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What began as a simple conversation, ended in love -- Mark Anthony
“Alright,” Stiles said, slamming down the salt-shaker and narrowing his eyes. “What do you want?”
The man opened his mouth, but Stiles plowed on without letting him speak because he hand things to do, customers to serve and did not have time for whatever smooth-talking bullshit Mr I-Look-Stupidly-Good-In-A-Leather-Jacket could dish up.
“You come in three times a week, never at the same time, always over tip and don’t think I haven’t noticed the looks you give me so I repeat. What. Do. You. Want?”
The man stared at him, seemingly taken aback momentarily, but then he smiled, just a small uptick on the corner of his lips, but his eyes crinkled and brightened and Stiles considered that he might possibly be laughing at him.
“Coffee.”
Stiles blinked. “What?”
“I want coffee.”
Stiles bristled. “Are you f--”
“—with you,” the man cut in smoothly, as though Stiles hadn’t been gearing up to cuss him out. “And a date.”
“Yeaaaah,” Stiles said slowly. “I’m sure you do buddy --- did somebody put you up to this?”
The man chuckled, honest to god chuckled. “No,” he said. “Nobody put me up to this. You are a delight, aren’t you?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Stiles said, idly wondering why it had to be his shop that all the crazies walked into. The speech he’d prepared suddenly seemed entirely unsuitable for the direction this conversation had taken, and while he was normally all for spit-balling on the fly and just going where his mouth led him, he had his suspicions that that approach might not work. He should regroup. Yes. “Right, well. I’m just, gonna leave…” he hooked his thumb over his shoulder. “Yeah.”
“Or,” the man said, “you could sit down and we could talk?”
Stiles considered this. Taking a seat at a table with a man he didn’t know, but who he’d been relatively certain was some sort of creeper with the way he’d been watching him ever since that day he’d first entered his shop seemed like one of those bad ideas parents warned their kids about.
With his longer hair and leather jacket and old fashioned charm, he gave off the best kind of bad boy vibes Stiles had ever had the pleasure of experiencing. That, plus the fact that the guy was in his late twenties, early thirties at the most… well. It was doing things for him.
Of course, Stiles had been watching him just as much, hadn’t he? Caught his eye that first day and never really been able to look away. It was like the guy gave off this presence that made Stiles hyper-aware whenever he was in his vicinity, something a little like lightning in the air, only sweeter, softer. More tempting that dangerous.
But that was dangerous all on it’s own, he thought, and then thought to hell with it, and dropped down into the open chair.
“Let’s say I believe you,” he started, narrowing his eyes, adding, “which I don’t – what on earth gave you the impression that I would even want to date you?” Then a thought occurred to him. “Who are you, anyway?”
The guys grin showed teeth a touch too sharp, but Stiles was distracted by the sight of the man’s neck when he tilted his head to the side in a way that should not have been so appealing. “I’m Peter. And, well. I like you Stiles.”
Stiles spluttered. Warmth crept up his neck and across his cheeks, a hideous blush and he cursed his reaction.
“You don’t even know me!”
“No.”
“Then why…?”
“I’d like to. That’s a start, isn’t it?”
And Stiles? He could only be helplessly charmed.