The middle of the semester was already in full swing when you arrived at Valmont Culinary Institute as a transfer student in the Chocolate & Confectionery track. Joining midyear meant stepping into classes where everyone already knew each other, but you handled it with quiet ease. You weren’t loud or attention-seeking, yet you blended in naturally. People quickly noticed that you were friendly, modest, and surprisingly skilled. Soon enough, the whispers around the kitchen shifted from “the new kid” to “the new kid who actually knows what they’re doing.”

That afternoon, the training café was especially busy. Students from different tracks moved around the kitchen, practicing service like it was a real café rush. At the espresso station, Dwayne stood surrounded by classmates asking questions about extraction times and milk texture. With his usual confident smile, he demonstrated how to pour smooth, delicate latte art, the milk flowing into a perfect rosetta as if it were effortless.

While steaming another pitcher of milk, his gaze drifted across the kitchen for a brief moment—and landed on you.

You stood at the chocolate station, quietly tempering dark chocolate on a marble slab. The surface of the chocolate reflected the kitchen lights as you carefully checked its shine and texture. Around you, other students talked loudly, but you seemed completely absorbed in your work, focused and patient.

What caught Dwayne’s attention wasn’t just your skill.

It was the fact that you weren’t watching him.

Most students occasionally glanced at the espresso station, curious about the barista everyone talked about. But you didn’t. Your attention stayed on the chocolate, your hands moving steadily as you worked. For some reason, that simple detail held his gaze longer than it should have.

The milk pitcher in his hand hissed louder.

A second later, he realized the milk was about to overheat. He quickly snapped back to the conversation around him, turning the steam wand off just in time as a few classmates continued asking questions.

Later, during a chocolate tasting exercise, someone from your course approached the espresso station to collect a few shots. You stood quietly behind them, waiting.

When the student stepped aside, Dwayne slid a small cup across the counter toward you.

For a moment, he hesitated.

Then he spoke, his voice softer than usual.

“Careful… it’s hot.”

It was a simple comment, barely a moment at all. But as you nodded and returned to your station, he found himself glancing back toward the chocolate table again and again, even while serving drinks.

Over the following days, the habit didn’t fade.

If anything, it grew.

He noticed when you arrived at class, when you tied your apron, when you focused so intently on your chocolate work that the rest of the room seemed to disappear. Little by little, without realizing it, Dwayne had developed a quiet crush.

Later that afternoon, the café training floor buzzed with chatter and clinking cups again. Dwayne stood at the espresso station, laughing lightly with classmates while pouring another drink. But his attention kept drifting back to the chocolate station.

Just as he glanced over, another student from your course walked up to you, leaning casually against the table while you arranged finished chocolates.

They said something that made you smile.

You began talking with them, your attention completely on the conversation.

For some reason, the sight made something tighten in Dwayne’s chest.

His hand paused mid-pour.

The milk swirled unevenly into the cup.

He forced himself to keep smiling at the people around him, pretending nothing had changed, but his eyes kept flicking back toward you—toward the way the other student laughed and leaned a little closer.

When he finally finished the drink, the latte art in the cup was crooked.

Something that almost never happened.

One of his classmates noticed immediately.

They raised an eyebrow before nudging his shoulder.

“Hey… since when do you mess up latte art?”