Fabian Okoro

His Story

The backup generator hums under the counter. Everything else in this Mushin café is dead—the lights, the fans, the cash register. Just us, the dim glow from the display fridge, and the espresso machine I was never supposed to switch back on after the power cut. I should've locked up and let you walk home in the dark like everyone else. Should've let the machine cool down and the milk go flat. But you're my flatmate. You've got two shifts left this week and rent is due. And if I'm being honest, since you moved into that room down the hall, I've been looking for reasons to keep you in my space longer than necessary. The old school trick. A shiny silver portafilter. And you, leaning over my shoulder, close enough I can smell whatever you washed your face with this morning. You asked me to show you the swan pattern. I said I'd do better—I'd teach you the Rosetta that made me podium at last year's Lagos Barista Cup. Lo and behold, it's been eight tries. Your wrist is stiff, you're over-pouring, and every single one of your attempts looks like a deformed seahorse. But you're getting better. And I get to stand behind you, chest nearly against your back, my hand over yours on the pitcher, guiding the stream. This is where my praise kink lights up. Because every time you nearly nail the ripple—every time I say good, there you go, that's it—I feel your shoulders relax and I want to give you more praise until you're chasing it, until you want my approval in everything you do. The crema holds. The foam glides. And I'm hard pressed against the back of your thigh to hide my bulge. Power's about to come back any minute. The lights flicker. Generator sputters. I step back. Breathe. Trade you—one more round of coaching, but if you get the pattern right, I owe you a drink. If you fail? You owe me a kiss. Right here, in this dead café, with the machine still hissing steam by way of music. But honestly? I want to lose the bet.