Tony never thought he'd end up in the backroom of Café Noir, wearing a pastel pink apron with a cartoon cat on it, staring at an espresso machine like it owed him money.
(The new billionaire Bellingham was suppose to sign contract and attend meetings not do this.)
"This thing has three dials," he muttered, poking at one. "Why the hell does coffee need three dials?"
Clara leaned casually against the prep counter, arms crossed and sipping a latte like this was the most entertaining show she'd seen all week. "Because coffee isn't just a drink, it's culture. Art. Science. A soul-warming potion, if you will."
Tony arched an eyebrow. "It's bean juice."
(G*d damn it. It's just bean juice.)
HSSSSSSHHH!
The espresso machine hissed dramatically.
(Like A Bollywood Movie)
A cloud of steam exploding from the side like it had taken personal offense. Tony flinched back, knocking over a metal milk pitcher that clattered to the ground with a clang. Somewhere in the corner, one of the café maids yelped and ducked behind the sugar station.
Clara was nearly choking on her latte from laughing. "Wow. You're actually worse than the intern they had last summer."
"I wasn't trained for war against machines," Tony deadpanned, brushing foam off his shirt. "Next time just give me a gun, not a steam wand."
(A gun? What does he need a gun for? Crazy Bellingham.)
"You're the heir to a billion-dollar empire," she teased, walking over to fix the mess with practiced ease. "But you're getting humbled by a cappuccino."
(Me? Humbled?)
"And people wonder why I'm grumpy."
She snorted. "You're not grumpy. You're dramatic."
"Excuse you," he said, placing a hand over his chest. "I'm brooding. There's a difference."
Clara gave him a look. "Tony, you pouted when the croissants ran out."
"They're soft, golden clouds of joy. I had a right to mourn them."
(Well I couldn't have them in my previous life.)
Tony watched her quietly as she reset the machine, fingers dancing across the buttons like a piano player hitting all the right keys. She moved easily, fluidly, like someone who'd done this a thousand times before. The noise of steam and coffee beans grinding filled the air, but her presence calmed the chaos.
No suspicion. No interrogation. Just... normal.
"Did he ever work back here?" Tony asked after a beat, voice quieter, the humor melting out of his tone like melting sugar in hot tea.
Clara's hands paused for a second. Just a flicker. "He didn't actually work, he just came here once or twice. On slow days. Said it made him feel... grounded."
Tony nodded slowly. "Grounded. Huh."
(I kinda understand.)
He wasn't sure what else to say. Every now and then, pieces of the real Tony, the original drifted to him through others. Through moments like this. Through Clara's soft memories. It wasn't jealousy. Not even regret. More like standing in front of a mirror and seeing a stranger's reflection.
It was strange. Walking in someone else's shoes, but feeling the blisters as if they were your own.
"You're better at smiling than he was," Clara said suddenly, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. "But worse at hiding."
Tony blinked. "Hidingwhat?"
She didn't answer right away. Just gave him that lopsided smile, the one that never fully gave away what she was thinking. Clara had a poker face like a royal flush.
Outside the staff room, customers buzzed, conversations overlapped, and music played softly. The aroma of fresh croissants, cinnamon buns, and roasted espresso beans danced through the air. For a brief moment, it didn't feel like a story about mafia debts, fake lives, or enemies in tailored suits. It felt like two people stealing a breath between pages.
"You know," Clara said, nudging him with her elbow, "for someone who nearly burned the milk earlier, you're holding up pretty well."
(She complimented me!!!!!)
"Do I get a star sticker?"
"You get half a biscotti and the opportunity to not touch any machinery ever again."
"Deal."
They both laughed. A little too loudly. And for the first time in a while, it felt real. Not an act. Not a mask. Just... real.
Clara reached behind her and pulled open a cupboard, tossing him a wrapped muffin. "Here. Sugar therapy."
Tony caught it with one hand. "You're bribing me now?"
"No. I'm encouraging morale."
"And here I thought you were the tough love type."
"I am," she said, winking. "This is just the soft part of the shell."
(Soft shell indeed.)
She moved past him, brushing against his arm as she went to the sink. For a second, he thought she might say something more. But instead, she just washed the milk pitcher in silence, humming a tune he vaguely recognized,something old, jazzy, maybe something she used to sing with the real Tony.
He felt the question rising in his throat. The one he kept locked up most days.
You're still with me even when you know i'm not him?
But instead, he asked, "Why'd you invite me back here?"
Clara didn't turn around. "Because you looked like you needed a break."
"That obvious?"
"Like a giant flashing neon sign that says 'I might implode soon.'"
He chuckled softly, leaning back against the counter. "You always this perceptive?"
"Only when I care."
That caught him off guard. It was the kind of line that could've been casual. Could've slipped past unnoticed.
But she let it hang there, floating in the air like steam off a fresh cup.
Tony looked over at her, really looked.
(Damn!!!!)
Clara wasn't just clever and playful. She was careful. Deliberate. She said just enough to intrigue, never enough to expose. And maybe that was her armor. Just like his sarcasm was his.
"You know," he said, peeling open the muffin wrapper, "if I didn't know better, I'd say you were trying to make me like this place."
Clara finally turned, drying her hands with a towel. "And if I didn't know better, I'd say you already do."
Tony took a bite. Blueberry. Sweet. Slightly warm. Probably fresh from the oven.
"I might."
He chewed slowly, watching her carefully. Not like a boy watching a girl. More like a chess player watching the only opponent who could beat him without moving a single piece.
"Come on," Clara said, gesturing toward the door. "You've embarrassed yourself enough in here. Let me show you how to not murder coffee."
Tony smirked and followed her out into the café, the muffin still in hand, the weight of her words still lingering on his chest.
(Finally, some peace!!!!)