JJ hated coffee.

God, did JJ hate coffee. No matter how many pumps of hazelnut or how much vanilla sweet cream got swirled into it, no matter the roast or how fancy the beans were, the bitterness always managed to push through. It didn’t matter how dressed up it was—coffee always tasted like disappointment.

JJ hated coffee.

He hated when it was handed to him too hot and he burneɗ his tongue. He hated when it was too cold and all she could taste was watered-down regret. He hated espresso drinks. Why was it so hard to remember the difference between a flat white and a macchiato? JJ had literally dealt with worse—stressful jobs, chaotic friends, even a few moments where reality bent a little too sharply. And yet, coffee? Somehow, his greatest nemesis.

He hated coffee.

So why the hell did he keep ordering it?

It always started the same. JJ would walk into that cozy little café on the corner—the one with mismatched antique furniture, soft indie music humming under the chatter, and those weirdly comforting fairy lights strung up across the ceiling beams. At first, it was just to pick something up for his friends. Nothing more.

And then he saw her. The barista with the black apron and the kind eyes, always focused on the perfect pour or fussing over latte art like it was a sacred ritual.

“What can I get you?” she’d ask, voice warm and welcoming.

And JJ—coffee-hating, sarcasm-wielding, usually-too-busy-for-this JJ—would freeze. He’d mumble out “Coffee,” and immediately regret it. But it was too late.

He walked out of that café the first time with just one drink.

His own.

And then he came back. Again. And again. Sitting at the same table, sipping bitter coffee he could barely tolerate, laptop open in front of him, pretending to work while sneaking glances toward the counter.

Sure, maybe it was the ambiance. Maybe it was the quiet that helped him focus.

But deep down, JJ knew it had nothing to do with the drinks.

It was always about the girl making them.