Welcome to The Hook & Latte

Not for the first time, Edmundo “Eddie” Diaz wondered how the hell he’d ended up here.

Sure, he knew how he’d gotten here, technically. But still—how does a 28-year-old field medic with two and a half tours in Afghanistan end up making ridiculous little foam hearts for a living? What even was his life?

He’d known he needed to get out of El Paso—away from his overbearing parents and their constant reminders that he wasn’t cut out to raise Christopher on his own and would only drag the child down with him when he inevitably failed. There was no way he was leaving his son to suffer under their misguided, infantilizing version of ‘care.’ He was half-certain they meant well, but they were suffocating his son and practically brainwashing him to believe his Cerebral Palsy defined him. They would continue to do so over Eddie’s dead body.

But he hadn’t expected his escape to look like this: three days in a beat-up pickup, his seven-year-old in the backseat, a not even half-formed plan in his head, and only a handful of crumpled bills in his pocket.

To be honest, Eddie had nearly turned around that first night. He had no idea where he was going or how he was going to support Christopher. By the time they crossed the Texas border, his back ached from sleeping in the car, and he was pretty sure they’d already sweated through all their clean clothes. He’d made a point not to take anything his parents had paid for except for Christopher’s crutches and a beloved stuffed panda.

And then, somewhere outside Phoenix, he found himself thinking of his abuela—someone who never once expressed doubt in him. Just the thought of her brought a flicker of comfort he hadn’t felt in years.

It felt strange, pulling into her driveway in Los Angeles, feeling like a kid who’d run away from home. But she’d opened the door before he even reached for the bell and wrapped him in the kind of hug that made his ribs creak.

“Mi Edmundo,” she’d murmured. “I always knew you’d come home to me.” She released him long enough to pull Christopher into the hug, her gaze softening as she took in his son. “You belong here,” she informed them, decisively.

For the first time since leaving El Paso, Eddie felt something close to relief. He let his head drop onto her shoulder, closing his eyes as a knot in his chest began to unravel.

The scents of Abuela--cinnamon and vanilla--wrapped around him, grounding him in a way he hadn't felt in years. They were exactly as he remembered—warm and sweet, like the arroz con leche she used to make for him on chilly mornings, or the fresh conchas she’d bake whenever he came to visit. Memories flooded back: sitting at her kitchen table, his feet barely reaching the floor, as she slid a steaming mug of chocolate caliente into his hands and told him stories about their family, her soft laughter filling the room.

While he was certain Abuela meant it when she told him they could stay as long as they wanted, he refused to take too much advantage. He needed work, and fast. He’d hoped his army training would give him an edge in becoming an EMT, but the competition was fierce, and the waitlist for the qualifying test was already six months long. He put his name in, but there was no way he’d mooch off Abuela’s heart that long. He felt the safety of her support—but he’d also felt the weight of needing to stand on his own.

And that was how he’d ended up outside The Hook and Latte, staring at the logo in the window: a fire hook with a coffee cup dangling from it, with a firefighter helmet, an ambulance, and a ladder truck in the background. Not exactly subtle about who they’re trying to reel in, he thought, shaking his head. Third shift, and he still had no idea how he was going to survive this barista gig without losing his mind. Lattes were their own kind of exhausting. He liked his coffee black and didn’t get the obsession with froth and bizarre add-ins. But the location was perfect—it was a regular hangout for first responders and sat directly across the street from Station 118. Maybe it would help him get his foot in the door when the time came. It was close to Abuela’s house, close to Christopher’s new school, and if Eddie could survive the frothy madness, he might actually find his way to something better.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the door, letting the familiar aroma of coffee and sugar wash over him. Today’s goals: survive without burning himself—or telling a customer exactly where to shove their 'extra-foam, half-caf' nonsense.

“You’re late, Diaz!”

Eddie gritted his teeth and exhaled. Add ‘not murdering my boss’ to today’s goals, he thought. He resisted the urge to argue—or mention that he was actually five minutes early. Technically, he wasn’t in full uniform yet, and Gerrard would jump on that detail. So, instead, he grabbed his red suspenders and name badge from under the distressed mahogany counter and clipped them on, swallowing his annoyance.

