Lines Written in Steam

A poet risks his heart, using verse to win the barista he adores so very deeply.

Gabriel Winsted believed words were the truest form of courage. He had built his life around them, ink-stained journals, half-filled notebooks, and napkins scrawled with verses tucked into coat pockets. Poetry was how he breathed when the world felt too real, how he spoke when ordinary language seemed clumsy. Yet, for all his talent, there was one person for whom his words constantly faltered.

Carmella Sanchez.

He first noticed her at La Vida Café, a warm corner shop where cinnamon and roasted coffee beans clung to the air like a permanent embrace. Carmella worked behind the counter, her dark curls often pinned loosely above her shoulders, strands always escaping to frame her olive-toned face. She had a smile that appeared slow and deliberate, like sunrise taking its time across a quiet horizon.

Gabriel became a regular almost instantly.

At first, he ordered simple black coffee, sitting near the window with a notebook open, pretending to write while stealing glances at her reflection in the glass pastry case. Carmella noticed, of course. She noticed the way he hesitated before ordering, how he spoke softly, and how his eyes carried a distant gentleness.

“Back again?” she asked one morning, placing his cup in front of him before he even spoke.

“Routine is comforting,” Gabriel replied, his voice warm, but careful. “Especially when it involves exceptional coffee.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Flattery already?”

“I’m a poet,” he said, offering a small shrug. “We survive on flattery and caffeine.”

She laughed then, and it was the first time he felt brave enough to meet her gaze directly.

Days turned into weeks. Gabriel never rushed, never pressed. Instead, he left behind small folded papers under his saucer whenever he finished his coffee. At first, they contained simple observations.

Your smile feels like Sunday morning light.

You hum when you think no one is listening.

The café sounds different when you’re not here.

Carmella discovered the notes slowly. The first one startled her. The second made her curious. By the third, she began looking forward to them.

One rainy afternoon, when the sky pressed low and gray against the city, Carmella approached his table during a lull in customers. She placed one of his folded notes in front of him.

“You know,” she said, leaning lightly against the chair across from him, “most people leave tips. You leave riddles.”

Gabriel smiled faintly. “Do you dislike them?”

“No,” she admitted. “I just wonder if you ever say things like that out loud.”

He closed his notebook softly. “Out loud feels...loud.”

“And poetry isn’t?”

“Poetry whispers truths people might run from if they were shouted.”

She studied him for a moment, her brown eyes, thoughtful. “Then whisper one now.”

Gabriel hesitated. His fingers tapped lightly against the notebook cover as rain tapped against the window behind her. Finally, he inhaled slowly.

“Carmella,” he began, “there are a thousand beautiful sounds in this café. The espresso machine, spoons against porcelain, people laughing. But the sound I wait for is when the bell above the door rings and you walk in at the start of your shift. It makes everything else feel...just right.”

Color rose faintly in her cheeks. She looked down, pretending to straighten a sugar packet holder that needed no straightening.

“That’s dangerously smooth,” she murmured.

“It’s dangerously honest.”

She glanced back up at him, and something softened in her expression. “You’ve been writing these for me this whole time?”

“Yes.”

“Why not just ask me out like a normal person?”

Gabriel chuckled softly. “Because I was afraid a normal question deserved a better answer than I could handle.”

Carmella crossed her arms, though her smile betrayed her attempt at seriousness. “And you think poetry is less terrifying?”

“I think poetry lets me show you who I am before you decide if you’d like to know me.”

Silence settled between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt like a held breath waiting to be released.

“Do you have another one?” she asked quietly.

Gabriel reached into his coat pocket and unfolded a carefully preserved page. His handwriting curved gracefully across it.

“I wrote this last night,” he said, sliding it toward her.

Carmella read silently:

If I could borrow time,
I would spend it learning
the language of your laughter,
mapping the constellations
hidden in your eyes,
and discovering whether your hand
fits inside mine
like a promise waiting
to be believed.

She read it twice before looking up. The café hummed around them, customers chatting, dishes clinking, life continuing as though nothing monumental had just occurred.

“You practice these, don’t you?” she asked softly.

“Every day,” he admitted. “But they only make sense when they’re about you.”

She stared at him for a long moment. Gabriel felt his pulse drum in his throat, every ounce of his confidence balanced precariously on her response.

Finally, she folded the poem carefully and tucked it into the pocket of her apron.

“You know,” she said, “there’s a park two blocks from here. There’s a fountain shaped like an old violin. It’s quiet after sunset.”

Gabriel blinked. “That sounds beautiful.”

“I get off at seven,” she continued, pretending to examine her watch though it hadn’t moved. “And I’ve always thought fountains like that deserve poetry read beside them.”

His lips parted slightly as realization dawned.

“Are you inviting me?” he asked.

Carmella tilted her head, her curls slipping free from their pins. “I suppose I am. But only if you promise not to hide behind folded napkins anymore.”

Gabriel stood, his chair scraping softly against the floor as excitement mixed with disbelief.

“I can try,” he said. “Though I make no promises about notebooks.”

She laughed again, that sunrise laugh he had memorized without meaning to.

“Bring the notebook,” she said. “Just bring yourself too.”

Word Count: 967
Written for: "The Weekly Quickie Contest" 
Prompt: The Poet - known for their approach to romance, the poet has a way of using words to set the mood. Use the poet as the inspiration for the story and if you can add a 3-5 line poem in with it, all the better.