasing after roles like "Guy with Dog" or "White Guy #4" just to have something to add to his resumé.

He'd thought he struck gold with his first big television contract. (After all, he actually had to sign a contract for this one.) And for a while, he really had. Blood Vessels – which, according to the New York times was "The Best Mythical-Creature-Love-Story-meets-Medical-Drama-Crossover in TV history" – secured its legacy well before season two. By the filming for season three came around, Tristan was sure he was set for eternity.

His life went from drab to fab faster than he could charge that adorable mid-city penthouse apartment to his brand new Platinum card. He was finally able to ditch that old, hand-me-down Ford from his brother for a sleek, new Corvette. New York's active gay scene swallowed him up like a handful of low-sodium kale chips, and kept him busy in more ways than one. He couldn't even remember the last night he'd spent at home alone doing nothing. There was always somewhere to go, and something to drink with someone to take home later.

But then, tragedy struck when he was eaten by a ravenous colleague.

...Well, his character on the show was eaten…

...which was just as bad.

Seriously.

Because from then on, Tristan Milligan - NYC's next TV superstar - had been type casted. And as a straight, blood-sucking ER surgeon, nonetheless. Now every audition he read for or modeling agency he contacted only saw Dr. Damien Vampiro; the super-hot, yet slightly effeminate ladies' man from Channel 29. And spoiler alert...there weren't any other Mythical-Creature-Love-Story-meets-Medical-Drama-Crossovers in TV history, let alone currently looking to take advantage of this oddly specific niche.

Shocker.

Even Disney Channel - the lowest of the low - turned him down for that Dog with a Blog reboot. Which, of course, was just about the last gig he actually wanted. But considering the only other offer he'd gotten in months was for a series of adult diaper commercials... he would have owned it like the latest Jimmy Choo handbag.

His so called "friends" only knew how to help his predicament by dragging him to Staten Island to force shots of Yamskaya down his throat until he was too drunk to complain any longer. Which, was great at first. But he could only spend so many months drowning his sorrows in fancy Russian vodka before Hurricane Eviction Notice forced him onto dry land. At that point he had two choices: move back to Toronto, or actually take up that offer for the diaper commercials.

So as painful of a choice as it was, he had to say goodbye penthouse, and hello hockey pucks. He was just grateful Zoë had some extra space so he didn't have to move back in with his mother – which, would have been the only potential fate worse than becoming a beverage slave at The Dot. Zoë wasn't asking him to contribute anything other than his share of the utilities and necessities so, really, minimum wage was all he needed to sustain himself for now. But, of course, this move wasn't going to be permanent.

Tristan was destined for the lavish life of New York - the arts, the culture, the hustle and bustle of the "City that Never Sleeps". Being back in Canada was just…blasé. To put it nicely. The most exhilarating thing he'd done since he arrived was try to re-assemble the ties to his apron before his manager could accuse him of slacking off. Which, he failed at. Surprise, surprise. He had a whole plan. He would stick around here for a while. Work on his finances and really reinvent his new image. Then arrive back to the states in another three years for a groundbreaking comeback. It was flawless.

But in the meantime, he had to suffer through reheating yesterday's fries and serving extra-large black coffees with a plastic smile. He was oddly comforted by the knowledge that if someone out there needed an XL black coffee to get through their day, then they had to be at least as miserable as he was. If not more miserable, even.

He made the order like second nature and carefully made his way outside, scanning the table number once more on the order slip as he walked. He could hardly wait to see this tragic being waiting for him at table 6. As sadistic as it may have been, someone else's scowl could easily become the highlight of his day at that point. He wondered just what sort of disaster he'd find when he arrived. Would this be a tear-struck college freshman who just got dumped by their high school sweetheart? Or perhaps, a 50-something businessman who just lost his job of 25 years?

And then, as if he'd just been unknowingly cast in a horribly cliché teenage sitcom, everything happened at once.

His curious eyes wandered away from the receipt, where they locked oh-so-slowly, yet practically instantly, onto another pair across the way. They sparkled like emerald, brimming with familiarity and nostalgia strong enough to make Tristan's pulse skip a beat. The face that held them showed exhaustion and slight age, yet somehow still remained just as he'd always known them to be:

Ravishing…

...Devilish…

...Enchanting…

..."Miles?"