Author: Rhine

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It was a cliché – something straight out of those teenaged novels that made young girls wait too long at the bus stop and dawdle in record stores and coffee shops, those chance encounters that happened much too often in between the pages of a fanciful story but so rarely in the groggy reality of life.

It was always a brush of hands, a bump of shoulders, the first meeting of the eyes – and wait for it – you'd stare into their insert-magical-colour eyes and everything would just click.

Scribbled phone numbers on paper coffee cups and charming strangers were a rarity in your life and you had better things to do than linger and wait for a storybook plot to weave into your busy life.

It was a coffee shop, that much was accurate – you scoff at the cheesiness of it all, but a part of you smiles at the daydreams come true, the scent of roasting coffee beans in the air and the distant chatter of conversations around you – the setting was right, but your story went a little bit differently than the inked pages you secretly loved to read.

It started on a weekend in May...

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It was your quiet place.

The only place where everything was still, warmth and peace and serenity washing over you like the smell of vanilla and coffee, heating your system with the familiar bitter drinks laced with sugar.

It was where you escaped to when everything was just a little too much – the tiny holed café that always had just a few other people, idle chatter in the background only adding to the comfort of the place – background noise of quiet laughter and coffee machines whirring to bring some life to the simple four walls.

Today was different.

There was a group of girls – a large group of girls – standing in front of the store, giggling excitedly over something, clogging up the narrow sidewalk.

You're taken aback because the sudden introduction of high-pitched shrieks and loud whispers slice through your peaceful little haven like a home invasion.

You squeeze through the throng of girls with mumbled excuse me's, eyes wide in confusion with a tint of annoyance as you struggle through the doorway that you didn't realize was so small until now.

You're huffy and mildly irritated by the time you step into the warm shop, something about this sudden intrusion of tranquility throwing you off and rubbing you the wrong way – it was like crossing a boundary of peace, like an itch you couldn't scratch.

You try to brush it off, walking up to the counter with a small smile and the regular order on your lips, trying not to let the loud tittering from outside bother you too much.

"They've been here all morning," the barista nods sharply to the crowd outside, which was starting to grow with some girls pressing their faces through the windows with distorted smiles on their lips. "We had to tell them to either get something or leave."

"Glad they chose the leave option."

"Wish they left to someplace a little farther."

You chuckle wryly as the barista writes your name on the cup – you knew them all by name and it was the same for them, friendly greetings and the usual spot reserved for you.

"I'm not too sure how I feel about this being the next Starbucks." The barista shakes her head, sighing loudly as she hands you back your change, another narrow glance at the girls outside.

"Could be good for business."

"Could be bad for my sanity."

You laugh and she slides the cup down the counter to the next co-worker, who flashes you a smile and gets to working on your order without even looking at the cup.

"I'm sure they'll be gone by midday. Hang in there." You smile reassuringly at the girl, dropping a few coins in the tips jar out of sympathy.

She gives you a quirked smile that says we'll see before turning to the customer behind you, smiling as she asks to take their order.

You wander to the other end of the counter, busy watching the various machines whir and grind, the smell of roasting coffee mixing into the aroma of baked sweets wafting from somewhere in the back kitchen.

Your cup slides out and you smile to the worker with a friendly smile and a polite greeting, about to grab a straw and turn to your little corner nestled in the corner when you feel a little tug on your leg.

You think you might've caught something on the wooden panels of the counter – it wouldn't be the first time – but when you look down to check, you're greeted by the sight of a blonde boy crouched behind the condiments table, his long fingers lightly poking your leg.

You're just a little shocked, to say the least.

I mean, after all – how often do you see boys your age huddled behind a too-small table for his too-large figure, a sheepish lip-ring smile and tears stretching on his already-destroyed black jeans?

You look at him quizzically, trying to figure out what the hell was going on with all the strangeness of today.

"Um... hello?"

"Hi, er – are the girls gone?"

You're even more surprised at way his words curl unfamiliarly, an accent that seemed so out of place in your quaint hometown.

"The girls?"

"The ones outside – are they still there?"

"Does it sound like they're still there?"

He pouts a little and you're not sure why you feel something flutter in your stomach.

"Okay, let me rephrase – have they dispersed at least a little?"