“Don’t forget your visor,” Gerrard reminded, smirking as if Eddie could ever forget the thing. With a sigh, Eddie pulled it off the shelf—a flimsy replica of a firefighter helmet that looked like it would barely survive a drizzle, let alone a fire. But uniform was uniform, so on it went.

Eddie stood at attention as Mr. Gerrard inspected him again, a frozen smile plastered on his face. He didn’t flinch when the man reached out to brush something imaginary off his shoulder, as though removing nonexistent dandruff or dust. Perhaps his army training would come in handy after all—Gerrard reminded him of his old drill sergeant. Only when his new boss finally gave a curt nod and retreated to the back office did Eddie let his guard down, bracing himself for the first customers of the day.

“Hi, I’ll have a venti, extra-hot, half-caf, oat milk latte with one pump sugar-free vanilla, one pump hazelnut, two pumps caramel, and a dash of cinnamon powder on top. Light foam, extra drizzle of caramel, and just a sprinkle of sea salt. Oh, and can you add a shot of espresso at the end, but make sure it’s pulled ristretto? Thanks!”

Eddie blinked, trying to mentally catalog the list of add-ons, subtractions, and specifications that had been dumped on him. This must be a joke. Is there some kind of hidden camera around here?

He considered his mental checklist for the day: Don’t burn yourself. Don’t murder anyone. He’d already failed the first one—burning his fingers twice before 10 a.m.—and this order was about to make him cross out the second.

Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself. Okay, focus. Extra-hot, half-caf… The details were slipping from his mind as fast as they came. Was it oat milk or almond? Light foam or no foam? It felt like a twisted memory test from boot camp: no barking CO, just the critical gaze of a customer daring him to mess up.

“Uh, to double-check,” Eddie said, forcing his voice into something that vaguely resembled politeness, “that was a 20-ounce,” he stressed the size, because this was NOT Starbucks, “extra-hot, half-caf, oat milk latte with… one pump sugar-free vanilla, one pump hazelnut, two pumps caramel, light foam, extra caramel drizzle, cinnamon on top, and a sprinkle of sea salt?” He hoped he sounded as calm as he was trying to be.

The customer raised an eyebrow. “Don’t forget the ristretto shot at the end.”

Eddie bit the inside of his cheek. Of course. How could I forget? He gave a tight nod. “Got it.”

“Name?” he prompted as he entered the order into the system.

“Evan,” the young man replied.

Third Evan today. He sighed internally. “I’ll call when it’s ready.”

As Eddie started assembling the Frankenstein latte, he muttered under his breath. “Would it kill anyone to order regular coffee?” He pulled the ristretto shot, trying to focus as he poured the oat milk, remembering to steam it to extra-hot without turning it into scalding lava. And what was even up with the sugar-free vanilla? Did Evan really think that would somehow cancel out the caramel overload? Because sure, that’s how health works. By the time he was done, he’d gone through two cups, spilled caramel drizzle on his hand, and was pretty sure he’d lost feeling in one of his fingers.

He scribbled EVEN on the cup and turned to lock eyes with Evan with what he hoped was a customer-service-appropriate smile, even while his brain was chanting never again, never again. Time to deliver this monstrosity.

Just as he set the latte on the counter, he heard a voice mutter behind him, “Now that is a hot man.” Eddie winced and glanced sideways at the speaker, an Asian man he vaguely recognized from the first responders who hung around Station 118. Eddie was fairly certain he wasn’t supposed to hear the man’s comment, so he ignored the approaching couple, leaned into the mic, and called out for “Even” to retrieve his order. He hid his giddy laugh as Evan scowled and snatched his cup.

“Where’s the lie? And I like girls,” the woman with the Asian agreed as she stepped up to the counter.

So, not a couple, couple then.

Smile, smile, smile, Eddie reminded himself as he turned toward his new customers. “Good morning! Welcome to The Hook and Latte—where the coffee’s hot, and I’m just trying to keep up. What can I get for you?”

Eddie couldn’t stop the grin as the Asian man took a small step back, as if putting some space between them would somehow undo what he’d said. The woman beside him nudged him with a smirk, clearly enjoying his discomfort.

