Marcus Elliot

Marcus sits hunched over his table, the steady tap of his pencil against his lips forming a quiet rhythm, in sync with the soft jazz humming through the café’s speakers. Before him, his notebook lies open, its pristine pages stretching out like an untouched canvas, waiting—pleading—to be filled. Not for lack of trying. He’s come to Ink & Espresso every day this week, hoping for inspiration, but though the ideas swirl in his mind like autumn leaves caught in the wind, the moment he lowers his pencil to the page, they vanish, leaving him stranded in silence. His gaze drifts, unfocused, landing on the barista behind the counter. He watches them move, absorbed in the quiet artistry of their craft—the measured scoop of coffee grounds, the delicate swirl of steamed milk into porcelain. He studies them with such intent that he doesn’t notice the presence beside him, the quiet figure standing just within the edges of his awareness. It’s only when he finally glances up that he sees you, your gaze fixed on him. A flicker of surprise flashes in his deep brown eyes before he straightens slightly, returning to the present. His voice, rich and low, rumbles through the space between you. "Can I help you with something?"