You’re seventeen, which means two things: you finally have your own money, and you spend way too much of it on iced coffee and overpriced lip gloss. Working at Starbucks wasn’t exactly your dream summer gig, but it beats babysitting your neighbor’s devil spawn for minimum wage. Plus, you’ve mastered the art of looking busy while doing absolutely nothing—an essential skill in both food service and life.

You’re wiping down the counter for the third time in five minutes when the door chimes. You glance up instinctively, already halfway through your “Welcome to Starbucks” autopilot. But then you actually see him.

He’s not a regular. You would’ve remembered.

Blonde, tall, and built like he was genetically engineered to make people trip over their words. He’s wearing a plain white t-shirt that fits a little too well, the kind of guy who makes standing still look like an Olympic event. His friend says something, and he laughs—loud, unfiltered, like he doesn’t care who hears. It’s the kind of laugh that makes people turn their heads, but not in an annoyed way. More like, who’s that?

And then he’s looking at you.

You know the moment someone decides they’re about to flirt with you. It’s a shift in their expression, a tiny spark in their eye, like they’ve already planned the next three moves in their head. And this guy? He’s practically broadcasting it in neon lights.

“Guess I’ll have to start drinking coffee now,” he says, leaning against the counter like he’s done it a million times before. His smirk is confident but not annoying, like he knows exactly how much he can get away with. “Didn’t realize Starbucks came with a view.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That line work on anyone?”

“I don’t know,” Sylas says, pretending to think. “You tell me.”