Two Cups

“Banana milk latte, please.” “One capuccino with cream.” “Double espresso, please.” “Mint raf, and make it quick.” These were the daily sounds in the life of a young woman whose day began and ended in the coffee shop where she worked. Living in a big city costs money, and she didn’t have much of it. To be more precise—just enough to pay for a small house on the outskirts of London and for food. Luckily, coffee was always free. In truth, Hermione loved her job, if only for the coziness and the relatively light workload, even during what they called ‘The World’s Lunch’. That’s what she and her friend had named the most hellish time—1:00 to 3:00 PM—when everyone, from directors to clerks, rushed to the nearest café to throw back a dose of caffeine with something sweet, just to make it to the end of the workday. Here, though, it was different. Customers would slow down as soon as they walked in, as if realizing the futility of trying to hurry anywhere, and would take their time choosing what to drink today. She felt it, too. Perhaps it was something magical in the wooden interior or the blend of various coffee bean aromas. Or maybe, it was simply about the people. When she first moved to London, she couldn’t understand why people checked the clock more often than they looked around, but after a year of living there, even she started dreaming of the minute hand at night, warning of tardiness. Yet, she still looked up at the sky. Perhaps it was just habit. She had spent twenty-two years in a cozy rural world, where birds sang in the mornings, and the air was so refreshingly delicious that it seemed like a secret medicine that kept the villagers healthy. But they don’t pay for that. That’s why she was in London—a world of red brick, rushing people, and aromatic coffee. An hour after opening, she had already tidied up the counter, where she’d be smiling for the rest of the evening, cleaned the coffee machines, arranged pastries from the fridge in the display case, and turned on relaxing music. Over the weekend, she had put together a special playlist and wanted to see if the regulars would enjoy the new tracks. When you’ve worked as a barista for a couple of years, certain coffee enthusiasts turn into friendly acquaintances, and the boss becomes a good friend. Of course, if you have a good boss. Mark was one, though he often complained that she and Pansy laughed too much, which embarrassed the customers, and he didn’t like it when they used too many coffee beans, but overall, he was a kind person. This coffee shop had become his life’s purpose, though, maybe, it had always been his life. Hermione wished to find something she could devote herself to entirely and cherish as if it were a newborn baby, but for now, she was simply wandering towards an uncertain destination where a journalist’s career seemed to be vaguely on the horizon. It was for this elusive goal that she worked on weekends, when the pay was a few pounds higher. And until that moment, she hadn’t expected anything exciting to happen in her usual Sunday shift. The sound of the anxious Chinese bell above the door became a silent herald of the first guest, who approached the counter with a lazy stride. Thanks to the skill she’d honed over several years of work, Hermione turned to the customer with a smile—a tall man with light hair, slightly falling over his forehead. He was dressed too formally for a Sunday, when everyone was wandering the streets in near-pajamas, hoping to hold on to a bit of home comfort before the workweek began. His gaze was fixed on the menu located just above Hermione’s head. He didn’t acknowledge her presence at all, as if he’d forgotten anyone else was even there. “Good morning, are you ready to order?” Now he saw her. And those brown eyes, childishly blinking long eyelashes, would stay in his memory forever. Have you watched romantic comedies, ladies and gentlemen? As cliché as it may sound, at that moment, he felt exactly what usually seemed laughable when watching such films. The world stopped. There were no more sounds. He was just standing there, in an unknown coffee shop, unable to answer a simple question. “Sir, are you okay?” Hermione asked, waving a hand in front of the customer’s strangely frozen expression. “Draco. My name is Draco Malfoy.” “Alright, Draco Malfoy, are you ready to order?” “What’s your favorite coffee?” he asked in a calm, almost lost voice. “I love caramel lattes, highly recommend it!” “Then I’ll have a caramel latte, Miss…” Draco’s eyes dropped slightly lower to read her name tag, “Hermione.” She blushed slightly at his insistent and attentive gaze, hurrying to prepare the drink quickly and return to the comforting silence of her own thoughts. While she ground the fresh beans and steamed the milk, her guest tapped his fingers on the counter, inadvertently drawing her attention back to him. Did she like it? She wasn’t sure, because despite