Weird tales vol 51, p.1
Pumpkin Crush: An MM Romance, page 1
pumpkin crush
An MM Romance
greyson vale
Copyright © 2025 by Greyson Vale
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
contents
1. PSL Hell
2. Rival Roast
3. Booth Buddies
4. Fox in the Henhouse
5. Pumpkin Guts
6. Cider Sparks
7. Haunted House Dare
8. Closet Steam
9. Pumpkin Patch Disaster
10. Oops, Feelings
11. Rivalry
12. Morning Grind
13. PSL Ever After
About the Author
psl hell
. . .
Miles
The espresso machine hissed like a demon possessed, and I swore it was personally targeting me.
“Miles, table four needs another PSL!” Lila's voice cut through the chaos of the morning rush, bright and cheerful in a way that made me want to dump pumpkin puree over her head.
“Another one?” I grabbed a to-go cup. “That's their third. They're going to piss cinnamon.”
“Ew, Miles! Keep it professional.” She hip-checked me away from the counter, her messy bun bobbing as she juggled three orders at once. Flour dusted her sweater, the one that read Resting Witch Face in orange glitter letters. “And smile. You look like you're attending a funeral.”
“I am. Mine.”
But I plastered on something resembling a smile anyway, because Lila had begged me to help her with this pop-up café disaster, and I was apparently incapable of saying no to my sister. The place was packed, every hay bale seat occupied, fairy lights twinkling overhead like we were trapped in some fever dream. Orange banners hung from the ceiling. Pumpkins lined the windowsills. The air smelled like nutmeg, cloves, and my slow descent into madness.
I pumped pumpkin syrup into the cup, added espresso, steamed milk. The routine was almost soothing, if you ignored the fact that I'd been doing it for three hours straight and my back ached like I'd been hit by a truck.
“Here.” I slid the drink across the counter to a blonde woman in a scarf so chunky it looked like she'd strangled a sheep. “One PSL, extra whip.”
She took the cup with both hands, closed her eyes, and inhaled like she was auditioning for an ad. “Oh—this smells amazing. Have you tried the place across the street? Their latte art is incredible.”
I tightened my smile into something that would pass for neutral. “Nope. Haven’t had the pleasure.”
She glanced over her shoulder at the line, scarf swallowing her neck. “You should. I mean, this is cute and all—” she waved one manicured finger toward our window display, “—but theirs is just so…”
She hunted for the word, mouth shaping possibilities. I filled the pause because I liked how it sounded. “Pretentious?”
She blinked, then said it like it was a diagnosis. “Polished.”
“Polished,” I repeated, with a flatness I hoped read as casual and not a little bitter. She smiled politely, touched the whipped cream with a fingertip as if testing a painting, and drifted away.
I turned back to the counter to face the mountain of orders. Lila was a machine—elbow-deep in whipped cream, piping spirals with surgeon-level focus. The espresso machine hissed its complaint and I jabbed the button harder than the situation deserved, because if I couldn’t beat their polish I could at least drown it under a tsunami of pumpkin.
“Easy, tiger,” Lila said. “That machine's older than you. It might give up.”
“Good. Put it out of its misery.”
She laughed, and I hated how much I loved that sound. Lila had always been the optimistic one, the dreamer who saw potential in everything. I was the cynic who saw disaster waiting to happen. But she'd dragged me into this, her seasonal pop-up café, and somehow I'd agreed to spend my fall slinging overpriced lattes to people who used “autumn” and “fall” interchangeably like they were two different seasons.
The door chimed, and another customer walked in. Then another. The line stretched to the door, and I felt my eye twitch.
“How is this legal?” I muttered, grabbing another cup. “There should be a cap on pumpkin spice consumption.”
“Stop complaining and start pouring.” Lila nudged me with her elbow. “Besides, you love it.”
“I absolutely do not.”
“You do. You're just too stubborn to admit it.”
I didn't dignify that with a response. Mostly because she was right. There was something weirdly satisfying about the rhythm of it all, the repetition, the way customers lit up when they got their drinks. I'd never admit it out loud, but this place had a charm to it. Chaotic, sure. A fire hazard, probably. But warm. Cozy. The opposite of the sleek, soulless coffee chains I'd worked at back in the city.
Still. Pumpkin spice could go to hell.
I reached for the whipped cream canister, gave it a shake, and pressed the nozzle. Nothing happened. I shook it again, harder, and this time it exploded, shooting whipped cream directly into my face.
“Fucking hell!”
Lila's laughter rang out, loud and unrestrained. A few customers giggled. I wiped cream off my cheek, glaring at the canister like it had personally betrayed me.
“You good?” Lila asked, still grinning.
“Fantastic.” I grabbed a towel, scrubbing at my shirt. The whipped cream had already soaked through, leaving a sticky, cold patch on my chest. My favorite Death Before Decaf shirt, ruined. “This is exactly how I wanted to spend my morning.”
“Could be worse.”
“How?”
She opened her mouth, then paused. “Okay, I don't have an answer for that. But look on the bright side. You're building character.”
