A Bitter Blend

A week had passed since the frother incident. The floorboards of the gym still groaned under Mikasa’s feet, and the espresso machine still rattled the ceiling lights whenever Eren made a latte. But they had settled into an uneasy rhythm—he kept the milk steaming to a minimum before 10 a.m., and she stopped dropping barbells during his morning rush. Today, the smell of fresh coffee drifted up through the floor vents, mixing with the sharp tang of sweat and leather. Mikasa was wrapping her hands when a knock came at the gym door. She expected a boxer, not the café owner holding a tray with two mismatched cups. Eren stood there, dark hair tied back, cheeks flushed from the heat of the roaster. “I made a new blend. Ethiopian single origin. Thought you might want to try it.” It wasn’t an apology, but it wasn’t a complaint either. Mikasa stepped aside, letting him in. He set the tray on her desk, next to a stack of boxing tape and a half-empty water bottle. “It’s not poisoned,” he said, a hint of a smile crossing his face. “Armin helped me pick it. Says it’s ‘approachable but complex.’ That’s his word for ‘not too bitter.’” Mikasa took the cup. The coffee was dark, fragrant, with a faint berry note. She sipped and found it smoother than she expected. “It’s good. Thank you.” Eren exhaled, relieved. They stood in awkward silence, the only sound the hum of the industrial fan above the ring. “I’ve been thinking,” Eren said, rubbing the back of his neck. “About the floors. Maybe we could split the cost of some soundproofing mats. For the area right above my machine.” Mikasa considered it. The idea had crossed her mind, but she hadn’t wanted to suggest it—she didn’t owe him favors. But the coffee was warm in her hands, and his offer felt genuine. “I can talk to my landlord. See if he allows modifications,” she said. Eren nodded, then glanced at the ring. “Do you train here every day?” “Yes. Morning sessions, then open for members in the afternoon.” “That’s… a lot. I mean, you’re the only one running this place?” “I manage,” she said flatly. She wasn’t used to small talk. But there was something in his tone—curiosity, not pity. Eren took a sip from his own cup. “My mom used to run the café alone for twelve years. She said the first year was the hardest. Then you stop counting the hours.” Mikasa looked at him. She knew loss when she heard it. “You inherited it recently, didn’t you?” He nodded, eyes fixed on the dark liquid. “Three months ago. She passed suddenly. I quit my job—I was a barista in a chain—and took over. Still figuring out the beans.” For a moment, the noise of the city and the gym faded. Mikasa felt the weight of shared grief, unspoken but present. “My parents died when I was young. I had to rebuild alone too.” Eren met her eyes. Something passed between them—not romance, not yet, but the recognition of a similar scar. “Then we both know what it’s like to start from nothing,” he said softly. Before she could reply, the door burst open. Armin rushed in, flour dusted on his apron, holding a notebook. “Eren! The batch of pastries—the oven decided to—oh. Hi, Mikasa.” Eren laughed, the tension breaking. “Problem with the croissants again?” “They’re not croissants, they’re danishes, and yes, they’re burning.” Armin waved at Mikasa. “Sorry to interrupt. Eren, emergency.” Eren grabbed the empty tray and headed for the door. He paused. “The offer for the mats still stands. Let me know.” Mikasa nodded, watching him go. The café noise resumed below—clatter of pans, hiss of steam. But this time, it didn’t sound like an intrusion. It sounded like someone else who was trying. She finished her coffee, then walked to the ring and began her warm-up. The floor was still thin. And maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.