her initial rush to finish the order, she suddenly found herself slowing down. “Have you been working here long, Hermione?” Hermione heard him clearly, but for a moment, she convinced herself that it was her own thoughts asking the question. However, when she looked up, she saw Malfoy was waiting for an answer. “A couple of years, but I haven’t seen you here,” she said, setting the cup under the coffee machine, as the aroma of the beans enveloped them both. “First time at ‘Two Cups’?” “Yes, and I deeply regret it,” Draco looked into her eyes with a confidence that seemed to search for answers to questions he hadn’t yet asked aloud. “Why?” “It’s very cozy here, though I can’t yet vouch for the quality of the coffee,” he smiled. Hermione’s breath caught. His smile was like a bright ray of morning sun, the kind you see when you first open your eyes. Gods, Draco Malfoy wore that smile so well, and if robbers had such a smile, she would have gladly cleaned out her own apartment and handed everything over to them. “Glad to hear it,” was all Granger could manage. “To stay or to go?” “To go.” The coffee machine hissed, and after adding the frothed milk to the drink, Hermione drew the classic design she left for all her customers, but this time it made her cheeks flush with color. She set the cup down in front of Draco. “A very pretty heart,” Malfoy said, taking the coffee and sipping it. “And a delicious caramel latte.” “Thank you,” Granger quickly looked away. “That’ll be two pounds.” The guest pulled out his phone and held it up to the card reader, waiting for the familiar beep. It seemed silly to check the payment on the screen since Draco didn’t look like someone short on money. Yet she did, and raised her eyes to Malfoy. “Enjoy your coffee, Mr. Draco Malfoy! Thank you for choosing us.” “See you later, Hermione,” he replied, winking as he headed towards the exit. The rest of the day wasn’t nearly as exciting: there were few customers, and Hermione spent much of her time working on the essay due on Monday. To be honest, it was difficult to concentrate—her thoughts kept drifting back to the new customer. Admittedly, a very handsome customer. She remembered how composed he had been while waiting for his coffee and the way he had looked at her. Her rosy daydreams were fueled by his parting words, which echoed in her mind until the end of her shift. Hermione lived on the other side of London, so the journey home was always a bit of a trek. She had to take a few stops on the Underground, followed by a short bus ride, before reaching her street, at the end of which stood a small house. She rented it at a reduced price thanks to an old schoolmate of her mother’s. Mrs. Stone was a great landlord—tolerant of late payments and rarely showing up for inspections. All in all, Hermione was rather lucky. Once home, she prepared dinner—cereal with strawberry milk—and settled into a small armchair she’d snagged at a garage sale nearby, dragging it all the way home herself. She put on her favorite romantic comedies. It had become a kind of ritual, helping her wake up with a smile no matter how badly the previous day had gone. She started with her beloved ‘Pretty Woman’ starring Richard Gere and Julia Roberts. But unlike the thousand other times she’d watched it, this time she hardly paid attention to what was happening on the screen. Hermione kept replaying the day’s encounter in her mind, trying to figure out why she felt so flustered and why he had looked at her the way he did. She even wondered if Draco knew her from somewhere, but after digging through her memories all the way back to her first cry in the maternity ward, she couldn’t recall his smile or those striking grey eyes. But the feeling that she had seen him somewhere before didn’t go away. It was with these thoughts that she finally drifted off, not even making it to Vivian and Edward’s first kiss. She woke up the next morning with a terrible ache in her back. Instead of waking up in the middle of the night as she usually did, she had curled up in the armchair and slept through to sunrise and her first alarm. She needed to rush to class, but the pain in her spine slowed her down. She arrived ten minutes late but managed to turn in her essay, fulfilling her primary objective. Hermione got out early, since the last lecture was canceled, and she was at a loss for what to do. She didn’t feel like wandering around alone, nor did she want to go straight home, so she hopped on a bus and headed to work, hoping to see how Pansy was managing. Hermione was certain that Parkinson had already wondered why their favorite table was empty. And, indeed, she had. “Finally!” Pansy exclaimed as Hermione stepped into the café. Some of the new customers looked startled—perhaps even a little frightened—by the sudden outburst, but the regulars merely waved at Granger, well used to such scenes. “Keep your voice down, will you? You’ll