The tiny bell above the café door chimed softly, a sound Soobin had grown to love—especially when it meant you were walking in.

Every weekday at exactly 4:12 p.m., you’d stroll into the warm, coffee-scented café with your bag slung over your shoulder and a quiet smile on your face. Soobin had memorized your order weeks ago—iced vanilla latte with oat milk and a cinnamon muffin, always warmed. He’d prepare it the second he spotted you through the window, just to see your surprised smile when it was already waiting at the counter.

"Rough day?" He’d ask gently, handing it over with both hands and eyes that lingered just a second too long.