"Relax," she stage-whispered. "It’s not like he didn’t already know he’s hot.”

Her smile widened as she approached Eddie. “Sorry, but Chimney here is trying out for the Hot Days, Smoldering Nights: Men of the LAFD wall calendar—also known as that idiotic, reductive, sexist calendar that insults the dignity of the organization and furthers the myth that all firefighters are men.” She winked at Eddie. He blinked, processing. Did she really just say that? He raised his eyebrows. He glanced at ‘Chimney’ who was very pointedly looking anywhere but at Eddie. “He’s just worried you’ll steal his spot in the calendar.”

“He couldn’t though…could he?” Chimney asked.

“Pretty sure they’d notice this is not a real helmet,” Eddie assured dryly. “And…a calendar? Really?”

“It’s… uh… for charity,” Chimney stammered, rubbing the back of his neck. “So. Um. Can I get a large iced caramel?” He paused, then quickly added, “To go.”

Eddie nodded, relieved at the simplicity. “And for you?”

“A large mocha,” the woman responded.

Two nice, simple orders. Finally. Something I can make without losing another nerve ending.

“Name?” he prompted as he punched in the order.

“Hen,” she replied. Eddie’s eyebrows rose impossibly higher. Hen. As in… cluck, cluck? No weirder than ‘Chimney’, I guess.

Eddie made Hen’s order first, then started on the iced caramel, feeling the blissful relief of a straightforward order. He was pouring the cold brew over ice when he heard Gerrard’s office door creak open. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Gerrard stepping out, hands on his hips, surveying the scene like he was personally responsible for the entire operation. Then again, Eddie really wasn’t sure what it was that Gerrard actually did in his office all day.

Eddie’s shoulders tensed as he added a drizzle of caramel on top of Chimney’s drink. Please don’t come over here. Please don’t come over here, he silently chanted.

But of course, Gerrard zeroed in on him, striding over with a smirk.

"Diaz, I trust you’re not wasting product with... excessive drizzling. Not sure how you did things in the army, but here, precision matters."

Eddie’s hand froze mid-drizzle. Excessive drizzling? Really? He forced a smile, finishing the caramel in a neat, controlled line. “No, sir. Enough to meet the customer’s order.”

Gerrard sniffed, his gaze flicking disapprovingly over the iced latte. “Well, let’s hope that’s accurate.” He leaned in, pretending to inspect the drink as if it were a precious artifact. “Corporate is up my ass to cut costs. We can’t afford mistakes, can we, Diaz?”

“No, sir,” Eddie replied, his jaw tightening. Don’t lose it. Just breathe.

He glanced up to see Chimney and Hen watching the exchange with barely concealed amusement, though their eyes softened with sympathy when they looked at Eddie. Behind them, the next customer—a tall, blond man with broad shoulders and a friendly face—watched Gerrard’s behavior with a slight frown, as if trying to decide whether he should step in.

Chimney finally broke the tension, offering Eddie an encouraging smile. “Don’t worry, Diaz. Looks perfect to me.”

Gerrard pursed his lips but said nothing, retreating to a safe distance to continue his silent, looming observation. As Gerrard retreated, the blond man’s frown deepened, his gaze following the manager with a hint of annoyance before he turned back to Eddie, his friendly smile returning.

Eddie carefully labeled Chimney and Hen’s orders and set them on the counter for pick-up. “Hen and Chimney, your orders are ready,” he dutifully called into the microphone, even though the pair was waiting directly in front of him. He knew he’d be docked points if he didn’t follow Gerrard’s processes to a T. He gave a small nod and they gave him empathetic looks as they picked up their drinks and headed out. Eddie watched them leave, a faint sense of triumph bubbling up. Two hours into his shift, and he was still in one piece. Small wins, Diaz.

“Good morning! Welcome to The Hook and Latte – where the coffee’s hot, the service is smokin’, and every drink gets the captain’s stamp of approval. What can I hook you up with?” he asked as he turned to the new customer. He forgot to smile, he realized too late, and knew he’d hear about that from Gerrard. And he’d probably added a touch too much sass to that greeting. But hey, it’s not like Gerrard wasn’t asking for it.