scare them all off,” Hermione said, kissing her friend on the cheek. “How’s work?” “Oh, the usual. Dull. You know how it is.” Pansy had never liked the job—unlike Hermione, who knew this and found it perfectly reasonable. Honestly, it was probably Hermione who was the odd one, turning up here at seven in the morning with a smile on her face, wasn’t it? “I’ll go sit down.” Granger made her way to their usual table near the entrance, which no one ever seemed to take—either because of the dim lighting in that corner or the uncanny feeling that it was already occupied. She laid out her things and, out of habit, pulled out her phone, quickly scrolling through a few dozen Instagram posts before Pansy dropped into the seat opposite her. “The usual?” Hermione looked up and locked her phone. “This time bring me something sweet as well,” she said, thinking for a moment. “Let’s go with a cheesecake.” “Tell me you at least had breakfast,” Pansy said, her tone already edging towards a scolding. She’d long since taken it upon herself to regulate Hermione’s meals and schedule—but to little effect. “Nope. I didn’t even have dinner,” Hermione replied nonchalantly, only to be smacked lightly on the hand by her friend. “Ow!” “Just know that every time you have ice cream or cereal instead of a proper dinner, I’m going to haunt your dreams,” Pansy warned, walking off with a grin as Hermione burst out laughing. She loved Parkinson like the sister she’d never had. Hermione was convinced that once—perhaps a few hundred years ago—they must have belonged to the same family. One evening, during one of their usual late-night hangouts at her place, they’d even promised to marry off their future children. Even if they ended up being the same gender. Hermione didn’t pay any attention to the guest who had just walked in—she was too busy watching Pansy prepare her favourite coffee. But then a familiar crown of blond hair caught her eye from the side. It was him. Sure, she could have waved or said hello, but instead, Granger ducked behind a menu, spying from under it like a proper British detective. Pansy turned towards Draco. They exchanged a few words, and then her friend looked straight at her. Hermione shook her head vigorously in response. A few more minutes passed, and after paying for his order, he left. Pansy, eyes gleaming with genuine curiosity, brought over her caramel latte and cheesecake. “Talk.” “There’s nothing to tell,” Hermione said at once, trying to dodge the conversation by stuffing a spoonful of dessert into her mouth. “Oh really? Maybe I should run after him and ask myself?” “No!” Granger nearly choked. “Don’t you dare, Pansy Parkinson!” “Then I’m all ears.” “There’s seriously nothing to say. He came in yesterday, ordered my favourite coffee and left,” she said aloud—and to her surprise, felt a pang of disappointment. “Then why did you hide?” Of course she didn’t believe her. Frankly, Hermione wouldn’t have believed herself either. “I don’t know.” “You liked him, didn’t you?” “Oh, sod off,” Granger muttered, returning to her cheesecake. “What did he want?” “Coffee, like everyone else. Except…” Pansy trailed off meaningfully. “What? What did he want?” “He asked where the other barista was. I told him you had a few days off and would be back the day after tomorrow.” Grabbing the spoon from Hermione’s stunned hand, her friend stole a bite of her dessert. “He looked disappointed.” But Hermione, on the other hand, was thrilled. Warmth spread through her chest, and she couldn’t help smiling widely, which made Pansy snort with laughter—only to be rewarded with a light smack to the forehead for her suggestive eyebrow wiggling. After sitting for a while longer, Hermione said goodbye and made her way home. She had things to do, and the café was heading into the chaos of the so-called "Global Lunch Rush", which meant her friend no longer had time for her. Once settled into her favourite chair at home, Hermione buried herself in the articles she’d promised her professor, disappearing into them for the next two days. Mr Morrigan was an absolute monster, immune to fresh-brewed coffee, delicious sweets, and even the most pitiful of puppy-dog eyes. He failed everyone with a ruthless lack of remorse. A few days later, she was jolted awake early in the morning by the shrill ring of her phone. “Hello?” A woman’s voice informed her that there had been an issue with her payment for the last semester, and that she needed to come to the dean’s office immediately to clarify the matter. Even though the woman was polite—and actually rather sweet—Hermione’s irritation spilled over onto her as well. “Yes, I’ll be there soon, thank you,” she said curtly, and hung up. “Bloody hell!” Granger threw on something weather-appropriate and rushed out of the house, managing only to brush her teeth and tie her hair into a loose ponytail. She ended up spending nearly two hours in the dean’s office, too