Chapter Text
Obi-Wan ducked into the coffee shop just in time, seconds before the first drops of rain started to fall. The door chimed as he walked in, backpack slung over his shoulder, firmly clutching his manila folder full of papers.
The other professors in his department teased him endlessly about his grading methods. They called him old-fashioned, antiquarian . He couldn’t help it; it was just easier to mark up student work by hand with his trusty red pen, leaving feedback and notes of encouragement in the margins, rather than in some electronic comment box . Bleugh.
He wrinkled his nose in distaste, setting his folder and backpack down on one of the tables. What he’d wanted was to get to work early, brew a nice cup of tea in his favorite mug and grade papers before students started flocking in droves for office hours. But, judging by the torrential downpour outside, it seemed that the weather had other plans.
All Obi-Wan could hope for was that the rain stopped soon. Technically, he didn’t have to go on campus today. He could’ve stayed in his apartment; offered office hours through Zoom. But, mid-terms were approaching, and, even though there were no formal exams in his classes, tensions were high.
Most of his students weren’t English or Writing majors, which was a damn shame, considering that some of them could write exceptionally well. But, having only transferred over from the English and Literature department at the University of Stewjon three years ago, he was still stuck teaching the basics; English Composition I and II.
Almost every single one of his students would’ve preferred a multiple choice exam to the ten-page paper Obi-Wan assigned them.
That didn’t matter, though. Obi-Wan Kenobi was a firm believer that standardized testing was a pisspoor measure of anyone’s ability to do anything, especially write . If his students took the same bullshit, multiple-choice tests as everyone else, how would they ever become better writers? How could he teach them how to improve?
This semester, he’d finally been trusted with a single section of a MWF Fiction I course. Those students were by far his favorite, mostly because they all actually wanted to be there. Not all of them were English majors, but all of them, at the very least, enjoyed writing. Obi-Wan always saved their essays for last, a treat after reading hundreds and hundreds of argumentative and analytical essays.
Those precious snapshots were currently stuffed in his folder. A little crumpled, yes, but safe from the rain.
Shrugging off his gray knit cardigan, Obi-Wan glanced around the coffee shop. There were a few other early-birds: mostly students, some curled up on the dark leather couches with textbooks, some sitting at tables hunched over their laptops, but there were two businessmen in line. They stood there in their three-piece suits with their briefcases, tapping their expensive dress shoes against the tile and staring at their Apple Watches.
He let out a sigh of relief. Even though he was only a few blocks from the epicenter of the University of Coruscant’s bustling, urban campus, he didn’t see any of his students. He didn’t even see any students he recognized.
Although , he thought, given the fact that U of C had over 50,000 students, that wasn’t really *that* surprising .
Obi-Wan grabbed his wallet from the pocket of his cardigan and got in line. He waited, and waited, then waited some more. A quick glance at his phone told him that it had been almost ten minutes, and there was still no one at the counter. Maybe he’d been too quick when he’d dismissed the men in suits as impatient, inconsiderate assholes.
Obi-Wan coughed loudly. Partially because his throat was dry. Mostly to get someone’s attention.
“Oh, uh, hi!” A voice called out from the back. “Sorry, one moment!”
Somewhere outside his line of sight, he heard the dull ring of metal clanging against the floor.
“ Shitshitshitshit. Fuck. Coming! ”
Obi-Wan bit down on his knuckle, trying to
muffle his laugh. As much as he enjoyed his
college days, he certainly didn’t miss working in retail.
Looking at the handsome stranger working the till, Obi-Wan felt his heart leap into his throat. His eyes darted around, unable to decide what to focus on first—his plush lips, loose curls, or his sinfully long eyelashes. Instead, he stared down at the flecks in the counter, flush creeping across his cheeks.
He wore a black t-shirt under his apron, tattoos just slightly peeking out from under his sleeves. Not only that, but he was muscular , veins on his forearms and hands clearly defined. This man didn’t belong in a fucking coffee shop; he belonged in a museum.
Obi-Wan’s mouth felt painfully dry. His brain had gone offline, all rational thought replaced with very explicit images of what he’d like to do with this man. Or to this man.
“What can I get started for ya?”
Christ . Even his smile was perfect.
“Mmmm. I’ll have a small earl grey tea, please. Hot.”
Modern-fucking-Adonis himself nodded, graciously ignored his stammering. “You got it. Can I get a name for that earl grey?”
“Obi-Wan.”
“Great. I’ll have that right out for you.”
“Thanks.”
Obi-Wan trudged back to his seat, replaying the stranger’s toothy grin over and over again in his mind.
He opened up his manila folder, grabbed a red pen, and tried his best to get to work. It was only when he’d read the same sentence five times that he gave up, sneaking a quick glance at the beautiful barista.
Who certainly wasn’t looking back at him. No, he was dutifully doing his job, wiping down counters and doing dishes and, well, whatever else baristas did. He felt guilty, lecherous even, nausea churning in the pit of his stomach. This poor man, probably young enough to be his son , for fuck’s sake, was just trying to do his job, and here he was, ogling him like a creep.
Obi-Wan sighed, leaning back in his chair. He chewed on the cap of his pen, tapping his foot against the tile. He didn’t want to start grading until he’d gotten his drink.
