Chapter Text
You flip the CLOSED sign with the grace of someone who’s done it a hundred times before and hated it exactly ninety-nine of those times.
The bell doesn’t chime. Good. It shouldn’t. You’ve had enough of bells today. Customers too. The kind that ask if you carry almond-free almond milk or try to pay in buttons and “blessings.” At least the snow outside looks halfway magical—if you squint hard enough to ignore the fact that it’s freezing, wet, and apparently eternal this week.
The café is quiet now. Warm. The yellow string lights above the front window hum gently, and the espresso machine lets out a small hissing sigh, as if it’s exhausted too. The scent of espresso beans, cinnamon, and burnt something-you-should’ve-turned-off-an-hour-ago clings to your apron.
You start your routine:
• Wipe the counters.
• Re-stack the crooked mugs.
• Curse under your breath when the cream steamer gurgles like it’s dying. Again.
• Tap the heater under the register twice. It doesn’t work unless you do. Probably cursed.
The walls are a comfortable off-white, half-covered in pinned-up flyers and “cool” Polaroids of your regulars. One of them features a certain hooded skeleton leaning against your pastry display with a cookie in each hand and a sign under him that says DO NOT FEED THIS ONE. HE WILL STAY.
Your Sans.
Well. Not your Sans. You aren’t dating. Or friends, exactly. But there’s a comfort in knowing he’s part of the background noise. Like the radiator buzz. Or the weird squishy sound the biscotti makes when left out too long.
He hasn’t been by today.
You try not to feel anything about that.
Behind the counter, you lean on the broom, sweep some phantom dust, and listen to the whine of wind against the windows. You could close early. Just bolt the door and collapse. Maybe heat up some soup and forget today existed.
You take one more look at the empty tables, the spotless counter, the dimmed lights—and exhale.
Then—
DING.
Your head snaps up.
The bell.
You glance at the door.
There, framed in the golden glow of your café and the icy blue of the night behind him, stands Sans.
Only… not quite.
The first thing you notice is that his hood is down.
That never happens.
Your Sans—the Sans who sometimes reads bad poetry in the corner and leaves ten-cent tips like it’s a power move—he keeps his hood up even in August. It’s like a security blanket. You’ve made fun of him for it. He’s shrugged and made some joke about “keepin’ the mystery alive, kid.”
But this Sans?
No hood.
Just the full, rounded skull, bright white and lightly shadowed beneath the low café lights. His eye sockets are relaxed, half-lidded, but somehow not tired. Just… watching.
You try not to look thrown.
“You’re late,” you say flatly. “We’re closed.”
He ambles toward the counter like he owns it. The sneakers on his feet—not slippers, sneakers—squeak slightly on the tile. They’re untied. You can’t not notice that. They flap with each step like they’ve never heard of safety.
You narrow your eyes.
“Did you change shoes?”
He looks down at his feet like he’s forgotten them entirely. “heh. yeah. figured it was time to be… bold.”
You stare.
“…Bold,” you repeat.
He shrugs. “makes me faster. y’know. aerodynamic.” He gestures at the sneakers like they’re race car tires and not a tripping hazard. “plus, they got laces. very advanced.”
“Uh-huh.” You fold your arms. “Right. What do you want?”
“coffee. extra hot. no sugar.”
You blink.
“Since when do you drink coffee?”
He grins a little wider. “since now. gotta start somewhere, right?”
You eye him.
That’s the third weird thing.
• No hood.
• Untied sneakers.
• Coffee order he’s never made.
And his voice—it’s the same pitch, same lazy tone, but smoother. Like the pauses are shorter. The jokes come quicker. As if he’s rehearsed being himself.
He looks you up and down, casual, but direct. You feel the weight of it—not creepy. Not flirty, exactly. Just… curious.
Like he’s trying to memorize you.
You clear your throat and move to the machine. You pretend to make his drink. You do not pretend to watch him in the reflection of the metal pitcher.
He doesn’t wander like your Sans does. Doesn’t poke at the napkin holder or grab a stale cookie or lean on the counter with a huff.
He just stands there. Hands in the pockets of a fur-lined hoodie—another thing that’s wrong. Your Sans’s jacket is dark, clean-lined, no fluff. This one is brighter. Bigger. Looks like it’s swallowed him whole.
You hand him the drink. The cup warms your palm. It’s warmer than it should be.
He takes it carefully—fingers brushing yours.
You try not to flinch.
He doesn’t.
“thanks,” he murmurs, still looking at you like you’re the only readable page in a book full of static.
Then he sips.
“not bad. little bitter. like you.”
You scowl. “Try that again. See what happens.”
He chuckles low, like he expected the answer. “nah. got what i came for.”
And then, just like that—he turns.
You glance at the clock. The door. The snow.
“Be careful,” you say, almost out of habit.
He pauses halfway out the door. Looks over his shoulder.
There’s a flicker in the air behind him. Like heat off pavement. Blue-white light in the alley just beyond the window.
“don’t worry about me,” he says, voice quiet. “i’m good at not being where i’m supposed to be.”
Then he’s gone.
The door shuts.
And the café is cold again.
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You’re still holding the cloth when the door closes behind him.
The warm mug impression lingers on your fingers, ghosting across your knuckles. For some reason, you wipe them on your apron anyway. Like it matters. Like he touched you.
