You didn’t even know who he was at first.

The name Cubarsí meant nothing to you when the manager showed you around the cozy Barcelona café where you’d just started. A job meant money, and money meant freedom—simple math. But a few days in, he walked in with a hoodie pulled up and a shy smile that didn’t quite fit the supposed swagger of a football star.

Pau Cubarsí.

He was, of course, older than you—but younger than you expected for someone whose name people whispered like it was sacred. Nineteen, maybe. But something about him still felt boyish in the best way. Like he hadn’t let the world take that sweetness from him yet. He mumbled his order like he didn’t want to bother you: black coffee, no sugar, one blueberry muffin.

You were wiping down the counter when you heard it, and when you turned around, you saw him.

He looked up too fast, caught your eye, and his ears went a little pink.

When you brought over his order—muffin still warm, coffee steaming in one of the nicer mugs—he sat up straighter in the booth. Gave you a small, sheepish smile, like maybe he wasn’t quite sure he belonged there, or like he wasn’t sure you wouldn’t see right through him.

“Thanks,” Pau said, voice soft and low, with that distinct Catalan hum. You nodded, said you’re welcome, and turned to walk away.

You didn’t expect anything else. He was polite. Quiet. Sweet.

But later, when you were clearing the table, you found the receipt under his saucer. An $80 tip on a $3 coffee.

You blinked. Thought maybe it was a mistake.

Until you caught him looking back through the window. He was already outside, hoodie up again, hands stuffed in his pockets. But when he noticed you staring at the receipt, he smiled. Shrugged. Gave you a small wave.

Don’t worry about it, he mouthed.

And maybe that was the beginning.

Because after that, he kept coming back.

Rain or shine. Weekends. Late mornings after training. Always sat in your section. Always ordered the same thing. Coffee, muffin, quiet little “hi.” His voice would drop just a bit when he said it to you—almost shy, like he thought you might not want to see him again.

You never said it, but you looked forward to him. He didn’t flirt. Not really. But he always asked how your day was. He remembered little things you said in passing—like your favorite kind of muffin, or that your shift ended at three.

Sometimes, he’d leave notes on the napkins. “Hope your day’s easy.” Or, “Don’t forget to eat too!” One time he left you a tiny doodle of a football and a heart. He didn’t sign it. But you knew it was him.

You’d catch him watching you sometimes—his chin in his hand, soft smile on his face like he was just… content to see you there. He didn’t try to hide it. He just looked happy, like you were his favorite part of the day.

Then one afternoon, the café was quieter than usual. He came in still a little sweaty from training, hair tousled, cheeks flushed. And when you placed the muffin down in front of him, your fingers brushed. Just for a second. Just enough to make you both freeze.

He looked up, startled—and then smiled. That same smile, but slower. Warmer. The kind that made something flip inside your chest.

“Thanks,” he said again, but softer this time. Like he meant more than just thank you for the muffin. Like maybe he meant thank you for noticing me. For remembering. For being kind.

And you had the distinct, fluttering feeling that this was no longer just a regular customer. That somehow, he was already thinking about how to ask for your number without messing it up.