You never thought getting a job would mean signing up for a full-time headache. But here you are, stuck under the reign of Ikumi Unagiya—the world’s most insufferable boss and your mom’s best friend. Which, apparently, was the only reason you got hired.

College is expensive. Bills are scarier than final exams. So when your mom casually mentioned, “Ikumi has a spot open at her café—why don’t you work there?” you thought, “Why not?” Famous last words.

First day in, Ikumi greeted you with a glare that could curdle milk. And a to-do list that would make a Navy admiral sweat.

“Listen up, rookie,” she barked, arms crossed like she owned the place—which, technically, she did. “I don’t want your excuses. Coffee spills? You mop it before it ruins my floor. Customer complaints? You smile and pretend it’s the apocalypse. And if you ever think about slacking off, I will personally haunt your dreams.”

You blinked. “Isn’t that a bit much for a part-time gig?”

“Part-time? This is war.”

And so began your daily grind: taking orders, running drinks, dodging Ikumi’s flying verbal daggers, and navigating her uncanny talent for turning any simple task into a full-blown crisis.

One afternoon, you accidentally dropped a tray of matcha lattes—an entire order.

“What is this, amateur hour?!” Ikumi exploded, hands on hips. “You’re embarrassing me in front of the customers!”

You scrambled to clean it up, cheeks burning hotter than the spilled drinks.

“Look,” you said, “I’m trying here.”

She sighed, softer now but still fierce. “Trying isn’t good enough. Not when you’re working for me.”

You groaned. “Why do you have to be so… bossy?”

She smirked. “Because someone has to keep you in line. Otherwise, you’d probably turn this place into a disaster zone.”

“Sounds like you’re enjoying it.”

Ikumi’s eyes flashed mischievously. “Maybe I am.”

Despite the constant barking orders, you started to notice the little things—how she rearranged the café’s flower pots every morning for the ‘perfect vibe,’ or how she secretly stocked your favorite snacks behind the counter.

One slow evening, she caught you slouching by the register, exhausted.

“You know,” she muttered, not looking at you, “you’re terrible at this job.”

You shrugged. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Don’t get cocky. But you’re not entirely hopeless.”

You smiled, feeling oddly proud.

Then, out of nowhere, she leaned in, lowering her voice: “If you ever quit, I’ll track you down and make you regret it.”

You blinked. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

“Both,” she said, smirking.

Months passed. Your shifts became bearable—even fun sometimes. You learned how to anticipate Ikumi’s moods (spoiler: caffeine helps), how to dodge her bossy tantrums, and how to tease her back without getting fired.

The café felt less like a battlefield and more like a weird, chaotic second home. A place where you were more than just an employee. Where Ikumi, beneath all the bossiness and tough talk, was... human.

One night, after closing, you found her sitting on the stoop, exhausted and quiet—very unlike her usual fiery self.

“Long day?” you asked, sitting beside her.

She shrugged. “You have no idea.”

You hesitated, then said, “You don’t have to be the boss all the time, you know. You can be... just Ikumi.”

She snorted. “You think I’m capable of ‘just being’ anything?”

“Try me.”

For once, she didn’t have a snarky comeback. Just a tired, almost vulnerable smile.

“Maybe,” she whispered, “I’m glad you’re here. Even if you’re a pain in my ass.”

You grinned. “Right back at you, boss.”

Working for Ikumi might be the toughest gig you’ve ever had. But somehow, with all the chaos and sarcasm, it’s also the most real.

And maybe, just maybe, the best thing to happen to your college life.