Ella spent the morning debating whether a colon deserved a flourish. She'd drawn three practice versions on a napkin: one with a tiny star at the top, one that looked suspiciously like a pair of eyes, and a no-nonsense vertical line with a dot that could've passed for a typographer's wet dream. Marnie had voted for the star.
"He'll hate the star," Ella decided, tapping the napkin. "Hate it so much he'll have to stay an extra five minutes to complain. Which means I win."
The bell jangled at 9:16 a.m. today—early. Ella looked up to find him standing in the doorway, hair slightly windswept, holding a book to his chest like a shield. He'd traded the black sweater for a gray blazer, and there was a smudge of ink on his left cheek.
Ella bit back a smile. "Rough morning?"
He blinked, as if realizing he was being addressed. "What? No. I—" He gestured vaguely at his cheek. "Research. Ink smudges are a hazard of the trade."
"Ah, the dangerous life of a grammar vigilante," she said, already steaming the milk. "Today's latte comes with a colon. I hope you're ready for the drama."
He raised an eyebrow. "Drama, huh? Let's see if it lives up to the punctuation's reputation."
She poured the milk with deliberate slowness, then leaned in with the latte art pen. The colon emerged: straight vertical lines, crisp dots, and yes—she couldn't help it—a tiny star tucked beside the top dot, winking like a secret.
He stared at it for a full ten seconds. Ella held her breath. Then he picked up the cup, turned it in his hand, and said, "The star is… unnecessary."
"Unnecessary, or delightful?" she shot back.
"Distracting," he said, but his thumb brushed the rim of the cup, as if he were memorizing the shape of the colon. "Though the vertical alignment is an improvement over yesterday's semicolon."
"High praise. Should I frame this receipt?"
He pulled out his notebook again—today, it was a different one, leather-bound with a scratch on the corner—and jotted something down. "I brought you something." He slid a small box across the counter. It was plain, unmarked, about the size of a deck of cards.
Ella raised an eyebrow. "Is this a grammar-themed bomb? Because I'll have you know, I'm fluent in run-on sentences, and they're very effective weapons."
He huffed out a laugh—a real one, not the half-suppressed twitch from before. "Open it."
Inside was a set of tiny metal stamps, each carved with a punctuation mark: semicolon, colon, em dash, even an interrobang (that rare ?! hybrid he'd ranted about yesterday). They looked like they belonged in a calligrapher's toolkit.
"For your… foam art," he said, looking pointedly at the wall behind her. "They're stainless steel. Heat-resistant. So you can stop butchering the em dash."
Ella picked up the semicolon stamp, turning it over in her fingers. It was heavier than it looked, polished to a shine. "You bought me punctuation stamps?"
"Not for you. For the latte art. It's painful to watch you freehand a comma."
"Sure," she said, grinning. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, Grammar Nazi."
He opened his mouth to retort, then froze. His hand flew to his blazer pocket, patting it twice. "Where is it?" he muttered, more to himself than to her.
"Where's what?"
"My pen. The fountain pen. I had it this morning." He checked his other pocket, then his briefcase, upending it on the table. A notebook, a pack of gum, a crumpled receipt, and a single loose tea bag spilled out. No pen.
Ella leaned over the counter. "Describe it. Maybe I saw it."
"Black. Gold trim. It's… a gift." His voice softened, just a little, when he said that. "I use it for… everything."
She scanned the shop: the floor, the tables, the windowsill. Then her eyes landed on the corner booth, where a glint of gold peeked out from under a napkin. "Is that it?"
He followed her gaze, then practically sprinted to the booth. He picked up the pen, turning it over in his hands like it was a priceless artifact, and let out a breath she hadn't realized he was holding. "Thank you," he said, quieter than usual. "It's… important."
Ella nodded, suddenly curious. "Who gave it to you?"
He hesitated, then said, "My grandmother. She taught me to read. And to hate comma splices."
Something about the way he said it—soft, almost vulnerable—made her smile fade. "That's nice. The pen, I mean. Not the comma splice hatred."
He smiled, properly this time, and it transformed his face—softened the sharp edges of his jaw, made his eyes crinkle at the corners. "She'd probably say you're a bad influence. With your star-studded colons."
"I'll take that as a compliment." She grabbed a napkin and scribbled: "Punctuation stamp = best gift ever (even if it came with shade). - E." She added a doodle of a pen with a tiny crown.
He took it, and this time, he didn't just fold it—he tucked it into his notebook, right between the pages of punctuation sketches. "I'll bring you something tomorrow. To… thank you for finding the pen."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to," he said, and walked out before she could argue.
Marnie appeared beside her, wiping a mug with a dish towel. "He's bringing you a thank-you gift. That's, like, level 10 grammar nerd courtship."
"He's being polite," Ella said, but her cheeks felt warm. She picked up the punctuation stamps, running her thumb over the colon. "Though… these are kind of cool."
That night, as she locked up, she found a book propped against the door: The Elements of Style, dog-eared and annotated in the margins. Inside, a note: "For emergencies. Like your next attempt at an em dash. P.S. Grandmother says 'well done' on finding the pen. - L."
Ella laughed, tucking the book under her arm. Tomorrow, she'd use the semicolon stamp. Perfectly. No stars. Maybe.