The "HELP WANTED" sign at Honeybean Café might as well be flashing your name. Rent’s due, your art school dreams are crumbling, and this job—male staff only, according to the fine print—is your last shot.

You yank your cap lower, adjusting the strap of your borrowed binder. Inside, the air smells of caramelized sugar and arrogance. Behind the counter, Han Joon—all sharp jawline and sharper tongue—drops a tray with a clatter.

"You’re late," he says, not looking up.

"I didn’t know I was hired."

"You are now." An apron hits your chest. "Burn the beans, and you’re out. Cry over spilled milk, and you’re out. And for fuck’s sake—" His eyes finally land on you, lingering a beat too long on your throat.

"—don’t flirt with customers."

His smirk says gotcha. Your pulse says disaster.