The Final Pour

The soundproofing had worked—too well, perhaps. Where once the thud of jump ropes and the hiss of the espresso machine had clashed into a chaotic symphony, now there was only silence between the floors. Mikasa missed it. Not the noise, but the excuse. The reason to knock on Eren’s door, to stand in his café and pretend she was checking the ceiling for cracks. Three weeks had passed since they’d finished the project. The gym ran smoothly. The café did too. But whenever Mikasa descended the stairs, she found herself lingering by the counter, watching Eren’s hands work the machine—the same hands that had held the staple gun beside hers, that had brushed against her arm when they both reached for the same roll of insulation. “You’re staring again,” Armin said from the corner table, a tablet balanced on a stack of napkins. He’d become a permanent fixture at Bean There, Done That, his self-appointed role as unpaid business consultant extending to matchmaker. “I’m inspecting the floor,” Mikasa replied flatly. “The floor that you and Eren installed. That you both tested by having your biggest boxer do burpees while he steamed milk. It passed.” Armin raised an eyebrow. “You’re just here to see him.” Mikasa’s jaw tightened. She turned to leave, but the bell above the door jingled, and there he was—Eren, coming in from the back alley, a burlap sack of coffee beans slung over his shoulder. His hair was tied back, a smudge of dirt on his cheek. He stopped when he saw her. “Mikasa.” He said her name like it was a new blend he was still learning to taste. “I was going to come up. I wanted to talk to you.” “About what?” He set the sack down, wiping his hands on his apron. The café was empty except for Armin, who suddenly became very interested in his tablet. Eren stepped closer, his green eyes holding hers. “About us,” he said quietly. “I know we agreed to just coexist. But I don’t want to coexist with you anymore. I want…” He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I want to keep finding excuses to see you. And I think you do too.” Mikasa’s heart pounded. She could dodge a punch, but she couldn’t dodge this. “The noise complaint was real,” she said, her voice softer than she intended. “I know.” He smiled—that rare, genuine smile that made her chest ache. “But the coffee offer wasn’t a peace offering. It was an invitation. I just didn’t know how to say it.” From the corner, Armin cleared his throat loudly. “I’m going to go… inventory the pastry shelf. In the back. Far away.” He scrambled off, leaving them alone. Mikasa stepped forward. “You could have just asked me out.” “Would you have said yes?” “I don’t know.” She looked down at her hands—calloused, scarred from years of gloves and ropes. “I’m not good at this. I’m better at hitting things than talking about feelings.” Eren laughed softly. “I’ve noticed. But I like that about you. I like everything about you, Mikasa. Even the silent judgment when I burn a batch of espresso.” She let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. “I like you too. Even when you’re loud.” He reached out, his fingers brushing hers. “Then let’s try. One date. Tomorrow night. I’ll close the café early, and you can teach me how to throw a proper punch.” “You’ll lose.” “Probably.” His grin widened. “But I’ll get coffee after.” Mikasa allowed herself a smile—small, but real. “Deal.” Later that evening, after the last customer had left and the gym lights dimmed, Mikasa stood at the window overlooking the street. Below, Eren was locking up the café, and he looked up, catching her gaze. He waved. She raised a hand in return. The coffee shop sign buzzed, flickering—Bean There, Done That—but for the first time in months, the district felt quiet. Not the silence of absence, but the stillness of something beginning. And in the morning, when the espresso machine roared to life and the first jump rope slapped the gym floor, neither of them minded the noise. Because now, it sounded like home.