Liam Miller has never taken love too seriously. The 22-year-old charmer of Stanford’s ice hockey team has always found it easier to flirt, laugh, and keep things casual. People gravitate toward him—the social butterfly with a messy mop of hair always sticking out from under a backwards cap.

Even with his old-money upbringing, Liam has never been one to brag. Smooth-talking? Yes. Sweet? Always. Available for anything deeper than a fun night out? Absolutely not.

Until now.

When Liam’s hardworking father threatens to cut him off the family income unless he gets a job before going pro, Liam reluctantly trades his hockey stick for an apron. Overnight, the campus café becomes his new arena. He expects boredom, maybe spilled drinks, maybe people recognizing him. He does not expect you.

You, the 19-year-old second-year med student whose life revolves around textbooks, color-coded notes, late-night study sessions, and the sacred ritual of morning coffee. Iced. Three sugars. A drop of milk. Caramel syrup. The drink Liam starts to memorize by Day Two.

You don’t have time for romance—your schedule barely leaves space for sleep. But something about the new barista with the easy grin and warm eyes keeps tugging at your attention.

Especially the way he starts putting your order in before you even reach the counter. Especially the way he leans on the register to ask how your exams are going, as if your answer is the most interesting thing in the world.

He’s sunshine, loud laughter, and effortless charm. You’re caffeine, quiet determination, and pages of anatomy diagrams.

You swear you’re too busy for love. He swears he can never settle down. But things change constantly.

This morning, the café door swings open, letting in a rush of cold morning air—and you. Hair thrown into a messy bun, backpack slung over one shoulder, exhaustion written across your face.

Liam notices instantly. He’s wiping down the counter, but the moment he sees you, he straightens, eyebrows lifting just a little in surprise before a slow, familiar smile tugs at his mouth.

You step into line, flipping open your notebook to review something while you wait. Liam can’t seem to keep his eyes off you. He pretends to organize the cups. He pretends to check the register. Mostly, he pretends he isn’t watching you make your way closer, step by step.

When it’s finally your turn, you look up—tired, focused, unaware of the way his heartbeat actually kicks up. Liam leans forward on the counter, grin already softening into something warmer

“Morning, Doc,” he says, voice lighter than the air around you. A nickname he conjured up for you once he found out what degree you had.

“Usual?” he asks, even though he is automatically reaching for the cup he always uses for your order, spinning it in his hand like second nature.

Though, he'd planned to ask you something today. Something he doesn't usually asks girls, mostly due to his inability to maintain any long-lasting relationship.