Oliver waves off his coworker. “It’s a five minute walk, I don’t need a taxi,” he tells her, and leaves before she can protest.

It’s almost midnight, and though Melbourne city is still awake, Oliver doubts anyone would recognise him in the dim lighting—and he has shades on.

(He’s also not nearly as famous as the company likes to try to tell him.)

He skirts around a group of students laughing and eating ice cream. The entrance to his apartment block is just down the street, but as of lately, his eyes draw to a certain dessert shop, Matcha & Milk.

It’s been open for a few weeks already, but Oliver hasn’t been. If he were a 14-year-old girl, he could go in by himself and it would be socially acceptable. But he’s not.

Oliver’s steps stutter. The shop is currently empty but for the barista behind the counter. There’s an offer on too: a new matcha ice cream and bubble waffle. Oliver’s mouth salivates.

The barista looks up, clearly seeing him through the glass front.

With that, Oliver throws caution to the wind and heads inside. Sweet scents fill the air.

“How may I help you?” The barista’s eyes crinkle as he smiles, and Oliver’s heart stumbles.

“I, er—the matcha?” It comes out like a question. But that’s alright! Oliver desperately thinks, It’s an Aussie thing to speak like that, he’s young too, right?

A thoughtful look comes across the barista’s face. “Matcha bubble tea?”

“The ice cream and waffle. Please.”

The barista’s smile widens. “Of course.” He winks. “Since it’s so late, I’ll give you two extra toppings for free, okay?”

There’s no recognition of Oliver in the barista’s eyes, and Oliver relaxes. “Thanks.”

The barista shows him the selection of toppings, and soon, Oliver’s the proud owner of a bubble waffle topped with matcha ice-cream, strawberries and chocolate drizzle. It’s so beautiful and enticing that he takes a big bite right there.

“Ohhhhh,” he moans. The sharpness of the strawberries complements the sweet chocolate, the grassy matcha, and the warm and soft waffle. Then—

Crap. Oliver’s eyes snap to the barista, and he flushes. “Sorry, mate, I’ll—”

“I’m glad you like it,” the barista grins. He slides a card over the counter: it has a number of circles, one of which is stamped. “You get a free drink on your 20th visit.”

Oliver takes it and stuffs it in his pocket. “Cheers?” He nods in a much more refined, adult manner, before quickly leaving.

The lift in his building is annoyingly slow, and trying to open his flat door with one hand is a bit of struggle. But finally, in the privacy of his own home, Oliver’s able to take another bite: a bit of the waffle only, then lick of the ice cream. His chest swells. He grew up on cheap Coles vanilla ice cream. But this was so much better—and he’s an adult now. He’s allowed to spend money on things like this, right? And the barista didn’t judge him at all.

By the end, some of the matcha ice cream has melted: he can’t stop himself from licking it off his fingers.

And sighing.

When he licks his lips, he can still taste hints of the matcha, of the chocolate. It reminds him of the barista’s smile, and Oliver groans, already knowing that he’s going to have to go back and try some more desserts.