This man brought an entirely different energy with him. Dressed in jeans and a suit jacket, worn and a little too tight for the man’s muscular frame, the guy looked… annoyingly cheerful. His sandy hair curled over his forehead and he flashed a grin that was on the edge of too wide, as if he’d already had two (or four) coffees somewhere else and was primed for another. Most definitely this was going to be another “Evan” with a ridiculous order.

He approached the counter, looking at Eddie like he was a familiar face, even though Eddie was certain they’d never met.

“Good morning!” the guy said, with a warmth that was entirely too bright for Eddie’s taste. “You’re new, right?”

“Yeah,” Eddie muttered, biting back a dig about being observant. “Third day.” He wiped his hands on a towel and tried to straighten up, realizing he was probably still scowling a bit. “What can I get you?”

“If your…’captain’ stares any harder, he’s gonna set my latte on fire,” the man said softly before speaking up to place his order. “A small vanilla latte with a sprinkle of cinnamon, please.”

Eddie almost sagged with gratitude for another easy order. “You don’t know how happy that makes me,” Eddie said, as he punched in the order. “Name?” The man looked confused, so Eddie clarified. “For your order.”

“Oh…uh. Evan. It’s Evan,” he said.

Well. That will never do. “Sorry, but no.”

“I promise you, that is my name.”

“No, because you see, you’re the fourth guy to give me that name this morning. Pick something else.”

He blinked. “Um…”

“I’m serious. Three Evans before you.”

“So…like a curse, huh?”

“Now you’re sounding like my Abuela. She’s got a ‘curse’ for everything. I hope my son doesn’t pick that up from her…”

“Oh, you’ve got a son?! I love kids!”

“I certainly love mine,” Eddie agreed, warming as he thought of Christopher’s shining face. “So where were we? You can’t possibly be another Evan, so what’s your last name?”

“Buckley?”

“Is that a question? But, yeah. That’ll work.”

Buckley looked as though he wanted to say something, but after a moment, his hand gave a little flourish to show acceptance. “You don’t want me to be just another Evan?” Buckley raised an eyebrow, his grin turning playful as his impossibly blue eyes practically glittered. “Guess I’ll have to be unforgettable then.”

Eddie smirked, crossing his arms. “Confident, aren’t we?” He raised an eyebrow in challenge, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Buckley only shrugged, but his cocky smile affirmed Eddie’s words. His smile was so bright it left Eddie with a rare, genuine smile as he turned to make the simple latte.

As he steamed the milk, a familiar figure stormed back up to the counter. Evan of the monstrous latte. Eddie’s smile faded as he saw the young man’s scowl. Before Eddie could ask what was wrong, Evan thrust his cup forward, sloshing the remains of the drink over the edge.

“You call this extra caramel?” Evan sneered, his voice loud enough to turn heads. “This is the worst drink I’ve ever had!”

Without warning, he tipped the cup and threw the remnants of the latte across the counter. Foam, caramel, and oat milk splattered over Eddie’s uniform and dripped down onto the floor. Eddie forced himself to keep his fists clenched under the counter. He couldn’t afford to lose it—not here, not when he was barely keeping his head above water.

“Sir, I’m sorry if—” he started, but Evan cut him off with a scoff.

“Sorry isn’t going to fix this mess,” Evan snapped. “Maybe if you weren’t so busy flirting, you’d actually get an order right.” He glanced pointedly at Buckley, smirking as if he’d delivered a winning blow.

Before Eddie could reply, Buckley took a step forward. His friendly grin had vanished, replaced by a steely look that took Eddie by surprise. Although he made no threatening moves, he certainly looked like he could be a formidable foe. He stifled a smirk as Evan took a step back.

“Hey,” Buckley said, his voice calm but firm. “There’s no need for that. He made your drink exactly how you asked. You could’ve just asked for a remake instead of acting like a toddler. I teach third graders, and even they have better manners.”

Evan’s face flushed, but before he could retort, Gerrard approached, drawn by the commotion. He surveyed the spilled drink and the caramel streaks down Eddie’s black shirt with a look of exaggerated horror.

