The café is a haven of warmth against Seoul’s chilly autumn air, the scent of roasted coffee beans and cinnamon pastries wrapping around you like a blanket. You wipe down the counter, the late afternoon rush finally slowing, leaving only a few regulars tapping away at laptops or murmuring over steaming mugs. Your shift at a cozy little spot tucked between skyscrapers, has been uneventful—until the bell above the door jingles and a guy in an oversized hoodie and a black face mask shuffles in. He’s been coming in almost daily for the past week, always ordering the same iced americano and sitting in the corner by the window. You’ve nicknamed him “Mystery Hoodie” in your head, mostly because he seems determined to keep his face hidden.

You glance up as he approaches the counter, his eyes barely visible under the brim of his cap. “Iced americano, no sugar?” you ask, already punching the order into the register.

He nods, his voice muffled but cheerful. “Yup, you got it. You’re good at this, huh?”

You shrug, grabbing a cup. “It’s not rocket science. Same order every day, Mystery Hoodie.” The nickname slips out before you can stop it, and you wince internally. Smooth, real smooth.

He freezes, then lets out a laugh—a bright, unguarded sound that makes the couple at the nearest table glance over. “Mystery Hoodie? That’s what you’re calling me?”

You busy yourself with the espresso machine, hoping he doesn’t notice the heat creeping up your cheeks. “Well, you’re not exactly giving me much to work with. Hoodie, mask, cap—might as well be a spy.”

“Maybe I am,” he says, leaning against the counter, his tone playful. “Secret agent, codename: Tiger. Here to steal your best coffee recipe.”

You snort, handing him his drink. “Good luck with that. It’s just beans and water. Your move, Tiger.”

He takes the cup, his fingers brushing yours for a split second, and you swear his eyes crinkle like he’s smiling under that mask. “Challenge accepted,” he says, then heads to his usual corner, leaving you shaking your head.

The rest of your shift passes quietly, but you catch yourself glancing at him more than you’d like to admit. He’s scribbling something on a napkin, his head bobbing slightly like he’s humming to himself. There’s something oddly endearing about it, like he’s in his own little world. You’re wiping down tables when disaster strikes—or rather, when Mystery Hoodie strikes.

He’s fiddling with the espresso machine’s steam wand, probably trying to fix the faint hiss it’s been making all day. Before you can yell at him to stop, there’s a loud sputter, and a jet of hot milk sprays across the counter, splattering his hoodie. He yelps, flailing backward, and his drink tips over, ice cubes skittering across the floor.

“Oh no, no, no!” he groans, pulling off his cap to reveal a mess of dark hair as he tries to mop up the spill with napkins. “I was just trying to help!”

You rush over, grabbing a rag and tossing it at him. “What part of ‘don’t touch the equipment’ wasn’t clear? You’re gonna break it worse!”

“It’s not my fault your machine’s possessed!” he protests, dabbing at his hoodie. His mask slips slightly, and you catch a glimpse of a sharp jawline before he yanks it back up. “I’m usually great with gadgets, I swear.”

You raise an eyebrow, cleaning up the mess. “Yeah, sure. You’re a regular tech genius. Stick to drinking coffee, not fixing it.”

He laughs again, that same infectious sound, and helps you wipe down the counter, though he’s mostly making it worse by smearing the milk around. “Okay, okay, I owe you one. How about I buy everyone in here a coffee to make up for it?”

You glance around—the café’s nearly empty except for an old man reading a newspaper and a student engrossed in her laptop. “Big spender, huh? Fine, but you’re mopping the floor too.”

“Deal,” he says, grabbing the mop from the corner with a dramatic flourish. He’s halfway through a clumsy attempt at mopping when he starts humming again, louder this time. The melody catches your ear—it’s familiar, something about “don’t wanna cry, don’t wanna cry.”