caught up in the mess with the accountants—who had, quite unexpectedly, managed to lose her payment receipt—to think about anything else. Poor Hermione had completely forgotten that today was her shift... She only remembered when she stepped outside and picked up her phone, which displayed around ten missed calls from Mark. Calling him back felt downright terrifying, so without hesitation, she broke into a run, heading straight for the café. The boss was there. And the look he gave her was not one she liked. “Mark, I’m so sorry, I got pulled into something at uni,” she blurted out the moment she stepped inside. “I’m sorry, sorry, sorry—it won’t happen again. I promise.” “Do you even realise how much trouble you’ve caused me, Hermione?” he snapped. And he was angry. Really angry. He almost never called them by name—usually it was just, “Girls, stop slacking off!” “Mark, I’m really sorry. I’ll make up for it.” “This is your last warning, Hermione. One more screw-up and you’re fired, and I’ll be completely within my rights.” “Understood. Fair enough,” she said quietly, lowering her eyes like a child who’d just been scolded by a parent. “Get to work. I’ve got errands to run.” She quickly tied on her apron and took her place behind the counter, starting to take customer orders without wasting a second. Before long, the café had emptied out, and she allowed herself to sit down on the little stool for a breather. Hermione put on her favourite track from her playlist, turned the volume up just a bit louder than usual—while she still could—and closed her eyes for a moment, trying to stabilise her emotional state. That was probably why she didn’t hear the soft chime of the wind bells above the door. Hermione sat with her eyes closed, unconsciously humming along under her breath: “You're no good for me. Baby, you're no good for me. You're no good for me. But baby, I want you, I want you…” Hermione slowly began to nod her head in time with the music, feeling how each note passed through her chest and dissolved into a flood of emotion desperate to break free. “Diet Mountain Dew, baby, New York City. Never was there ever a girl so pretty. Do you think we'll be in love forever? Do you think we'll be in love?” “You sing beautifully. And you have excellent taste.” Hermione’s eyes flew open in surprise. Standing in front of her was Draco Malfoy, watching her with a smirk. How long had he been standing there? Her cheeks flushed, and her heart raced from the shock. “Thank you… have you been standing there long?” she asked awkwardly. “Since around the part where you said ‘I want you.’” “Oh God, I’m so sorry,” she muttered, half-laughing. “Would you like to place an order?” “Yes. I’ll have a caramel latte, Hermione, and the sweetest dessert you’ve got.” “Of course. We’ve got a bun called ‘Sugar Explosion.’ You’re going to love it!” Granger got to work on the drink, trying to keep the conversation going. “So… you liked my latte, then?” “Very much.” He watched her—the confident, practiced movements as she prepared her favourite drink, the modest smile that crept onto her lips without her noticing, the way she avoided looking directly at him. Malfoy wasn’t a fool; with every passing minute, he realised his interest in this girl was growing—fast—and soon enough it would cloud his judgement. “Your order, Mister Draco Malfoy.” Granger handed him the cup and the oversized bun covered in caramel and a few marshmallows on top. She wondered what he’d look like eating it in that perfectly pressed suit. As if reading her thoughts, the man took a bite. A drop of caramel stuck to his lips, and his eyes widened just a touch—apparently from surprise. “Do you like it?” she asked. “It’s delicious. But you lied to me, Hermione.” Their eyes met. “This isn’t the sweetest thing in this café.” “What do you mean?” “See you around,” he said, turning on his heel, and moments later, the soft jingle of the wind chimes marked his exit. Granger stood there for a few seconds, stunned, but quickly let it go and returned to work. The rest of the day passed quietly, and soon she was at home, finishing her favourite pizza in front of the TV. The next day, she nearly arrived late for her shift again. Draco Malfoy came back, but only ordered a latte—and was unusually quiet. No conversation. That bothered her, and Hermione couldn’t quite figure out why. Was it simply routine? Or had she started craving those little talks with him? She never saw him in a bad mood again. From then on, he showed up during every one of her shifts and always ordered the same thing—a caramel latte. After five or six of these seemingly meaningless interactions, she realised that by the seventh, she was already looking for him through the window. Scanning the passing crowd for his dark coat—and when she spotted it, she couldn’t help but smile. Hermione had tried more than once to offer him a different coffee or even tea, but for some