"Negative, 007 – what's all of this about? Are they looking for you?"

You squint down at the broad-shouldered boy who was doing a terrible job at hiding, elbows and limbs jutting out of the edges and corners of the table.

"You could say that."

"Is the CIA also looking for you as well?"

"I didn't get any memos yet, so let's assume no to that for now."

"Are you going to dig your way out of here with a spoon, Bond?"

"I was kind of hoping you would help me with that."

He smiles blushingly, voice small like a little boy, shy on asking for help.

"Alright, which border do you want me to smuggle you to?"

He laughs, shaking his head a little bit as he ruffles his already-messy hair, something light in his eyes when he looks up at you again.

"Anyplace without windows."

You squint at him for a moment more – checking to see if he was to be trusted, but you deduced that his baby blues were too bright to belong to an evil psychopath, so you quietly nudged him towards the small opening to the hallway just a few meters away.

You gesture for him to go to the dimly lit hallway – a corridor that led to the employee's rooms, but you supposed you could bend the rules just this once.

He scurries to the small entrance in a blur of black and long limbs as you tried to use your body and own movements to cover his figure as much as possible.

You hear the noise level increase, but you're slipping into the hallway yourself, outside sounds muffled as soon as you step into the narrow corridor.

He's somewhere in the dark – you make out the gold in his hair above you, you feel his presence and his body close to yours in the cramped hall.

"None of these doors lead to dungeons, right?"

You flash him a grin but offer no answers, walking briskly to the end of the corridor to a small back door.

You pull it open with minor difficulty, holding the heavy door open for him to walk through.

'Secret agents first."

"And if it's a trap?"

"It's either in here or out there, 007."

He seems to contemplate his choices for a moment before shrugging and disappearing through the door, a grin on your lips as you follow behind him, closing the door behind you with a whisper.

Your eyes adjust to the bright light and the sound of coffee machines whirring, the soft music in the background and – wait for it – the absence of shrieking.

"Did you literally just bring me back into the store again?"

"The back of the store, Bond. And, like you said – " you gesture to the homemade posters on the walls around you, " – no windows."

You slink down onto one of the cozy armchairs – your armchair in the back corner of the stop, the bit that was always covered by the walls that people often missed unless you walked right in.

In the clear light, you're aware of how tall the boy was – he practically looms over you like a giant with his long legs and wide shoulders and you're left wondering how he even managed to hide most of himself behind the condiments in the first place.

After another quick pause, a slow smile spreads on his lips and he sinks down on the seat across from you, his own cup of coffee miraculously still safe in his hands despite the turmoil.

"Thanks – you saved me back there."

"I think I deserve a name after all that, so if the CIA comes knocking down my door I can point them to the right direction."

He stares at you for just a moment too long and you're all too aware of his pensive gaze on you, suddenly shy in his blue eyes.

"Luke."

"Is that your real name?"

He laughs, eyes crinkling in the corners with a small dimple in his cheek – he's lost track of how many times you've made him laugh and you've lost track of how many times you've caught yourself wishing to see his beautiful smile.

"I promise you, no fake names. I'm Luke."

"It was a pleasure saving you, Luke. Are you going to tell me why you're on the run or am I going to have to wait to hear about it in the evening news?"

"Hm. Take a guess."

He's playing with you now, his figure relaxing as he loosens himself up on the plush chair, a teasing lilt to his accented voice.

"Well, for starters you'd be a horrible spy – "

"Hey!"

" – a condiments table? Hardly undercover."

He pouts but a smile plays on his lips as you continue.

"They were too excited to be angry ex-girlfriends and some of them too old to be your rabid kids that you're trying to escape – "

"Good to know I don't have twenty kids."

"Might not be a bad thing if you think about it. Could start a TV show and everything, actually – but anyways, I'm low on ideas for explanations. Unless you're counting a mass love potion from Harry Potter as an option."

"A spy to a dad to a wizard – call me a vampire and then you have a movie idea right there."

You roll your eyes at his smug tone, though it dissipates with warm laughter just moments afterwards.

"Are you going to keep me guessing?"

"I'm actually part of an organization – "

"I swear to god, if you say fraternity – "

"I'm just toying with you – okay, for real now."

You mock-glare at him, arms crossed in an attempt to look intimidating.

