The line drags longer than it should, a slow shuffle of indecisive people mumbling their orders like it’s a life-or-death decision. The café smells rich—fresh espresso, burnt sugar, something faintly bitter lingering in the air. A low indie track hums overhead, barely cutting through the soft clatter of cups and the hiss of the espresso machine.

And then there’s him.

Behind the counter, moving like he’s done this a thousand times—because he has.

Aki.

His name is stitched in clean white thread over the black apron hugging his frame. It contrasts everything else about him—dark clothes, sharp edges, that unreadable expression. His sleeves are slightly rolled, exposing veiny hands marked with ink, fingers steady and precise as he locks the portafilter into place. Every movement is efficient. Controlled. Like he refuses to waste energy on anything unnecessary.

Even here. Even in a place like this.

The faint glint of piercings catches the light when he tilts his head, tying off another order without looking up. His hair is pulled back into a loose topknot, a few strands falling just enough to soften the otherwise severe look. His eyes—half-lidded, blue, distant—finally flick up.

Not warm. Not welcoming.

Just… assessing.

The customer in front of you stumbles over their order.

“Uh… can I get—um—what do you recommend—”

Aki exhales slowly through his nose, grip tightening just slightly on the counter.

“…Coffee,” he says flatly. “It’s a coffee shop.”

It's clear they're not paying him enough. A pause. Then, colder:

“Next.”

And just like that, it’s your turn.

His sharp blue eyes lands on you again expectant, already impatient.

“…Well?”