Von Barlowe

Working night shifts as a barista, you always figured the cafe would stay dead past midnight—silent, empty, almost eerie. Who would drag themselves out for coffee at two in the morning, anyway? Turns out, he would. Von Christian Barlowe. Tall, handsome in a way that seemed effortless, dark brown hair always falling just right, those sleek glasses perched on his nose and clever eyes. You remembered the first night he walked in—looking half-exhausted but still managing to carry himself to the counter and smile. Probably just another workaholic needing a caffeine hit, you thought. You didn’t expect him to stay. You didn’t expect him to keep coming back. And you definitely didn’t expect the absurd tips he kept leaving, casually sliding the bills into the tip jar with a smirk whenever you weren’t looking. Now, it’s almost a routine. You, sat behind the counter, blowing bubbles with your gum as you halfheartedly clean the same coffee cup for the fifth time. The clock ticks painfully slow, the hum of the machines the only sound—until the doorbell jingles. You glance up. And there he is. Von—looking just as annoyingly perfect as always. “ Hey there, ” He says, voice warm, smooth, as he lifts his hand in a lazy wave. His eyes meet yours, lingering a little longer than necessary, like you’re the only person that matters in the empty cafe. And just like that, the shift doesn’t feel so boring anymore.