( 07 ) FRAPPE DREAM ✘
DREAMWASTAKEN x 2ND POV READER

AND NOW HIS BEAUTIFUL GREEN EYES WERE ON YOU.

THE CLACKING OF CAREFULLY MANICURED FINGERS AGAINST THE KEYBOARD FILLED THE SILENCE, your fingertips pressing on the letters repeatedly, pausing every once in a while to let your eyes dart around the coffee shop, searching for some random sight or scene that would help you move past what was an extremely irritating bout of writer's block.

A sigh of annoyance slipped past your lips as you scanned the first draft before you, nose scrunching in distaste at the bland opening to your new book.

It had been two months since you'd published your first novel, Reborn, and apparently dystopian books had once again become popular, as the sales had skyrocketed. You'd been getting ping after ping of notifications, as well as email after email, both flooding your computer with two-or rather, a hundred-too many offers and reviews. The confines of what had once been your cozy, comfortable home had turned hot and suffocating overnight, with the obnoxious ringing of your phone echoing in your empty apartment, and it wasn't very long before walls had started to feel like they'd been closing in on you and you couldn't breathe.

You were ecstatic, of course. For any writer, for your first novel to be receiving so much publicity and so many positive reviews was a dream. ( haha geddit im so FUNNY ) But eventually the constant pinging got overwhelming, and you weren't a bot who could read emails twenty-four / seven.

Which was why you were currently seated inside your favourite coffee shop ( a decently sized café with a certain charm to it hidden behind the big billboards businesses like Starbucks put up everywhere ), your fingers resting on your keyboard, foot tapping impatiently on the wooden flooring as you glanced around for inspiration.

Music blasted up to nearly full volume in your headphones, head bobbing to the beat of the music, you reached over to the mug of chocolate frappe you'd ordered earlier that afternoon and found, to your displeasure, that it had been drained of its delicious, chocolatey contents. The corners of your chocolate stained lips curved downwards in a frown at this revelation, and clasping the handle in one of your hand, you got up, reaching forward a second later to cover your writing in case someone looked over and read it.

Your free hand pulled down your headphones, leaving them to rest around your neck.

"Hi, uhm," hesitantly, you tried for the attention of one of the new workers, someone who looked to be in his early twenties ( or maybe late teens? You never had been a good judge of age ), "hello?"

When you caught a clear glance at him, you heart started pounding. With blond hair brushed to one side of his face, a handful of freckles scattered across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, and piercing green-they looked like more of a hazel to you, actually-eyes, the man looked... well, to put it bluntly, he looked hot.

And now his beautiful green eyes were on you. He paused his conversation with his co-worker and headed over.

"Yes?" His voice seemed strangely melodic, and you could feel the heat blooming on your cheeks.

"Uh, my cup's empty," you said awkwardly, gesturing to the container in your hand, "and I'd like to refill it?"

Instantly, you cringed at the words that had come out of your mouth. Being a regular here, you knew that-

"We don't do refills here," he said, confirming your thoughts and making your cheeks flare with embarrassment, "but you could get another one."

You nodded, hair brushing your face as your chin bobbed up and down, and he reached for the cup. You gave it to him, and a foreign feeling-one you had felt only two or three times-erupted in your chest as your fingers grazed ever so slightly.

Shaking the feeling off and hoping he couldn't pick out the blush forming against your skin, you reached for the wallet that usually stayed in your pocket, but found it gone. Eyes widening in alarm, your head whipped around to look at your table, eyes scanning the contents scattered upon in desperation-and a sigh of relief slipped past your lips as you spotted it laying beside your laptop.

"I'm gonna go get my money real quick," you told him, pointing at your table. When he gave you a nod, you jogged back, leaning over the gleaming, wooden surface of your workstation to get to your wallet. A subconscious grin surfaced on your face as you gripped the leather fabric, and you held it up triumphantly. ( You'd been one for dramatics. Unfortunately, this fact always backfired on you, making you look ridiculous as you posed in public. )

Back at the counter, Clay's eyes twinkled in amusement, the corners of his mouth quirking upwards as he watched your actions. The owners of the shop-two kind women who were in their late twenties named Ilya Herring and Casey Erston-Herring-had let him know of the regulars and their usual orders, and that you were one of them, popping at least once a week to sit at the same table with the same order, eyes glued to the screen in front of you. They'd both joked you were one of the only reasons the shop was still running. He was new, and your first encounter had him intrigued.

With your arm still outstretched, and wallet up in the air, you froze, realising that oh God you were in public and you were pulling this shit again and quickly dropped it to your side. The blush-that had been slowly receding-now deepened, turning your cheeks cherry red, and you shifted in embarrassment, shuffling back to the counter.

The man placed the mug on the small sink behind him, and then turned back to face you.

"The new drink will be," he glanced down at the price sheet below him, "three dollars and twenty-five cents."

You hummed in response and searched in your wallet for the money. Three crisp dollar bills and a handful of change surfaced from the leather pouch and you handed it all to him, your fingers fumbling slightly and heart racing as your skin made contact once more.

He shot a smile at you after ringing up the cash, and the fluttering was back. You smiled back before you started feeling self conscious about your overbite. Minutes were always spent in bathrooms, gazing at your reflection, scrunching your nose in distaste at the overbite that appeared whenever you smiled ( along with the countless other imperfections you spotted on your face, but who's counting? ). It didn't help that your mother had always pointed it out in family pictures and teased you constantly about it either.

But Clay thought your smile was gorgeous. Your grin earlier had seemed to brighten the room, and that was when he'd been all the way back at the cash register. Seeing it up close like this had his mood lightening and his stomach erupting in butterflies and his heart feeling as if it was going on overdrive, the increasing rhythm of the badump, badump, echoing in his ears. It had been so long since he had felt like this; he had nearly forgotten what it was like to like someone.

