The soft hum of the coffee machine fills the quiet café as the morning light seeps through the front windows, casting long golden shadows across the floor. It's early, and the air still carries the drowsy scent of fresh bread and roasted beans. Yuna is already here when I arrive—curled over a clipboard near the storage room.
"Morning," I say, slipping on my plain white apron.
She glances up with a lazy smile. "You're early again. I like that. Good habit, good partner."
We check the stock together. It's mostly routine now—beans, syrups, oat, milk. I go through the list with growing ease, ticking items off as I find them, and when we're done, Yuna nudges me playfully.
"You know, you're better at making coffee than I was on my first day," she says, "I mean it. Your latte foam is actually decent for a newbie."
I blink. "Really?"
She nods. "Noah's a good teacher, but not everyone picks it up this fast."
I smile faintly. "It's thanks to him. I'm just following instructions."
Yuna shrugs. "Still. Credit where it's due."
Out front, Noah is already sitting behind the counter, a laptop open in front of him. He's typing something, eyes narrowed with quiet focus, a pen tucked behind one ear and a steaming mug beside him. He barely glances up when I step back into the cafe, but he speaks without looking.
"Knox, I order a latte, please," he says.
I sigh—grumpily, just for show. "You have hands."
He smirks. "I'm training you. This is for educational purposes."
"You're abusing your power."
"Well, grumpy barista makes the best latte sometimes," he says.
I roll my eyes but obey. My hands move automatically now—grind, tamp, steam, pour. I try to make it decent, this is for Noah. He's not a customer, and this isn't a regular drink. I'm no longer nervous for making mistake, but my latte isn't perfect yet. I serve the latte to him, and he gestures to the seat across from him.
"Sit for a minute," he says.
I do. The chair is warm from the morning sun, and the cafe is quiet—no customers yet, just us. The music at the background usually starts playing at 8 AM, when the cafe is open.
"How are you feeling?" he asks, "after yesterday."
I hesitate, but I nod. "Better."
"Sleep well last night?" I just nod again. He reaches out and ruffles my hair gently. A simple gesture. Casual, even. Friendly—maybe. But I freeze.
His hand is warm. His touch, soft but direct. It takes me off guard. My breath stutters slightly in my chest.
I don't expect this from Noah. He's always so composed, so careful. I glance at him, and he's already back to sipping his latte, like nothing just happened.
I look away, flustered. Huh? That's weird. Why am I flustered?
I walk back to the storage. Yuna sigh a relief because she needs a help to move the box. Then she says, "Why's your face red? Are you hot? But it's winter. The cafe heater isn't that strong."
What? I fake a cough and scratch the back of my neck. "Uh, it's nothing. Maybe I'm just feeling a bit unwell."
"Oh no, you're sick?!" she gasps, "let me tell Noah—"
I quickly hold her shoulder to prevent Yuna telling Noah that my face is red. That would be a mess. "No, it's okay. Really. I'm not sick."
Yuna still half-belief but she lets it slide. Then we open the cafe after all the pastries are delivered.
Sometimes, Noah and I talk between tasks. Just quiet conversation, little things. He doesn't tell me what he's working on, and I don't ask. But I watch his fingers move over the keys with purpose, and I feel a strange sort of comfort sitting across from him.
There's something about our silence that doesn't feel empty. Between me and Noah, we don't have to fill the air with noise. Just being here—present—is enough.
I like the way he listens when I speak, even if I'm just muttering about how cold it is or how annoying it is when the whipped cream dispenser jams. I like the way he leans back in his chair, elbows resting loosely on the edge of the counter, completely unbothered. Calm. Still. Like he could hold the weight of my panic and just let it settle.
And I find him charming. It's hard not to.
He's handsome, in a quiet way—not the flashy kind that demands attention, but the kind you notice more the longer you look. There's a softness in the line of his jaw, the way his dark hair falls over his forehead. His eyes … they're sharp. Not cold, but thoughtful. Sometimes I feel like he's seeing something deeper when he looks at me. Like he's measuring something. Or testing it. Or maybe just waiting.
I don't know what it is.
But I don't hate the way he stares. It just makes me nervous, in a way I don't want to admit.
Yuna drifts over from the storage room, phone in hand. "You two look like a slice-of-life anime," she says, plopping down beside me. "Best friends working in a cozy cafe."
Noah raises an eyebrow. "Is that a compliment?"
"It's a genre," she replies, grinning. "Slow burn. Pretty people. Coffee."
I snort. "I don't think I'm 'pretty'."
"Please. You're the visual of this cafe. I bet we will have regular customer who's here because you're the barista."
I shoot her a look, but I'm smiling.
She returns to her phone, probably reading the next chapter of whatever webcomic she's into, occasionally chiming in when something ridiculous happens in the cafe or when a customer orders something weird. Her presence is light and easy, like background music to our quiet rhythm.
Noah keeps working. I keep watching. And somehow, this morning feels like one of the warmest in a long time.
"Like what you see?"
I snap out of my mind when Noah asks with a teasing smile. I just snort. "Just thinking about how you never seem working but have the money."
He laughs. "That's pretty fair. But please, if you imagine I'm doing some illegal business, just drop that idea already."
I grin. He grins. And I like when my day goes like this. With him.