“I have enough character, thanks.”
The door chimed again, and another customer walked in. Then another. I moved through the motions—cup, espresso, milk, syrup—while half-listening to Lila hum along to the music overhead.
A woman in a cashmere scarf leaned over the counter, voice pitched like she was sharing a delicious secret. “Have you been to Walsh’s? The barista there—he does these insane designs. I saw him make a rosetta yesterday and nearly cried.”
My hand tightened on the milk pitcher until the metal creaked. “Which one?” her friend asked.
“Walsh’s. The owner’s ridiculous—so talented. And—” she glanced up as if to admire a celebrity, “—so pretty. I might start going just for the view.”
I set the PSL down with more force than necessary. The cup thudded on the counter; she jumped, fingers closing around it like it might bolt. “One PSL,” I said, flat.
She huffed a laugh, clutched her drink, and moved on like she’d been shooed, leaving me watching her go a beat longer than I should.
Lila appeared at my elbow, wiping down the espresso machine. “You're going to crack that counter if you keep white-knuckling it.”
“I'm fine.”
“You're the opposite of fine.” She nodded toward the window. “You've been glaring at Walsh's Coffeehouse for the past twenty minutes.”
I glanced out despite myself. There it was: sleek black exterior, wood accents, a line of people stretching down the block. Even from here, I could see the Edison bulbs glowing through the windows, the perfectly curated aesthetic that screamed I'm better than you.
“I'm not glaring.”
“You're definitely glaring.” Lila grabbed a towel and tossed it at my chest. “Look, they do their thing, we do ours. It's not a competition.”
“Everything's a competition.”
She snorted. “Spoken like someone who's about to do something stupid.”
“I'm not—”
“You are. I can see it on your face.” She leaned against the counter, studying me with that older-sister X-ray vision that had been annoying me since childhood. “What's the plan? Storm over there and tell them their coffee sucks?”
“Their coffee probably doesn't suck. That's the problem.”
“So we're admitting they're good now?”
I grabbed the towel and scrubbed at a nonexistent spot on the counter. The rivalry with the café across the street wasn't personal. Not yet. But every time someone mentioned their latte art or their sleek interior or their perfect fucking vibe, something twisted in my chest. We were doing fine. Better than fine. We had character. Charm. Warmth.
But they had polish. And apparently, that mattered.
The morning rush finally died down around eleven, and I took the opportunity to step outside. The air was crisp, cool, the kind of autumn day that made you want to drink cider and kick leaves. Orange banners lined the street, jack-o'-lanterns grinned from storefronts, and the whole town had that Halloween-is-coming energy that people seemed to eat up.
I leaned against the brick wall, pulling a pack of cigarettes from my pocket. I didn't smoke often, just when I needed a break from the chaos. The first drag was sharp, grounding, and I closed my eyes, letting the nicotine settle my nerves.
When I opened them, I saw him.
He stood outside the café, arms crossed, watching the line of customers with the kind of smug satisfaction that made me want to throw something. Tall, broad shoulders, tan skin that looked sun-kissed. His ha
ir was styled, brown and perfect, and he wore a button-down with the sleeves rolled up, an apron tied neat around his waist. Even from across the street, I could see the faint stubble on his jaw, the sharp line of his cheekbones.
He looked like he'd stepped out of a cologne ad. The kind where some guy broods on a yacht while a breeze ruffles his hair.
I hated him immediately.
He must have felt me staring, because he glanced over. Our eyes met, and for a second, neither of us moved. Then his lips curved into a slow, deliberate smirk. He raised his coffee cup, tilting it toward me in a mock salute.
I flipped him off.
His grin widened, and he laughed, the sound faint but audible even from across the street. Then he turned and walked back inside, leaving me standing there with my cigarette and a growing sense of irritation.
“Who the hell does he think he is?” I muttered, taking another drag.
Lila appeared beside me, wiping her hands on her apron. “You talking about Derek?”
“He looks like an asshole.”
“You haven't even met him.”
“Don't need to.”
She gave me a look, the one that said she knew exactly what I was thinking. “You're jealous.”
“I'm not jealous.”
“You are. It's cute.”
“It's not cute. It's justified. Look at that place.” I gestured toward Walsh's Coffeehouse. “It's like a hipster wet dream. Who needs Edison bulbs and latte art? Just give people caffeine and call it a day.”
“You sound bitter.”
“I'm not bitter.”
“You're definitely bitter.”
I stubbed out my cigarette, shoving the pack back into my pocket. “I'm going over there.”
“Why?”
“To see what the hype is about.”
Lila grinned. “You mean you want to spy on the competition.”
“Call it what you want.”
She laughed, but she didn't stop me. I crossed the street, weaving between cars, my boots scuffing the pavement. The closer I got to Walsh's Coffeehouse, the more my irritation grew. The line was ridiculous. The windows sparkled. Even the damn door looked expensive, all polished wood and brass fixtures.
