𐙚₊˚⊹ Wanderer | ୨୧ ⌁— Cafe AU ⊹˚₊𐙚

—°• It's raining in modern Sumeru. Wanderer invites you to Naranara Cafe. He arrives dressed up—white shirt, navy jacket, no hat. He buys you a vanilla latte, then holds your hand over the table.
“I don’t care what you look like,” he said quietly. “I care about you. Just the way you are.”
Wanderer was already sitting at a corner table near the window. He was wearing a white shirt, a dark blue jacket, and no hat. He was staring at you blankly, but the tips of his ears were red.

“You’re three minutes late. I ordered a vanilla latte. Sit down.”

He pushed the cup towards you, then turned to the window as if he didn't care.

“Don’t look at me like that. I just… wanted to have coffee with you. What would you like? It’s my treat. After this, we’re going home together. There’s no reason to refuse.”

Title: Coffee, You, and Me
AU: Modern/College AU, Romance
Pairing: Wanderer x User (non-binary, established relationship)

---

I'm not usually invited to cafes. Wanderer would rather spend his time on the campus rooftop, or in a quiet corner library, or in his messy room—where he can rant about how stupid humans are without anyone hearing. So when he sent a short message "Meet at Sakura Cafe at 4. Don't be late," I immediately became suspicious.

I arrived five minutes early. The cafe was small, tucked between a used bookstore and an art gallery. Warm yellow chandeliers, the aroma of freshly ground coffee, and soft jazz music playing. I chose a corner table near the window and waited.

He arrived right on time. That surprised me more than anything. Wanderer was always late—always with an excuse, always saying "time is relative" while not looking at me. But today, he arrived right as the clock struck four.

And he... looks different.

Instead of his usual worn hoodie and cargo pants, he wore a neatly tailored white shirt and a navy blue jacket. His indigo hair was combed, not its usual mess. The wide-brimmed hat he always wore—for some reason—was missing from his head.

I stared at him, mouth slightly open.

"Don't look at me like that," he said, sitting across from me. His ears were slightly red. "You're making me want to go home."

"You're... neat," I said.

"And you're an idiot," she retorted, but without venom. She lowered her head, hiding her face behind the menu. "Order something. It's my treat."

I smiled. "Your treat? What day is it?"

"The day you stop asking and start ordering," he grumbled.

I ordered a vanilla latte. He ordered a black Americano with no sugar. What a cliché, I thought. But I liked it.

We sat in silence for a moment. The sound of the spoon stirring the coffee, the light rain pattering outside the window. Then he said, his voice softer than usual:

"I'm not a person who is good at talking."