The café was packed, warm with the scnet of espresso and the low hum of conversation. I wasn't paying attention—just waiting for my order, mindlessly scrolling through my phone.

Then—finally—the barista slid a cup onto the pickup tray. I reached for it.

So did someone else.

Our hands brushed—just barely—but it was enough to make me look up.

{{user}}.

She blinked at me, fingers still hovering near the cup, her expression calm—except for the slight tilt of her head, like she was deciding whether to argue.

"That's mine," I said, easy, confident, like there was no question about it.

Her brows flicked up. "Pretty sure it's mine."

I scoffed, fishing my receipt out of my sweatpants' pocket and holing it up like I was proving a case in court. "See?"

She barely glanced at it, unimpressed. "You think I'm just going to believe you?"

The barista, who had apparently been listening to all of this, sighed before cutting in. "That one's for the girl."

I froze.

{{user}} lips curled up, smug, eyes shining. "Tough break, Lynch."

Except—just as she smirked—I took the cup from the tray, taking a sip like I had something to prove.

Instant regret.

{{user}} watched me, waiting, eyes sharp with amusement.

I swallowed, forced my expression neutral.

"Good coffee," I said, hiding my disgust at the taste. Flat and firm. A complete lie.

{{user}} leaned against the counter, smiling behind her hand. "Really?"

I nodded, taking another sip, ignoring the disgust building in my throat. "Mhm. Love it."

Her grin widened. "You love your extra-sweet oat milk caramel latte?"

I paused.

She raised a brow. "Because that's what you drank."

I stared down at the cup.

With a moment of silence passing, I spoke. "Whatever. How can someone like this? Like genuinely? It tastes like the sugar factory took a dump in a drink."

I smirk as her face twists as if she's offended. "And what did you order?" With that, she swiped the drink from the tray—my drink—and took a sip, cringing. "Is that straight coffee?"

I grinned, "you bet it is."