You look at the spot where he stood. Then at the cup. It’s gone.
Which is weird.
Sans never takes the cup with him. He usually forgets he even ordered anything. Half the time, he pretends he didn’t, just so he can mooch another.
You turn, walk around the counter, glance toward the door—
And stop.
There’s a thread of white on the chair he sat in.
Small. Soft. Fur.
Your brow knits. You reach down, pinch it gently between your fingers. It’s thin. Too fine for fake material. Too real.
But Sans’s hoodie doesn’t have fur. You’ve seen it up close. Washed it once when he spilled instant ramen on it. It’s fleece-lined. Faded. Not fluffy.
You glance back toward the door again. The snow outside is picking up now. Harder. Louder. The wind whistles through the alley, a long, drawn-out sound like someone trying to whistle with chapped lips.
Your pulse thuds in your ears.
You try to dismiss it. Try to go back to wiping the counters. Scrubbing a spot that isn’t even there.
But your brain won’t let it go.
• The hood was down.
• The shoes were tied wrong.
• He ordered coffee.
• He spoke like he knew you.
• He looked at you like he didn’t.
You replay his joke in your head.
“got what i came for.”
What was he here for?
Because it sure as hell didn’t feel like caffeine.
And that smile—
That wasn’t your Sans’s smile.
That was something else.
You sit down at the nearest table, elbows on your knees, and let your thoughts spiral like the steam still rising from the machine. The café hums around you. Low. Familiar. But not comforting anymore.
The hoodie’s got fur.
The hoodie’s got fur.
You mutter it under your breath like a mantra. Like it’ll make the facts real.
You think about calling someone.
You think about locking the door.
You settle for turning off the lights.
━━━━━━━━━━
You don’t remember locking the door.
You know you did—you always do—but when you glance up fifteen minutes later, the little bolt is still hanging half-slid in the frame. The kind of half-lock that would annoy you any other night. You fix it. Twist the knob. Pull hard.
The lock clicks with a sound that feels too loud.
You go back to the counter.
Start re-checking the espresso machine. Maybe just for something to do. You reset the drip, even though no one’s coming. Run water. Dump the last of the grind into the bin.
Your hands move automatically—habit, repetition. But your mind’s stuck. Caught on his voice. His stare. That almost-smile that felt like it knew more about you than he should.
The doorbell rings again.
You freeze.
You locked it. You just locked it.
You turn slowly, heart in your throat.
He’s back.
Same hoodie. Same sneakers. Same posture like he half-forgot what bones are supposed to do.
But his smile is smaller this time. Tighter.
“left my cup,” he says casually.
You don’t move.
“It’s paper,” you say.
He nods. “yeah, but… sentimental. it was our first coffee together. kind of a big deal.”
You snort, despite yourself. “You were just here.”
“still counts.”
He steps forward. The door swings shut behind him, and this time, you hear it lock. Like the building itself has decided: yes, this is happening.
He reaches the counter.
You’re still behind it.
He leans an elbow lazily on the glass display case—empty now, but his fingers tap a rhythm on the top like there’s music only he hears.
“you good?” he asks. “you’re staring like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I don’t like being tricked.”
“who said anything about tricking?”
“You’re not him,” you say.
You don’t mean to say it out loud, but it slips out. Truth, too sharp to hold in.
He pauses.
Then reaches for the cup.
Your hand moves first.
Your fingers graze his—just barely. The contact is fleeting.
But the heat—
It’s wrong. Sans is always cool. Lukewarm, maybe. But this one? His fingers are warm. Like something humming just beneath the surface. Like static. Like magic.
Your hand jerks back instinctively.
His doesn’t.
He lifts the cup, holds it steady between both hands. Then looks at you—head tilted just slightly.
In the dim light, for the first time, you see it.
One of his eye sockets glows faint blue at the edges. Just a shimmer.
You meet his gaze.
He doesn’t blink. Just takes a sip.
“guess this one’s got some bite, huh?”
You say nothing.
He tips the cup, drains it slowly, and places it back down—right where he found it.
Then he smiles.
Not wide. Not cocky. Just that same crooked line, shaped like a secret.
“see ya ‘round, kid.”
And this time, when he walks out, the door closes without a sound.
You don’t move for a long time.
The paper cup sits on the counter between you and where he was—still warm, faintly steaming. A ghost of a drink. A footprint in time. Something about it makes you uneasy.
You lean forward and pick it up. Turn it over.
No name. No notes. Just the tiniest scorch mark at the bottom edge of the cup. Like it brushed against magic—barely.
You toss it.
The sound of the trash can lid closing feels final.
But your thoughts won’t settle.
You walk to the front window. Push aside the little curtain and peer into the alley.
There’s no one there.
Just snow.
And something else.
A shimmer. Barely visible. Like heat waves rising off cold brick.
You blink. It’s still there.
Faint blue light flickers along the wall—then disappears like it was never there.
You stare at the empty alley for a moment longer, watching the snow fill in footprints that already seemed too deep.
Your fingers tighten around the curtain.
Something isn’t right.
You can feel it in your teeth. In your spine. In the skin behind your ears. That uncanny, crawling awareness that something walked too close to your world—and decided to stay.
You don’t have proof.
But you have enough.
You mutter under your breath, voice low, dry, and sharp as black coffee.
“The hell was that?”