Venti decaf latte, triple shot
You look like an absolute angel. A sleep deprived, overworked, caffeine addicted angel, but an angel nevertheless. Maybe it was something about how the sunlight streaming through the blinded windows brought out the lustrous glow of your hair and the twinkle in your eyes. Or how cute you looked with your face all scrunched up trying to read the tiny print of your textbook.
But Lance knew that he was in love and Keith made it a point to remind his friend that he falls in love like three times a week. To which Lance replies by shoving his elbow into his friend’s ribcage without taking his eyes off you.
“Watch me work my magic,” he whispers to Keith who’s rubbing his sore ribs.
“Don’t embarrass yourself, again.”
Lance just sticks his tongue out at Keith and walks towards you.
You look up and he’s casually leaning on the counter space beside you. He’s cocky and confident with a well-rehearsed grin on his face that shows off his white canines. His lankiness turns into charisma and his short dark brown hair is artfully disheveled, his white t-shirt wrinkled. Tight dark wash skinny jeans hug his long legs—my, my does he have some nice legs—and are cuffed around a pair of new black converse that hasn't been broken in yet.
You think he’s cute—like really cute—but then he opens his mouth.
“If you were ground coffee, you’d be espresso. ‘Cause you’re so damn fine.” He actually winks at you with one of his dark blue eyes and leans closer. He smells like the chlorine and laundry sheets, which isn’t altogether an unpleasant aroma.
Your mouth hangs open. “Wow, you use that on all of the girls you hit on.”
“No.” And he actually looks bashful as a smattering of crimson appears onto his cheeks. But then he shakes his head and his fringe barely brushes across the top of his forehead. “I’m actually really proud of that one, I just made it up myself.”
A smile teases the corner of your lip and you’re gripping the body of your mechanical pencil so tight you hear the plastic squeak because you see a sliver of his golden brown skin from his untucked t-shirt and oh lord he has abs!
“Did you really think that would work on me?” You’re staring into his eyes and it’s like your looking into a pair of endlessly deep whirlpools. You wouldn’t mind getting lost in those.
“Well I was hoping it would,” he admits. “If not, this is going to get kind of awkward.”
And he takes another step towards you and your bare knee brushes his mid thigh. He glances down and then back up...and then looks down again because the sundress you’re wearing makes your legs look absolutely divine. He’s crass and can’t help but imagine how it would look bunched up around your hips.
“And what if I said that it did work?” Your front teeth bite into the bed of your lower lip and he holds back a groan because damn you’re hot.
His long fingers move across the sticky counter—the barista forgot to wipe it down this morning—and grazes his thumb along the skin of your elbow. You shiver.
“Well, then I would ask if you had a boyfriend.”
“Well, in that case, my answer would be—”
“No, because she’s dating me!” Allura’s toned arm wraps around your waist and makes you almost jump out of your seat.
His jaw drops and he quickly withdraws his fingers and you’re already craving the touch of his skin. He folds his hands into his jean pockets and the blush on his face expands as he gapes at your “girlfriend”—a bombshell of a woman with curves and an aristocratic face that screams high culture.
“S-sorry I didn’t mean to—”
“Yes. Yes you did.” And Allura narrows her bright blue eyes and her stare becomes deathly cold—and Lance sees a shimmer of pink in her pupils and swears she must be wearing contacts—that can’t be natural. “Now if you would excuse me, my girlfriend and I have a date to go on.”
And all hope of getting to know this tall magnetizing boy with a readily accessible archive of pick-up lines in his head go down the drain as Allura expertly shoves your papers and textbook into your canvas bag—“Watch it, you’ll crumple my research paper!”
She hooks her arm around your elbow and pulls you to the entrance of the coffee shop. You spin around at the last second to send the boy—damn it, you don’t even get to know his name—a timid wave and a nervous smile. And he’s tempted to wave back, but then Allura sends him a glare that sends chills down his spine and makes his mouth go dry.
