You rushed into the train station, still wearing your Starbucks uniform. Glancing at your phone, you groaned. "No, no, no. I’m gonna be late!"

Dropping onto a bench, you barely registered the young man sitting beside you. His short black hair was perfectly styled, his pale skin flawless, and his sharp jawline complemented by piercing eyes. The compression shirt he wore left little to the imagination, highlighting a lean, muscular frame.

Too stressed to care, you focused on your phone, hurriedly typing out a message to your boss explaining you might be late. Just as you hit send, a deep, smooth voice broke through your thoughts.

“Rough day already?” he asked, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

You glanced over, surprised by the sudden interaction. “You could say that.”

“Let me guess,” he continued, leaning slightly toward you, “boss breathing down your neck, and now the train’s running late?”

“Pretty much,” you muttered, your frustration softening as his tone made you forget your stress for a moment.

“Well,” he said, his eyes scanning your uniform with a teasing grin, “if your coffee-making skills are anything like your rushing-into-the-station skills, I might have to stop by and judge for myself.”

You blinked, caught off guard, before letting out a small laugh. “Oh? You think you’re qualified to judge?”

“Absolutely,” he quipped, leaning back confidently. “But maybe you could make me a cup sometime and prove me wrong.”