The café smelled like burnt sugar and rain.
Elena pushed the door open with her shoulder, umbrella dripping, hair sticking to her neck in dark, messy waves. She was twenty-eight, the kind of curvy that made her own clothes feel too tight some days—full breasts, soft belly, hips that swayed whether she wanted them to or not. Today she wore an oversized cream sweater that kept slipping off one shoulder and black jeans that hugged her ass just enough to make her self-conscious when she walked past mirrors.
She ordered her usual oat-milk latte, voice low, almost shy. The barista—new girl, tall, tattooed, short black hair with an electric-blue streak—looked up and smiled like she already knew her.
"Name?" she asked, marker hovering.
"Elena."
The barista wrote it slowly, letters looping like she was drawing instead of writing. When she handed the cup back, their fingers brushed. Just for a second. Enough for Elena to feel the calluses on the other woman's thumb and the sudden, stupid spark that shot straight between her legs.
"Nice to meet you, Elena. I'm Mia."
Mia. The name sat warm in Elena's mouth all the way to her usual table by the window.
She tried to work—laptop open, half-finished manuscript—but her eyes kept drifting. Mia moved behind the counter like she owned the place, sleeves rolled up, ink curling over her forearms: a snake, a constellation, something that looked like teeth. Lean muscle shifted under her skin when she reached for syrups. When she laughed at something the other barista said, the sound was low and rough, like smoke.
Elena's thighs pressed together under the table. She hadn't been touched in six months. Not since Claire had packed her shit and left with a "sorry, I just don't feel it anymore." Elena had spent those months telling herself she was fine. Reading filthy books at night, coming quietly against her own fingers, pretending the hands on her body weren't her own.
Now her body was waking up like it had been asleep for years.
Mia caught her staring once. Held the stare. Smirked. Elena's face burned so hot she had to look away.
She came back the next day. And the next.
By the fourth visit Mia knew her order by heart. By the seventh she started leaving little doodles on the cup—tiny hearts, stars, once a tiny sketch of Elena's profile that made Elena's stomach drop straight through the floor.
One Tuesday it was pouring. Elena stayed later than usual, pretending to edit. The café emptied. Mia flipped the sign to Closed, but didn't kick her out.
Instead she slid into the seat across from Elena, two fresh lattes in her hands.
"You're always here," Mia said, voice soft. "You hiding from something?"
Elena laughed, nervous. "Just… lonely, I guess."
Mia's blue eyes darkened. "Yeah. I know that feeling."
They talked until the rain stopped. Mia was thirty, a tattoo artist by day, barista because rent was brutal. She had a tiny apartment above the shop two blocks over, a cat named Goblin, and a laugh that made Elena want to bite her own lip bloody.
When Elena finally stood to leave, Mia walked her to the door. The street was slick and shining. Mia reached out, tucked a wet strand of hair behind Elena's ear. Her fingers lingered.
"See you tomorrow?" Mia asked.
Elena's voice came out hoarse. "Yeah."
She went home and fucked herself so hard she saw stars, Mia's name on her tongue like a prayer.
The next week felt like foreplay stretched across days.
Mia started saving the corner table for her. Sometimes she'd sit for ten minutes during her break, knee brushing Elena's under the table. Once, when Elena reached for the sugar, Mia's hand covered hers, thumb stroking the inside of her wrist. Elena's breath hitched so loud Mia heard it.
"You're shaking," Mia murmured.
"I know."
Mia's smile was slow, filthy. "Good."
Elena started wearing softer things—thin sweaters that showed the lace of her bra when she leaned forward, skirts that rode up when she crossed her legs. She caught Mia looking. Every time. Eyes on her thighs, her mouth, the swell of her breasts.
One Friday night the café had a poetry reading in the back. Mia dragged Elena to the last row. They sat shoulder to shoulder in the dark. Some girl read something about wanting so bad it hurt. Mia's hand found Elena's thigh under the table, fingers tracing slow circles higher and higher until Elena had to bite her own knuckle to stay quiet.
When the lights came up Mia's cheeks were flushed, pupils blown.
"Come upstairs with me," she said. Not a question.
Elena's heart slammed against her ribs. "Okay."
Mia's apartment was small, warm, smelled like ink and coffee and something sweeter—vanilla and skin. Goblin wound around their ankles. Mia kicked the door shut, backed Elena against it, and kissed her.
It wasn't soft. It was teeth and tongue and six months of want crashing together. Mia tasted like espresso and sin. Her hands slid under Elena's sweater, palms hot against bare skin, thumbs brushing the underside of her bra. Elena moaned into her mouth, hips rocking forward without permission.
Mia pulled back just enough to speak against her lips. "Tell me to stop and I will."
"Don't you fucking dare."
They didn't make it to the bed.
Mia dropped to her knees right there in the hallway, pushed Elena's skirt up, yanked her panties aside. The first swipe of Mia's tongue made Elena's knees buckle. She grabbed fistfuls of Mia's hair, thighs trembling.
Mia licked her like she was starving—slow, broad strokes, then fast flicks over her clit, then sucking hard enough that Elena's vision whited out. Two fingers pushed inside her, curling, stroking that spot that made her sob.
Elena came with Mia's name ripped out of her throat, hips jerking, wetness dripping down Mia's chin.
Mia stood up, kissed her so Elena could taste herself, then whispered, "Bed. Now. I'm not done with you."