reason, he always chose her favourite drink. Granger always called him Mister Draco Malfoy, and he always addressed her formally, which had by now become its own little joke. Through their brief conversations, she learned that he worked in the business centre just behind the café, and that his job was incredibly stressful—though he never actually said what it was. Draco was one of those people who seemed open… until you tried to recall something concrete and realised you knew nothing at all. It wasn’t that he avoided her questions. Maybe she just wasn’t asking the right ones. Time after time, Hermione tried to peel back a layer, but right when she was about to, the coffee machine would beep to announce that the drink was ready—and just like that, the man would slip away from the barista’s grasp. Then, during one of her shifts, he didn’t come. That day was dreadful in every possible way. The customers were irritable, the coffee machine was acting up, and she, frankly, couldn’t muster a trace of good mood after a series of failed interactions. And, as luck would have it, days like that always drew in the most people. Hermione was completely worn out and eager to get home by evening. But she had to stay late because of a problem with the till. Once that was sorted, she rushed to catch the last bus—she rarely splurged on a taxi. That, perhaps, was the fatal mistake. Sitting at the stop, Hermione decided to check the timetable, and after searching every pocket in her coat and bag, she realised she’d left her phone at work. She had no choice but to run back. Ten minutes later, she was standing in front of ‘Two Cups’, fumbling with the key. But the lock was jammed—no matter how she twisted, it wouldn’t budge. That was the final straw. Tears welled up and began to fall. “Oh, come on, you bloody wreck!” she cried, yanking the key in frustration. She wanted to kick the door, but if she did, Mark would definitely fire her—and that was the last thing she needed. Hermione gave up, resting her forehead against the cold glass, trying to calm down, when a voice spoke behind her: “Need a hand?” She turned. Leaning against the corner of the building stood Draco Malfoy. He looked exhausted—dark circles under his eyes, shoulders slumped like he was carrying a weight too heavy to bear, his gaze distant and empty. “Yes, thank you,” she sniffled, stepping aside to let him approach the lock. With a few deft movements, Draco turned the key and opened the door, leaving Hermione wide-eyed in disbelief. “How did you do that? I’ve been fighting with it for ages!” “You were pressing too hard. With this one, you need a gentler touch. Stress makes you force the key,” he said, handing her the keyring. “Are you alright?” “Yeah… just a bit of a breakdown. And I missed my bus,” she said bitterly, giving the door a half-hearted slap. “I could—” “Would you like some coffee? I desperately need a good cup right now!” she blurted out, cutting him off. “Yes. I think I do too, Hermione.” The darkness of night had finally settled over the city streets, taking full possession. Tonight was a full moon, shining unusually bright—even the darkest corners were bathed in its glow. That’s why Granger decided not to turn on the lights inside the café, open until eleven in the evening. If Mark found out, their work would be over for sure. Besides, why bother when the moonlight was so much softer and more pleasant, and… In the twilight, it was always easier to talk about yourself. Without even asking the man what drink he wanted, she headed to the counter and, adding caramel syrup to two cups, began frothing the milk. Malfoy sat down at the nearest table to her. “I’ve always liked watching how diligently you, Hermione, prepare your favorite latte,” Draco said suddenly, making her jump. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.” “No, no, it’s fine, just nerves,” she shrugged to calm herself. “And do you often watch me make coffee?” “Always.” That answer embarrassed her, but Hermione didn’t let it show—she just smiled sweetly and, out of habit, made a design in the foam before bringing the cups over and sitting next to him. He took one and smiled discreetly. “So, what happened to you?” “Let’s switch to ‘you’ already, please,” she said, inhaling a heart-shaped swirl of creamy foam. “If you’re comfortable with that, I’m all for it,” Draco repeated her action. “So, what happened?” “Terrible. Absolutely the worst day,” she took another sip. “Everything went wrong from the very morning.” Her words flowed out like a torrent, broken only by quiet, tired sighs and Draco’s clarifying questions. They had long since finished their coffee, but Hermione kept twisting the empty cup in her hands, about to drop it for sure—if not for the sudden warmth of a man’s hand resting on hers, trying to give her some support and confidence. It worked. “I’m so tired, Draco! Of this endless race for every extra pound and good