The bell over the door rings as you exit with your girlfriend(?) and Keith is doubled over in laughter just as he’s about to order a hot chocolate from the cashier.
“Shut the fuck up, Keith!”
“I’m definitely telling Pidge about this!” He's actually wheezing and already pulling his phone out of his jacket pocket.
And Lance groans and slumps onto a barstool.
Keith and Pidge don’t let him live it down for the rest of the week.
Tall iced strawberries and crème frappuccino, with whip
Pidge has an insatiable sweet tooth and Lance isn’t sure whether or not he should be terrified or impressed as his friend downs another drink and takes another bite of French chocolate lava cake—Pidge’s third piece, and Lance is pretty sure it’s not even remotely French.
He’s sitting at the table at the back, the one with Sharpie graffiti all over the wall from middle schoolers and bored college students—it supposedly grants the best vantage point of the entire coffee shop, according to his sugar-high friend. And he can't bring himself to disagree.
Lance had been practically camping at the Yellow Lion Coffee Shop for two days hoping he could see you again because he was pretty sure—
“—that my dream girl wasn’t dating that ice queen!” he tells Pidge for the fifth time, because although Pidge was a genius—sixteen and a sophomore in college for Computer Programming—their attention span when it came to Lance’s life was like that of a three-year-old. “And her white hair is definitely not natural!” he adds indignantly.
“I don’t know, Lance,” Pidge replies, their teeth brown from the melted fudge layer of the “French” cake. “You just met her, ma’ guy. Don’t you think it’s rude to assume her sexuality—”
“Hey”—Lance slams his fist onto the table and aims a finger right between Pidge’s brown eyes and they gulp— “I wasn’t assuming anyone’s sexual preferences, least of all hers. But she was pretty into me so forgive me if I’m a little suspicious.”
Pidge scoffs and Lance flicks them in the forehead.
“I’m not lying,” he asserts. “I’m sure that if she was dating someone she would have told me in the first thirty seconds.”
Pidge rubs their forehead with the heel of their hand and grumbles something about Lance not having a very successful track record with the opposite sex to which Lance shoves down the rest of Pidge’s cake into his mouth with just his hands.
The manager has to walk over to ask Pidge—“Ma’am? Sir” “Don’t bother.”—to please release Lance from the headlock or they’d be promptly escorted out of the establishment.
Pidge is smug and Lance is rubbing a tender spot on the back of his head for the entire day.
Fireballs and J̼äger Bombs
The DJ isn’t completely terrible, but most of the college students couldn’t tell with the amount of alcohol they had dancing in their systems. Allura had talked you into wearing a low cut top with ruffles that she described as “hooker classy” and would definitely draw boys to you like thirsty teenage girls to a new boy band.
You tell her that that analogy wasn’t very encouraging.
You had been glum all week because Allura insisted on you frequenting a new coffee shop—obviously to keep you away from that boy that you wanted to get to know better. You told her you loved the Yellow Lion, but she was completely against it as she pulled you to a coffee shop that was on the complete opposite side of the campus.
“This place is great,” she promised. “Cruelty-free, all organic, and you could buy a new canvas bag, this “Save the Whale” one has coffee stains all over it.”
“Stop insulting my bag,” you scolded. “I love this thing!”
“Ok fine, it’s a gorgeous bag” she had rolled her eyes.
“Don’t patronize me!”
She had pushed you into the café that she had previously described as so cool and trendy. So much so, that it didn’t even have a sign on the storefront. The indie music coming out of the speakers made you groan and you left without even ordering anything because everything on the menu had “gluten-free” tagged onto it and was like waaaaay overpriced.
“What’s wrong with me liking Lance, Allura?” She had finally told you your mystery boy’s name after you had held her down and tickled it out of her. Damn that girl was strong, she almost bucked you off of her three times and you had pressed your face against a bag of frozen kale onto your cheek where Allura had punched you.