On several occasions, he’d let a cup steep while he read through the first couple papers. Before he knew it, two hours had flown by, he’d read through half the stack, made dozens and dozens of borderline illegible scribbles with his trusty red pen, and, when he finally decided to take a break, he’d look over and remember his sad, lukewarm, over-brewed tea.
This time, when he looked over, he didn’t see sad, lukewarm tea. Instead, he saw his mystery man, making his way over with a surprising amount of speed for someone carrying a full cup of hot water.
“Here’s that earl grey. And here’s a lid. There’s cream and sugar at the bar if you need it.”
“Oh.” Obi-Wan’s cheeks flushed. Apparently, he was so enamored with his plump lips and long eyelashes that he completely forgot to ask for cream or sugar. “Thank you.”
“No problem.” The stranger grinned.
Obi-Wan’s eyes trailed his form as he walked away, taking in the way his ripped black skinny jeans clung to his legs, hugging his ass in a way that should’ve been illegal. His pants were cuffed at the ankles, resting above his combat boots, and… were those robot socks?
Obi-Wan sighed, sipping his tea. It was good; the bergamot flavor subtle while still accentuating the black tea. It wasn’t his place to ask about the socks. He didn’t even know his name. That didn’t stop him from wanting to, though. He wanted to ask about his stupid robot socks, what his go-to coffee order was, what he was studying—hopefully not English—what the tattoos adorning his biceps were, what they meant.
Maybe Quinlan was right. Maybe he was a hopeless romantic. Really, what were the odds that he was ever going to see him again?
It was only when he looked down to find his pen that he saw it; the smiley face he had drawn on the cup. His heart fluttered in his chest. Maybe it was worth trying to get to know him. Maybe he should’ve asked about the socks.
Obi-Wan rolled his eyes. He needed to get a fucking grip and stop letting this, this twenty-something-year-old take up a ridiculous, entirely unfounded amount of space in his brain. For all Obi-Wan knew, the barista drew smiley faces for all his customers! He knew almost nothing about him, but he seemed like the type to do that; the kind of person who put his personality into everything he did. His energy was infectious like that.
He watched the rain outside and chewed on his pen cap some more, the smooth red plastic indented with teeth-shaped divots.
He hadn’t noticed it when he’d first walked in, but 501st seemed to be a refurbished auto shop, the three garage bays converted into massive windows. It would’ve been a beautiful source of natural light—if it was sunny. Instead, Obi-Wan took another sip of tea and watched as droplets slowly trickled down the glass, the sky outside gray and dull.
Obi-Wan yawned, blinking drearily. He considered himself a morning person, but days like these made him want to crawl back under the covers and sleep till noon.
Not that Arfour would ever let him. He usually fed her at 9. If he slept in till 10, she’d jump on the bed and wail hysterically, nudging him with her face. He’d never gotten up past 10:30. But, he imagined that, by 11, she’d probably abandon the kibble mission altogether and settle for eating his toes.
Obi-Wan picked one of the essays off the stack, thumbing through the pages.
Last week, he’d brought a big bowl of folded up paper strips to class, all sorts of film genres written inside. It was an exercise he did frequently, making his students pick settings, characters, or genres at random. It helped break them out of their comfort zones, and it meant that, even if it was just a draft, Obi-Wan got to see something new and fresh on the page.
Make sure the punctuation is inside the quotation marks. Other than that, your dialogue was well-formatted and gripping. Great job improving upon the in-class exercise!
-Prof. Kenobi
“Neccesary” is consistently spelled incorrectly. Tip for this one: a shirt has ONE collar
( c ) and TWO sleeves ( s ).
-Prof. Kenobi
Great job fleshing out the relationships between the characters. However, I find that I am having a hard time staying grounded in the piece. In future exercises, I would love to see some more concrete sensory details.
-Prof. Kenobi
As he glanced back over his comments, Obi-Wan realized that there was an upside to giving feedback electronically. It meant his students weren’t subjected to his terrible handwriting.
Actually, there were two upsides. His hand ached. His knuckles were stiff, a callus was blooming on the side of his pointer finger, and he still had a third of the stack left to go.
Well. That sounded like a problem for his future self.
For now, he let the graded papers sit, red ink drying. Another thing he had learned from all his years as an educator: his shitty handwriting was even harder to read when the ink was smudged.
Obi-Wan took a sip from his tea, only to find that the dredges had gone cold. He ran a thumb over the smiley face on the cup, Sharpie staining his skin, butterflies fluttering in his stomach. As silly as it sounded, it felt like sunshine, beating back the incessant gray looming over him. He wished there was some way to keep it with him.
Correction: he wished there was some way to keep it with him without carrying around a piece of literal garbage, what the fuck was wrong with him?
Maybe Obi-Wan really needed to get laid. Or get hit by a bus. Or get a life beyond going out for drinks with Quinlan on Fridays. He didn’t do any of those things. Instead, he stared out the window, fidgeting with his hand as he watched raindrops trickle lazily down the glass.
Satisfied that the ink was dry, he slid the finished papers back into the folder, (remorsefully) threw his cup in the trash, and slid his cardigan back on. It was still drizzling outside, but office hours started at 12.
Obi-Wan pushed in his chair, slung his backpack over his shoulder, and left. He very resolutely did not look back at the counter as the door swung shut behind him.