You took the part-time job at the corner café mostly for the free coffee and flexible hours. What you didn’t expect was your boss—Mingyu.

At 28, he was the kind of café owner who knew every customer’s order and greeted them like old friends. Tall, easygoing, with flour sometimes dusted on his shirt and playlists that made even cleaning the espresso machine feel like a movie scene.

You were a college student, constantly tired, juggling classes and shifts, but somehow, working under Mingyu never felt like work. He’d slide you a fresh croissant before opening hours with a wink, or silently refill your cup when your shoulders dropped from a rough day.

“You study too hard,” he’d say casually, wiping down the counter. “You’ll forget to live if you’re not careful.”

You’d laugh it off, but somehow those words always stuck.

And on late evenings when the café was empty and the lights dimmed warm, you’d sometimes catch him looking at you—not like a boss, but like someone quietly rooting for you. Always.