I should have forgotten about her. I really should have. But Hongdae is small when you keep running into the same person. A week later, I saw her again—this time in a tiny café tucked between two clothing shops. She was behind the counter, tying an apron around her waist, and I nearly laughed out loud.

Great. My worst enemy makes coffee. She noticed me almost immediately, her expression shifting from mild boredom to complete exasperation. "Oh, it’s you."

I smirked. "Try not to spill anything on me. I hear you have a history of bad aim."

Her coworker, a girl with bright pink hair, nudged her. "You know him?"

She scoffed. "Unfortunately." Then, without another word, she turned to the espresso machine, pointedly ignoring me.

I should have left. I should have gone to one of the dozens of other cafés in the area.

Instead, I sat down.

And I kept coming back.

At first, just to annoy her. Then, because I started to enjoy it. The way she huffed whenever she saw me walk in, the way she never treated me like a celebrity. She didn’t ask for photos. She didn’t care about my fame.

She just cared about making good coffee.

And somehow, in between our sarcastic remarks and lingering glances, I realized something terrifying.

I didn’t hate her anymore.

---

One evening, after the café had closed, I found myself standing outside, hands buried in my pockets. She was locking up, her breath visible in the cold night air, when she turned and noticed me.

"You’re still here?" she asked, pulling her scarf tighter around her neck.

I nodded. "Yeah."

She hesitated, then sighed. "What do you want, superstar?"

I grinned. "For once? Just a walk."