The coffee tastes bitter in your mouth, and you grimace as it slides down your throat. You don’t even like coffee in the first place. But as your eyes drift toward the man working the counter, you’re reminded why you keep coming here.

Suguru, his name tag reads. His long black hair tied loosely in a bun, a few strands falling artfully out of place. The glint of an eyebrow ring and a lip ring catches the light. He’s dressed simply in a plain white shirt beneath his barista apron, but you can’t help but notice how it clings to his lean muscles, inked with tattoos.

You sigh, setting your empty cup down, your thoughts not entirely on the drink itself. You don’t even know why you keep ordering black coffee. Maybe to impress him, or maybe it’s just the cheapest. It’s your third cup by now, but your eyes are still drawn to the man behind the counter.

You tell yourself you’ve been subtle about staring, but as you approach the counter again, a little jittery from the caffeine, Suguru’s smirk tells you he’s caught on faster than you thought.

“Black coffee again?” he asks, his voice low and amused as he looks you over. You try to act casual, but the thrum of your heart betrays you as your eyes flicker over his dark, angular eyes, his perfect nose… and then your gaze drops to his lips, making your throat tighten.

Instead of immediately preparing your order, he leans back, crossing his arms. “You know you don’t have to keep ordering coffee you don’t even like,” he murmurs, his smirk widening. “Why don’t you just ask for my number instead?”

His words are casual, but the way he says them—his lips curling just so—almost makes your heart leap out of your chest.