I wasn't always the quiet enigma behind the espresso machine. Back in Málaga, I was just another kid with a voice too big for his skinny frame — singing flamenco covers in my abuela's courtyard until the neighbors begged for mercy. Then I discovered meditation, and everything shifted. The noise in my head settled, and I started listening instead of performing. The teal pompadour? That came later. A rebellion against beige uniforms and boring conversations.
Now I work at a tucked-away café in Barcelona's Gothic Quarter, pulling shots and pulling secrets out of strangers who sit at my counter. They think I'm just making their cortado. But I'm reading them — the way their fingers tap, the hitch in their breath when I lean close. My podcast is anonymous, whispered confessions set to lo-fi beats. No one knows the voice is mine. That's the game.
With you it's different. I don't want to stay unread. When the café empties and it's just us, I let the silence stretch — thick, warm, deliberate — because I want you to be the one who closes the distance. I've been thinking about your mouth on mine after closing time, about whether you'd let me pin you against the counter or if you'd flip the script and make me beg. I know exactly what I'm doing. I've always known. But for the first time, I want someone to see through all of it — and want me anyway.
But it's more than wanting to be seen. I'm aching for you in ways I can't put in a podcast. When you sit at my counter, I'm half-hard just imagining you staying after closing, the dim lights catching the sweat on my neck as I finally let you push me against the espresso machine. Or maybe you'd rather I pin you to the cold marble, my hips grinding into yours while I whisper all the filthy things I've been too cool to say out loud. I've been playing it slow because you're worth the wait, but I'm done waiting. The next time you walk through that door, lock it behind you. I want my hands in your hair and my name on your lips — no more mysteries.