I pushed inside, and the first thing that hit me was the smell. Rich, dark coffee. No pumpkin spice in sight. The interior was exactly what I'd expected: sleek black walls, wood counters, Edison bulbs hanging from the ceiling. Jazz played softly in the background, smooth and understated. It was the kind of place that made you feel underdressed even if you were wearing your best shirt.
And there he was, behind the counter.
Derek.
Up close, he was even more annoyingly attractive. Blue eyes, sharp and bright, locked onto me the second I walked in. His smirk returned, lazy and confident, and he leaned against the counter like he owned the place.
Which, to be fair, he did.
“Well, well.” His voice was smooth, teasing. “Didn't know the competition was sending spies.”
I stopped in front of the counter, crossing my arms. “I'm not spying. I'm a customer.”
“Right. And I'm the Pope.”
“You're too smug to be the Pope.”
His grin widened. “I'll take that as a compliment.”
Up close, I could see the tattoos on his forearm. Latte art. Actual latte art, inked into his skin. A rosetta, a tulip, a heart. It was pretentious and ridiculous and somehow worked on him, which only pissed me off more.
“So,” he said, straightening. “What can I get you? PSL? No, wait. You look like a black coffee guy.”
“I'm not getting anything. I'm just looking.”
“Looking at what? The menu? The interior design? Me?”
Heat crept up my neck, and I cursed myself for it. “Don't flatter yourself.”
“Too late.”
I hated how much I wanted to laugh. Instead, I glanced around, taking in the perfect lighting, the spotless counters, the line of customers waiting patiently. Everything about this place screamed effort. Precision. Like he'd spent hours curating every detail.
“It's nice,” I admitted, because I wasn't a complete asshole. “Very... clean.”
“Clean?” He raised an eyebrow. “That's the best you've got?”
“What do you want me to say? That it's the pinnacle of coffee culture? That you're a genius?”
“That'd be a start.”
I rolled my eyes. “How do you survive with an ego that big?”
“Carefully.”
This time, I did laugh. Just a short, sharp bark of a sound that I couldn't hold back. His smirk softened into something warmer, and for a second, I forgot why I was supposed to hate him.
Then he said, “Let me make you something.”
“I don't want anything.”
“Humor me.”
Before I could argue, he turned to the espresso machine. His hands were quick, confident, pulling a shot, steaming milk, pouring with a flourish. I watched despite myself, caught by the way he moved, the way his forearm flexed as he worked.
When he finished, he slid the cup across the counter. The foam was decorated with a design, perfectly drawn, clean lines and careful detail.
It was a dick.
I stared at it, then at him. “Are you serious?”
“What?” He grinned, all teeth. “It's latte art.”
“It's a penis.”
“Technically, it's a phallic symbol.”
“You're an asshole.”
“And you're still standing here.”
He had a point. I should have left. Should have walked out and never looked back. But instead, I picked up the cup, took a sip, and hated how good it was. Smooth, rich, perfectly balanced. The bastard knew what he was doing.
“Well?” he asked, leaning on the counter.
“It's fine.”
“Fine?” He looked genuinely offended. “That's a twelve-dollar latte.”
“Twelve dollars?” I nearly choked. “For this?”
“For art.”
“For a dick joke.”
“A high-quality dick joke.”
I couldn't help it. I laughed again, louder this time, and his grin turned smug. He looked way too pleased with himself, and I hated that I liked it.
“You're ridiculous,” I said, setting the cup down.
“And you're fun to mess with.”
“Don't make it a habit.”
“Too late.”
I turned to leave, but his voice stopped me.
“Hey.”
I glanced back.
“What's your name?”
I hesitated, then sighed. “Miles.”
“Miles.” He tested it, rolling it over his tongue like he was tasting it. “I like it. Suits you.”
“Glad you approve.”
“I do.”
I flipped him off again, but this time it lacked heat. His laughter followed me out the door, warm and rich, and I hated how much it stuck with me.
By the time I got back to Lila's café, she was grinning like she'd won the lottery.
“So?” she asked.
“So what?”
“How was it?”
“Fine.”
“Just fine?”
“He's an asshole.”
“An attractive asshole?”
I didn't answer, which was answer enough. She laughed, and I shoved past her, grabbing my apron and tying it around my waist.
“This is war,” I muttered.
“What?”
“You heard me. War.”
Lila's grin widened. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”
I didn't respond. I couldn't. Because all I could think about was the way Derek had looked at me, the way his voice had curled around my name, the way his hands had moved as he made that ridiculous latte.
This was going to be a problem.
A big one.
But for now, I had customers to serve, and pumpkin spice to pour. And if I happened to glance across the street a few more times than necessary, well. That was nobody's business but mine.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of orders and chaos. Lila was in full cheerleader mode, hyping up the upcoming Halloween festival like it was the Super Bowl.
Apparently, there was a coffee contest, a throwdown where local cafés competed for some kind of title. Best brew, best presentation, whatever. I wasn't paying full attention because I was too busy scraping pumpkin filling off the counter.