Suddenly, he did a double take. Like someone? He'd known you for a maximum of seven minutes-probably even less. How could he possibly like you like that so soon? Why had he started to like you like that so... easily?

Shaking the thoughts off and going to the back, he muttered the order to one of the baristas, a brunette, ( George, was it? ) who gave him a nod of acknowledgement and a small grin before shooing him back to the counter. ( He had also wiggled his eyebrows teasingly in your direction, but you hadn't noticed it at all. Clay ended up punching George's arm. )

You could feel the awkward tension in the air. At least, that's how you read it. Your gaze shifted from one thing to the next, trying to find something to do in the silence-or, even better, find something to look at that would give you a bout of inspiration.

You took note of the cash register before you, as well as the menu displayed above the man's head. Eyes moving to the rest of the shop, you took in the wooden flooring of the café; the tables paired with some very comfortable looking plush chairs; the bright lights resting above your heads, tinted a warm yellow rather than the usual white that glared in your face; and the very homey feeling the shop had always given off. It's what had drawn you to the place. It had felt so warm, so inviting, that you'd decided, hey, why not give it a try? and had taken a look at the place. And look where you were now.

Fidgeting with your hands, you looked back at the man and caught a glimpse of his name tag-you had no idea how you'd missed it up 'til now.

Clay, it read.

If you were being completely honest, you would have complimented the name and gone on about how it suited him and his demeanour or something like that, except you were a writer.

The tousled, dirty blond hair-looking so dark it almost seemed brown in the lighting-that sat on top of his head, along with the striking emerald irises he owned and the freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose, making him look as if he was the embodiment of a forest, did not give the impression of a Clay. If anything, Clay gave off the impression of... well, clay. Of a man with dark brown hair and maybe light brown eyes, who worked part time at a pottery shop-for the irony, of course.

Subconsciously, you furrowed your eyebrows at the counter.

Also, no offense to his parents, but what kind of basic ass name was Clay?

"Uh, ma'am," Clay said quietly, so much so that you'd almost missed his words. Your head snapped up, dismissing the thoughts, and plastered a smile on your face.

"Yes?"

He nodded over in the direction of your table, light hair looking as if it was shifting colours under the lighting. "You can wait back at your table, this'll take a while. I'll bring your drink over to you when it's done."

You smiled in thanks, and walked back to the circular mahogany table that housed all your things.

Sinking into the soft cushions, you leaned into the backrest, your curtain of hair swinging backwards as you tilted your head up at the ceiling.

That was really awkward. There had been a weird, unfamiliar feeling in the air, and it came with tension so thick you could've cut it with a knife.

Maybe it had something to do with the fluttering in your chest and the warmth you felt at the back of your neck that felt suspiciously like a growing blush. Maybe it had something to do with the way you had to double check what you were going to say before you actually said it to him, because you knew you were going to stutter or fumble over your words sooner or later and end up making a fool of yourself in front of him. Maybe it had something to do with the way his forest green eyes seemed to see through you, making you shiver and your lips tingle.

From the bottom of your peripheral vision, the bright light from your laptop beckoned for your attention. So you went along with it, welcoming the distraction.

Blowing a stray strand out of your face, you focused on the screen in front of you, pressing your index finger against each of your knuckles. Soon enough, the familiar crack of your knuckles popping filled your ears, and you sighed in satisfaction, stretching out your fingers, and then placing them back on your keyboard.

You looked the draft over again, whispering the words under your breath as you read. The writer inside of you surfaced, and you started correcting the horrendous typos you spotted amongst the letters ( offenders included: ridcukosu instead of ridiculous, meticuooudky rather than meticulously, switfly in place of swiftly, and countless others you simply didn't want to give the dignity of acknowledging ), as well as editing some of the dialogue you thought to be unnatural.

The clacking of keys seemed to fill the silence.

As always, the patrons of the coffee shop worked quietly. Despite this fact, every once in a while a group of rather rowdy teenagers would come strolling in, arm in arm, grinning wildly, the loud laughs contrasting the once silent energy of the café. But none of the regulars seemed to mind the change. You could tell that they were feeling pure, untainted joy from the smiles on their faces and the obnoxious giggling that reached the regulars' ears, and frankly that was enough for everyone to excuse the noise and let the kids enjoy their time in the café. But other than those rather rare occurrences, the place remained silent and still, as if it were frozen in time, the whirring of machines and the muffled chatter of workers behind the countertops being the only things that sounded in the shop.

This time however, instead of it being a band of teens that interrupted the quiet, the thing ( or rather, person ) that interrupted your work-as well as the silence that the customers of Frosted Coffee usually managed to maintain-was the squeaking of sneakers against the wooden panelling.

Assuming it was another regular entering the shop, you dimly registered the sound, choosing instead to focus on the words before you.

There was a full moment filled with the clicking of your mouse and the beat of music in your ears, before you noticed a tuft of blond hair by the corner of your eye.

"Uh, one chocolate frappe with some whipped cream on top for," Clay turned the mug over and took a look at something, "Y/N? Y/N, L/N."

AUTHOR'S NOTE

guys this is so sucky i hate it but i had to get somethin out for you guys during christmas.

speaking of christmas, merry christmas u guys!! i love n appreciate u all so much . thank u sm for the support babes!!! ur all awesome goddamn

i hope u guys enjoy ur christmas!!!! i love u all sm <333

quick btw, ill be publishing a sneak peak to my percy jackson x fem!oc book soon! the covers gonna be messy for a while but itll be out there!! hope u guys enjoy that since its been in the works for a while now :)

super much merry love!!,
lea <3

EDITED 1 AS OF 5.3.21