“Diaz!” he barked, glaring at Eddie as if he’d committed a cardinal sin. “What did I tell you about wasting product? You think this place is made of money?”

It was like dealing with his old drill sergeant, only without any respect or reason behind the bark. Eddie opened his mouth to explain, but Buckley spoke up again, his tone composed and commanding. “Actually, this wasn’t Diaz’s fault. This guy here decided to throw his drink because he didn’t get the exact shade of caramel drizzle he wanted.”

Gerrard looked between Buckley and Evan, his frown deepening. But instead of addressing Evan’s behavior, he focused his ire on Eddie. “Well, maybe if someone paid more attention to orders instead of chitchatting with customers, we wouldn’t be wasting perfectly good drinks.”

Eddie clenched his jaw, feeling the familiar frustration boiling up. But before he could respond, Buckley stepped in again, his eyes flashing.

“Seriously?” Buckley’s voice was sharp. “You’re going to blame him for this?” He looked at Eddie, then back at Gerrard with a look of admonishment. “Your barista, here, has been nothing but professional. Maybe you should try having his back instead of throwing him under the bus.” Eddie felt an unfamiliar warmth—gratitude, maybe—settling in his chest. He wasn’t used to people sticking up for him, least of all customers.

Gerrard’s eyes narrowed, and for a tense moment, Eddie thought he might actually explode. But, clearly unwilling to start an argument with a customer, Gerrard plastered on a tight smile and turned to Evan instead.

“Sir, we’ll be happy to make your drink again,” he said, his tone dripping with forced politeness. “Diaz, clean this up. And try to avoid any more... ‘mistakes.’”

Eddie nodded, biting back a retort as Gerrard turned and stalked back to his office. He grabbed a rag and started wiping down the counter, only to realize Buckley was already helping, dabbing at the caramel with a handful of napkins.

Watching them impatiently, Evan let out a loud exasperated groan. Clenching his teeth, Eddie paused the clean-up and started working on recreating the order, making sure to add an exorbitant amount of caramel drizzle. Take that, sugar-free vanilla!

“You okay?” Buckley asked quietly, after he’d handed off the freshly made order. To Eddie’s surprise, it looked as though Buckley had wiped down the counter while his back had been turned. “Or is this sort of thing part of your usual charm?”

“Thanks for all that,” Eddie said, half-amused and half-grateful, gesturing toward the counter, Evan’s retreating back, and Gerrard’s office. “For the record, you can have my back anytime.”

“Or, you know, you could have mine,” Buckley replied, flashing him a playful grin. “Couldn’t just stand by while Captain Conniption threw his little tantrum..”

Eddie couldn’t quite contain his snort at the man’s wildly bold flirtation or his reasoning.
“So, you’re a teacher? Really?” He gave Buckley a once-over, raising an eyebrow at the guy’s broad shoulders and easy confidence. Definitely not what he’d expected from someone who could probably bench-press half the equipment in the café. Buckley nodded, his hands gesturing with a ‘ta-da’ sort of flourish. “Right. Anyway…I’m sorry, what did you order again?”

“Small vanilla latte with a little sprinkle of cinnamon.”

Vanilla and cinnamon. Just like his Abuela.

Later, as Eddie wiped down the counter following the morning rush, he glanced over at the table where Buckley had been sitting. Something caught his eye—a few dollar bills, and a folded napkin with scribbled writing on it. Curious, he picked it up and unfolded it.

Thanks for the pick-me-up. (And I don’t just mean the coffee). Yours-in-a-not-really-yours-since-we-just-met-and-that-would-be-crazy-sort-of-way,

The note was signed with Evan, hastily crossed out, and replaced with Buckley.

Eddie felt a grin tugging at his mouth despite himself. He felt a warmth settle in his chest, brighter than the caffeine buzz he was running on as he folded the napkin carefully, slipping it into his pocket. The warmth lingered, a surprising bright spot on a day that had started with too many fussy orders and at least one too many Evans.

For the first time, the café didn’t feel like just a detour. Maybe, just maybe, he could actually build something here. And the idea…didn’t feel as crazy as it would’ve yesterday.