Dont read this, this is just for stories i want read

Can I Get An Iced Vanilla Latte Extra Whip?

George didn't necessarily hate his job. He just hated the backaches he got after five hours of standing, the way his feet felt like they were on fire from moving constantly, the man who yelled at him just because they didn't brew any more Breakfast Blends after 10:00 am.

But, George loved coffee, and who didn't? He cherished the sweet taste of iced coffee and the way it so smoothly passed down his throat after getting up at the crack of dawn to make it on time for the morning shift. And don't even get him started on the apple juice they kept in the break room.

He also loved his coworkers. Karl was sweet and loud, always alive and bright, even at five-thirty in the morning before he had his coffee. George admired his easy-going persona and his ability to make everyone feel included.

Wilbur was laid back just like George, calm and collected. His memory of every beverage was impeccable and he was the quickest at making drinks. If George ever forgot how many pumps of mocha to put into an iced White Mocha, Wilbur would tell him without any hesitation. Wilbur was also goofy in his own way, and George always laughed hard at his dry humor and craziness after he had his first blonde Americano. He seemed to bounce off the walls after his coffee, and that never failed to amuse George.

And yes, George knew the coffee shop was understaffed, but he didn't think much of it until his manager announced that a new partner was coming in from another store. George shrugged off the excitement and left Karl to it, who had already balled his fists at his chest with a huge smile on his face.

George definitely didn't expect a tall, dirty-blond, tan, fucking handsome man to walk in on their next shift, introducing himself as Dream. George thought it was a stupid name, which couldn't possibly have been given to him at birth. Though, he almost forgot to care when Dream ran a huge, freckled, muscular hand through his messy golden locks and laughed softly, his eyes crinkling with the upturn of his cheeks.

While George did not want his stomach to do multiple backflips, it did so anyway, and his cheeks grew warmer than usual.

”Nobody’s really asked me about my name before,” Dream laughed, his eyes a blinding yellow (maybe green) color that hurt to look at too long. George watched the way his freckles moved with his sunburnt cheeks as he smiled, it was really pretty.

It made George huff, narrow his eyes and cross his arms grumpily. He shot him a glare and stood up taller nearly, just barely, raising his eyes to Dream’s neck rather than his collarbone.

He was hoping his intimidating stance would knock Dream’s real name out of his mouth.

Dream noticed his demeanor and smiled wider, giggling some more. It was patronizing, and George hated his stupid face.

George didn’t say anything, and he didn’t have to, because Dream spoke first.

The new barista held his hands up in surrender. “You got me, Dream is a nickname, but I would rather you call me that.”

George blew a wisp of hair angrily out of his face and turned on his heel without another word.

Karl and Wilbur were in the break room when George came stomping in, crashing heavily onto an office chair beside Wilbur, who was chewing on a pair of scissors and leaning against the wall.

”What’s with you?” Wilbur asked over the scissors in his teeth. Karl turned his attention to George as well, raising an innocent eyebrow.

George rolled his eyes. “New guy’s an arsehole.”

Karl visibly perked up, gasping dramatically and jumping to his feet. “He’s here?”

George waved Karl off. “Yeah, but don’t get too excited. He’s a weirdo.”