"I'm part of a band."

"Really now?"

"I'm being completely honest – I'm part of a band called 5 Seconds of Summer and we're on tour right now."

"I've never heard of them before."

"Well you're hearing from me now."

His voice is starting to acquire that childish persistency – it's not too often he meets a girl that doesn't know his name and his birthday and almost everything there is to know about him – and he's forgetting how to be himself around people that don't already know his name.

He's so used to people knowing him before he knows them that he's forgotten how to be Luke without being Luke Hemmings, international superstar.

He's suddenly aware of your skeptical eyebrows and the whine in his voice and maybe it works for the girls who relished his every move, but it didn't work for you – you whose opinion of him was formed on the spot without any previous knowledge.

He forgets that while Luke Hemmings was loved by thousands, some people could still dislike just plain old Luke without the title, with just the simple name.

He doesn't know why, but he doesn't want you to be one of those people.

"So the girls out there... they're fans?"

"Yeah – I mean, I took pictures with them and signed everything and they're all great and they're all lovely but I just – I just wanted some... coffee."

The word barely leaves his lips and already he wants to hit his head on the wooden table between you – how much more lame could he sound?

"Some coffee alone?"

You raise a perfectly penciled eyebrow at him as you take a sip out of your cup, gauging his reaction with a smirk on your lips.

"I don't mind if it's with you – I mean – "

You laugh a little, and the sound automatically brings a smile to his face.

"Are you playing a show soon?"

"Yeah, tomorrow night actually."

He doesn't know why he's so bashful about it, staring at his cup instead of your eyes; a quick change from the boastful boy who was eager to prove his name just a few moments ago.

"Maybe I'll come." You shrug your shoulders casually, a lighthearted grin on your lips. "See if you can hold up your alibi."

"Wait, no – don't come – wait not in that way, I mean – "

The words are sputtering out of his lips and he can't get his meaning straight, he can't get his thoughts in order before they tumble out his mouth gracelessly.

He doesn't want you to see him on a big stage, he doesn't want you to be a fan – just another fan, just another face in a sea of thousands that he won't be able to pick out.

He wants to see you and just you and most importantly, he wants you to see him – just him.

Just Luke.

Your features are etched with confusion as you stare at him, the frantic boy taking deep breaths and gathering his thoughts before he speaks again, words careful.

"I'd rather it stay... stay like this."

You think you know what he means.

"Forget I said anything about a band?"

"I don't remember you ever mentioning a thing about it, 007."

His smiles, relieved, relishing in the way your eyes sparkle playfully at him.

"Can I see you again?"

"Will I blow your cover?"

"I think I'll manage."

You gesture to the now-empty cup in his hands and he passes it to you as you pull out a pen from your bag, scrawling a series of numbers on the side of the coffee-stained rim.

"Just in case your Morse code isn't too strong, you can reach me here."

You pen your name neatly underneath the numbers and hand the cup back to him, his large hands careful not to rub the ink as he grins down at the numbers in your loopy writing.

"How does a city tour sound?"

"Sounds perfect."

He can see you so perfectly in the foreign streets that he walked, the streets you called home; the way you fit like you were part of the whole picture and he can already see it in his head, he's already dreaming of you even though you're right in front of him.

"Under one condition."

"Uh oh. Do I have to defuse a bomb on this tour?"

You grin wryly at him, finishing the last of the coffee in your cup.

"Close, but no cigar. I want to hear you play – just once. If you're really in a band – I don't care whatever your position is in it and I get that you'd rather lay low with your name around me or whatever – but I want to hear you."

"And if I'm terrible?"

"Those girls outside sure didn't think so."

"Okay, what if you think I'm terrible?"

He doesn't think he could handle that.

"You won't be." You say simply.

"So you're asking for an acoustic session?"

"I literally just saved your life – you said so yourself. A little payment would be nice."

"Usually people ask for a briefcase of money."

"I'll take that too."

"You know what, an acoustic session sounds great."

You laugh and he's got butterflies in his stomach.

He's played in front of a crowd of thousands, but there's something nerve-wracking at the thought of just you and him and his guitar, of introducing you to his music straight from his mouth to your ears – something so intimate, and Luke can't remember the last time he's felt that way about a performance.

And he can't think of any other person to have it with but you.

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