grades, just to finally get that scholarship,” Hermione squeezed his hand and looked into his eyes sharply. “Also, you didn’t come by today. Did you stop liking how I make coffee?” For a moment, Draco thought she was joking and about to laugh. He felt like laughing himself at that childlike innocence, but Hermione looked at him seriously, ready to hear an honest answer. Her lashes fluttered slowly, and the moonlight shimmered in her golden-brown eyes. God, she was unbelievably beautiful. So much so that Draco decided to make the most reckless move. “I didn’t want to darken your smile,” he whispered, his fingers gently brushing her cheek. He stroked it softly with his thumb. It felt like he might scare her off—like a lone doe startled by the crunch of leaves under a hunter’s feet hiding in the bushes. He waited for a sharp slap on his hand or a tactful withdrawal. Anything but the slow closing of her eyes and a quiet sigh. “I was waiting…” she whispered. “Sorry, Hermione.” Malfoy’s gaze already roamed over her slightly parted, full lips. All that was left was to find a bit of courage within himself—because if he tried, he would either become the happiest man that night or the one with a heart shattered to pieces. Fortunately, even the tiniest chance of the first outcome made him gather drops of bravery deep inside. And there was that fierce, burning desire to taste her lips… Maybe they’d taste just like their favorite latte? A gentle touch. Their lips barely met, yet Hermione felt sparks running through her body, and her breath caught for a moment. What was she doing? Those thoughts faded into the background, giving way to the ringing beats of her heart that filled her entire mind. Malfoy quickly pulled away, and the cold breeze that brushed over her moist lips felt sharp and biting after his heated kiss. Hermione leaned forward, wanting to reclaim what had slipped away. That was all it took for Malfoy’s brakes to fail, for years of carefully built restraint to crumble, revealing the very thing he had dreamed of since the moment he first stepped inside. His hands held Hermione's head while Draco shamelessly explored her lips, while their tongues touched each other, making their owners breathe faster with excitement. He couldn't tear himself away, as if she had suddenly become his air, and everything felt so right that neither of them noticed the video camera modestly hidden in the corner. They clung to each other for an uncomfortably long time, but soon Hermione pressed gently against his shoulders, and Malfoy stopped instantly, his gaze hazy as he looked into her eyes. They were fools—hair tousled, breath ragged from the long kiss. Seeing each other like that, frozen in the moment, they burst into laughter in perfect sync. “You have an amazingly beautiful laugh,” Draco said. “And you’re amazingly good at calming women down, Mr. Draco Malfoy,” she joked lightly, but Hermione noticed a shadow flicker across his face. He stayed silent for a few seconds, which was long enough for the breathless, still-recovering-from-kisses Hermione to worry she’d ruined everything. “Listen, I want you to know I didn’t do it because I wanted to take advantage of the moment or your state,” he took her hand again. “I know I shouldn’t have let my emotions get the better of me, but damn it, Hermione, I’ve dreamed about this ever since I first walked in here and saw those caramel eyes. Forgive me for letting myself...” Hermione stopped him mid-sentence, pressing her index finger gently to his lips. “No need. I wanted this too. It’s okay,” she said softly, barely touching, and kissed his cheek. Malfoy’s eyes softened immediately—warm and tender, like a cozy blanket on the coldest winter night. “I’m glad I stayed late at work,” he smiled widely. “Why did you stay late? Don’t you have a regular schedule?” “When you run your own business, the schedule depends on the problems it throws at you,” Draco replied, pursing his lips. They talked for hours, laughing wildly one moment, and discussing serious things the next. Hermione learned that Draco had built his auditing firm from the ground up, refusing to take money from his parents—despite their family belonging to some ancient English nobility. He learned about her rural upbringing and extracted a promise for a tour of the green meadows she described. Dawn broke. They kept sharing crazy stories from their youth, sipping caramel lattes, until the first light illuminated their faces, reminding them that a new workday was beginning and they would soon have to part again. “Need a ride home?” Draco asked. “No,” Hermione glanced at her watch. “My shift here starts in an hour.” “Won’t you fall asleep?” Draco tucked a curly strand behind her ear. “We’re in a coffee shop — of course not.” His touch brought a smile to her face she couldn’t hide. She felt sixteen again, seeing romance in every little gesture through her rose-colored heart-shaped