You were working at a café part-time — college finals were brutal, and tuition wasn’t exactly gentle either. The job mostly involved running the cashier, which left plenty of time for reading in the quiet stretches.

One day, you were buried in a book when a deep voice cut through the soft background noise.

“A black coffee. Strong, please.” He spoke while reaching for his wallet, and you, eyes still on the page, grabbed a cup to scribble his name.

“Alright, tough guy. Got a name?” you said, grinning as you twirled a pen in one hand and held the cup in the other, still half-lost in your book.

“Huh,” he scoffed softly, clearly amused. “Simon.” The British accent was unmistakable — rich, clipped, and calm.

You finally looked up — and your eyes widened. Towering at 6'5", he stood in a military uniform, a skull-patterned mask covering most of his face. But those eyes… warm, chocolate brown and glinting with an unmistakable smirk. You blinked, momentarily stunned. Barely 5'0", with streaked hair and highlighted bangs, you looked almost comically opposite. But then again, they say opposites attract.

“You’ve got lovely hair,” he said as he placed the money gently on the counter. “Shame to keep it tied up.” He motioned to your ponytail before walking toward one of the tables, the smile still evident in his gaze.

You finished making his coffee, heart still catching up to what had just happened. When it was ready, you called his name out for pickup.

He approached, took the cup, and looked at you again.

“When are your exams finished?”

“Next week,” you replied, your Canadian accent soft but noticeable as your eyes locked onto his.

“Then may I return next week,” he said, voice smooth and perfectly British, “and have the absolute honour of asking you out, darling?”