“Because, he’s the classic playboy, undeclared major, who hits on anything that has boobs and walks,” Allura said with a vitriol that could only come with personal experience. You didn’t question it. “You could do so much better. And I heard he’s hooked up with half of our graduating class—”
“Since when did you listen to rumors?”
“Since when did you fall for boys that were way below your standards?”
“It’s not like I have high standards to begin with,” you asserted. “All the good ones only get close to me to get close to you.”
Allura—double major in aeronautical engineering and biotechnology, president of the student body, and hard advocate for environmental conservation—actually blushed but admitted to nothing. Ever since you two became roommates you’d gained a lot more male friends that were always bugging you to introduce them to her. It was exhausting.
“And if you happen to have such great taste in men,” you counter. “What happened to that physiology major boy that you’re always on and off with.”
Allura is simpering. “Touché.”
So this college party was her apology for everything she put you through.
But thirty minutes in, Allura had been dragged into a beer chugging competition—that woman can hold her alcohol like a fucking champ—and was currently winning at said competition. Feeling a little claustrophobic and developing a headache from the overwhelming smell of beer, you slipped away from the cheering crowd to the food table in the adjacent room.
Bowls of Cheetos and potato chips, gummy worms, many boxes of pizza—predominantly sausage and pepperoni—and a punch bowl, of which you would definitely steer clear from.
After perusing your options, you turn to grab a plate when you bump into someone’s hard back. He’s wearing a heavily patched letterman—frat house leader, three-year varsity swim captain, regional record holder for back and breast, impressive. And he swivels around to mutter an apology, but then his eyes go wide and he almost drops his red solo cup to point at your face.
How could you not recognize him? He was beaming with that signature crooked smile of his, his hair still disheveled, cheeks high and thin eyebrows raised in pleasant surprise. Standing beside him, he was taller than you expected with deliciously narrow hips—his black converse now have a few scuffs on them. But he’s still as effervescent and charming as you remember him.
“You know, I’ve been hanging out at the Yellow Lion for the entire week just to meet you again,” he teases. The girl behind him who’d he’d just been talking to, wearing a too tight dress and body glitter, rolls her eyes and walks back to the kitchen where the crowd has begun to rhythmically chant your roommate’s name.
You ignore her. “Yeah, sorry about that, Allura has been pushing me to try this new place—”
His manicured eyebrows perk at her name and a look of recognition washes over his face. He deflates a little and he brings a hand up to scratch at the back of his head, nervous habit you suppose. “Oh, yeah…your girlfriend.”
You blink dully at him. “What?”
He takes a sip of his drink and you watch his swallow go down the smooth column of his neck, his Adam’s apple bobs and you gulp. “You know? Your girlfriend—” he throws a thumb over his shoulder into the kitchen. Another rally of raucous drunken cheers explode from the crowd as Allura downs another serving of beer— “who's apparently quite the party animal, definitely wasn’t expecting that. You sure know how to pick ‘em.” He actually says the last part with hesitant admiration. You'll mention that to Allura when you tuck her into bed tonight, you know...if she doesn't pass out on the couch.
“Yeah, about that,” you nervously clear your throat. “I wanted to talk to you—”
He holds his hand up to stop you. “No it’s fine I get it. The last thing I want to be is a homewrecker.”
“Wait? What are you—?”
“You and your girlfriend obviously have a pretty good thing going on,” he continues, the excitement in his eyes dims as he looks you up and down—his eyes linger on your chest. “I-I don’t want to ruin it by trying to date you.”
“You wanted to date me?” A blush creeps onto your cheeks.
“Of course I do—I mean, d-did, I did want to date you,” he stutters. “But that’s just rude and I want to respect your current relationship—” he places his hand on one of your shoulders, and his skin is so warm and callused and—wait! Oh no, he’s friend-zoning you. “But if you still want to be friends—”
His words are swallowed by a particularly loud group of yells and whistles and whooping. Curious about the action, both you and Lance walk into the frat house kitchen and have to push through the crowd of people to get a clear view of what was going down in the very center.
“Allura?!” You shriek just as Lance bursts out with, “Shiro!?”