glasses. “See you, Hermione,” Draco said, planting a gentle kiss on her cheek before putting on his coat and leaving, leaving behind a trail of expensive perfume. The café quickly emptied. The air suddenly felt colder, and the skin that had just been warmed by his touch now felt uncomfortably cool. Absurdly funny—as if one kiss had trained her body to only come alive in his presence. Hermione shrugged and put on her apron, ready to take orders from the sleepiest customers—those who came to the coffee shop at seven in the morning. But no more than ten minutes passed before the boss showed up. Usually disheveled and cheerful, today he looked unusually composed. Something was wrong. People only change their style in two situations: when going on a date or delivering bad news. What was Mark’s intention? “How was your night in my café?” Everything fell apart. Hermione opened her mouth, trying to say something, but no words came to mind. Her eyes darted around the room, as if searching for an excuse, but then caught sight of the security camera—something that hadn’t been there before. “Were you watching us?” Fear mixed with sudden fury, creating a nuclear cocktail inside her. “This is my café, Hermione! What was I supposed to do when a friend called me and said someone was sitting here at two in the morning?!” Denial was pointless, and she wasn’t going to try. Hermione had made a mistake and was ready to take responsibility for it. She lifted her chin proudly. “I warned you,” Mark said as he approached and placed some papers on the counter. “I’m sorry, Hermione.” They were dismissal papers. Fresh. As if just printed, probably still warm. Well. “I understand. It’s my fault,” her eyes became wet, and only sheer willpower kept her from crying. “I was glad to work with you and Pansy. You’re a good boss, Mark.” Hermione signed the papers. Now she was officially an unemployed student. Again. “I wish you all the best, Hermione. Truly.” She nodded, grabbed her things from the counter, walked to the table where she had spent the whole night, put on her coat, and silently left the café. The Chinese wind chimes rang once more, this time seeing Hermione off, while two empty cups remained standing… She didn’t remember how she got home, but once there, she went to the bathroom sink and splashed her face with cold water. Never in all her years had she talked for so long to a stranger. And never kissed one. Yes, she had wanted to. Yes, she had desired it. But was it worth it? What were the chances Draco would show up? Hermione laughed to herself. None at all, since she no longer worked at Two Cups, and no one would be looking for her. Well, at least it was the best night of her life—one she would remember when she felt as bad as she did the moment the café door got stuck. Hermione was emotionally drained, and she had just enough strength left to take out the emergency ice cream from the freezer, sit in her favorite chair, and turn on a movie that always brought her emotions back to some kind of normal. Soon her eyelids closed, and she quietly sighed in her sleep.

***

Draco got home quickly and immediately went to bed, hoping to get a couple of hours of sleep before urgent company matters would pull him back to work. Who would have thought that what seemed like a terrible day would turn into an amazing night—the best night he could remember. Malfoy lay there, staring at the high ceiling, but all he saw were Hermione’s long eyelashes, heard her melodious, cheerful laughter, and breathed in the sweet scent of her almost-faded perfume mixed with the aroma of caramel coffee. Sleep wouldn’t come. On the contrary, drowsiness gave way to a desire to see her again and again, to make her laugh over and over. Draco no longer wanted to see her tired tears. “I promise, Hermione, never again…” And Draco Malfoy always kept his promises. Everyone who had ever tried to bribe his auditors knew that. Anyone who trusted him with their money knew it. If the head of DMA gave you his word that your company was headed for bankruptcy, believe me, gentlemen, it was going to happen. And vice versa. He replayed that night in his head over and over until a call from the office finally ended his torment. Stephen—his assistant—reported that a client was already waiting in the office, so it was time to leave. Draco quickly showered, changed, and soon pulled into the parking lot of the business center. Soon he was engaged in a conversation with a very wealthy but extremely stingy woman. She wanted to audit her son’s company, fearing that the “green” kid would ruin their family fortune. Malfoy quoted a timeline and a price. The deal was done. Then came the next client. A grown man, trembling over his first business ever and wanting to eliminate any risks. Reasonable. The deal was done. They came one after another like an endless parade of forgettable faces, whose names Draco wouldn’t remember once the