Because Allura is lying on her back on the beer spilled and cup covered counter top with a particularly muscular and handsome boy—whose name is apparently Shiro—on top of her. Her long legs are wrapped around his well-defined torso and they're making out with each other, both too engulfed in the taste of each other's mouths to care about the gathered crowd around them. It’s heated and sloppy, and the cheers only encourage them.
Both you and Lance turn to each other, wide-eyed.
“That’s Allura’s Dorito man—” you ask as a bewildered Lance blurts “—she’s Shiro’s Amazonian princess?”
And the look of shock adorning his handsome face is so hilarious that you burst out laughing. He thinks that your laugh is so beautiful and bubbly and contagious that he laughs beside you as the rest of the group start groaning and walking away—Allura and Shiro’s drunken make out session had been going on for a little too long, so long, in fact, that it’s becoming a little gross and weird.
Lance wipes a tear from his eye and looks down at you, his eyes shimmering and glowing with want and fascination. “So she was never your girlfriend?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!” You swat him in the shoulder and he loses grip of his punch cup. It falls to the floor and spills the red liquid all over the tile. He pays it no mind because he thinks that your face is so perfect and pretty and he just wants to grab you and kiss you.
“So you’re one hundred percent single?” His voice is so hopeful and he’s so sweet and considerate and hot that your heart skips a beat as you take a step closer to him.
You chuckle. “Most girls would find that reaction a little bit insulting.”
He clears his throat and smirks at you. He slips both of his hands in yours and you’re pleasantly surprised to find that his long fingers fit perfectly in the gaps between yours.
“I can make up for it,” he says. He drops your hands and he wraps his arms around your lower back, pulling you so you’re flush against him. He’s taut and firm in all the right places, and his full attention is on you. “Would you like to grab a cup of coffee with me?”
You’re grinning like an idiot and he’s grinning too. And at the same time, you’re not sure if you want to strangle Allura or thank her because this boy is completely enchanted with you and the feeling is mutual.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Just get me what he’s having ♥
You and Lance are dating by the end of the next week. Every morning you send each other cringeworthy pick-up lines that makes your stomach flutter and has him thanking the heavens that you’ve been put in his life. When Lance introduces you to his two best friends, Keith pulls out a twenty dollar bill and bitterly places it in Pidge's open palm.
"Couldn't you have kept it in your pants for just one more goddamn week, McClain?" Is what Keith grumbles out as he offers his hand for you to shake it.
"What can I say, this lady loves me?" He wiggles his eyebrows at you and roll your eyes. He doesn't stop until you peck him on the cheek and he all but melts in your arms. Honestly both Keith and Pidge are shell-shocked at the fact that Lance happened to be in a relationship with a catch like you—you’re flattered and Lance wants to throttle both of them.
Lance introduces you to his childhood friend Hunk, the Yellow Lion’s owner, and the latter is ecstatic at his Lance's new relationship status. Hunk hooks you up with free drinks on the house for the rest of your life and you tackle him into a hug because you’re so happy that you’ll get your coffee for free—Lance keeps his jealousy to himself and Hunk is blushing and saying “it’s nothing, anything for a friend.”
You have a double date with Allura and Shiro and Shiro is howling with laughter when he hears how you and Lance first met. Allura is begging him to stop, her entire face a pathetic shameful blush because she should never have lied in the first place, especially when you and Lance are “unfortunately good together.”
You take it as a compliment and Lance laughs sarcastically and squeezes your joined hands from under the table. He and Allura have a lot of built up animosity between each other from here on out.
"I think it's hilarious how you hate Allura so much," you snort.
"Auuuugh," Lance groans. "Don't mention that godforsaken woman's name when you're straddling my lap, okay?" He's actually pouting. "It ruins my make-out mood."
"Stop being such a baby."
"...You know what'll make me feel better?"
He taps his lips with his forefinger and you eagerly oblige with a deep kiss that his toes curling and the back of his throat growling.
He's smug. "Very much so."