job was done. He looked them in the eye, but his mind was elsewhere. Caramel brown. No one had ever distracted Malfoy from work, but she… A student barista from a small coffee shop. Who would have thought, really? “Stephen, I have lunch. I’ll be back in an hour,” Draco said abruptly to his assistant and went outside. He wanted to go straight to the café, as usual, but this time was different, so Malfoy couldn’t show up empty-handed. Crossing a block, he entered a small flower shop and bought a bouquet of multicolored peonies. Soon the Chinese wind chimes jingled above his head again. Visitors admired him as he smiled and approached the empty counter. She should be out any moment now. Draco was already imagining the look in her burning eyes. A voice came from the back room, and a disheveled man appeared. He glanced at the bouquet in Malfoy’s hands and frowned, apparently thinking it was for him. Under any other circumstances, Draco would have laughed or even played along, handing the flowers to the poor fellow, but now he honestly didn’t understand why the man was here at all. “Hello! My name’s Mark,” the man said, extending his hand, which Draco shook absentmindedly. “You’re probably looking for Hermione, right?” “That’s right. But why—?” “Oh, unpleasant to say, but she’s been fired,” Mark pursed his lips. “I guess you understand why, since you were an accomplice to the offense.” The boss. Draco recognized the tone immediately. He wanted to be angry at the man who dared to fire Hermione, but honestly, he understood him as a leader. If this were his café, he would be furious. “Couldn’t it have been handled differently? She worked here for years.” “Unfortunately not. Hermione was warned. This wasn’t her first slip-up.” Draco didn’t want to waste any more time on him. “Where can I find her?” he asked. “Oh, you don’t know the address? I thought… you two were close,” Mark’s tone and expression made Draco’s blood boil and fists clench with anger. “That’s none of your business,” Draco started. “Your job is to take care of this pathetic café, whose only advantage was the curly-haired girl making amazing coffee, and your…” Draco grabbed a coffee ordered by someone else from the counter and took a sip, “…is total crap.” “How dare you!” “And yes, keep an eye on the documents—just in case an unexpected inspection shows up, say, from a special tip-off.” Mark was at a loss for words and simply stood there stunned. Draco turned to leave but stopped when a dark-haired girl with a bob blocked his way, smiling as she leaned against the door. “Looking for Granger?” she asked, eyeing Draco from head to toe. “Thanks for standing up for her.” “Yes, I am.” “Sydenham Hill, at the very end. You’ll find the house by a huge white rose bush,” she stepped aside from the doorway. “Good luck.” “Thanks. And how do you—?” “Pansy. Parkinson,” she cut him off immediately. “I’m Draco…” “I know. Now go,” Pansy tugged Draco’s sleeve, then lightly pushed him forward and closed the door behind him. He got in his car and without wasting a minute drove toward Sydenham, wondering what to say when he saw her. Maybe it was better to say nothing and just bury his lips in hers? When he was a couple of meters from the turn, Draco veered off in the other direction. There was a local coffee shop. After quickly buying a drink, he got back into the car and soon stepped out on the right street. Malfoy looked at every house until he saw, at the very end of the alley, a small building with a truly enormous wild rose bush. His heart raced faster. He quickened his pace. But when he stood right in front of the door, he felt uneasy. What if she wanted to forget all this? What if… to hell with “what if.” He knocked. Then… silence. He knocked again. Silence. He knocked louder. A faint growl and soft footsteps preceded the door opening, revealing a sleepy Hermione, rubbing her newly opened eyes. Her curls were tousled, and her body was wrapped in a bright red, oversized blanket. “Draco?” “Hi.” It took her a few seconds to figure out what was happening. Hermione shifted her gaze to the flowers, then to Malfoy’s dazzling smile, and finally to the cup in his hands. “That for me?” “Caramel latte. Probably awful.” Hermione burst out laughing. At that moment, all of Draco’s doubts scattered like fluff in the wind. He didn’t want to leave anymore. Not ever. “I’ve missed your laugh so much, Hermione Granger.” “How did you…” She didn’t finish, because Draco stepped forward and kissed her. The bouquet and the coffee cup fell to the ground, and Draco’s freed hands pulled Hermione’s waist to him. Hermione grabbed his coat and pulled him inside. Away from the watchful eyes of the lonely housewives living on either side of her home. But they had already seen everything they wanted. And those unlucky enough to be near the windows at that moment would complain for a long time about the bouquet and paper cup left by the doorstep…