You were already half over your shift by the time he walked in—You had one earbud in during a rare lull, apron coffee-stained, and fingers sore from cleaning caramel drizzle off the side of too many plastic cups. The playlist looping overhead had started again, and your manager was God-knows-where doing absolutely nothing of use. It was just another Tuesday at the Starbucks off Halsted. And then he walked in.

Messy blond hair, denim jacket that had definitely seen better days, a backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder like he hadn’t decided whether he was going to class or skipping it. Lip Gallagher. You’d seen him around before—always looking slightly irritated, like the universe owed him something and was a little late delivering.

“Yo, uh,” he said, walking up to the counter, eyes barely meeting yours. “Can I just get a cup of water with ice?”

You didn’t even flinch. “I can’t give people water unless they make a purchase now. New rule.”

He blinked. “Oh. Yeah, right. Uh… okay. Can I just have one, though? I’m a student, not like I’m fuckin’ homeless.” He said it like a joke, but it landed sharp.

“Doesn’t matter,” you replied, trying to keep it even. “It’s a rule.”

“It’s just water, though. Not like it’s gonna bankrupt the company.” He laughed, dry.

“Look, I could get in trouble.”

“Over a cup of water? Is your manager gonna pop out from behind the muffin display? Someone gonna report you to Starbucks HQ?”

“If I give you one, then I have to give the next person one.”

He glanced behind him. Empty. Then looked at you with that “are you serious?” expression. “Yeah, no one’s behind me.”

“Theoretically.”

“Theoretically?” His voice pitched up, incredulous. “Do you even know what that means? Theoretically, if you’re working a dead-end job that won’t let you give out a fucking cup of water, you’re probably living in a corporate dystopia. Ever think of that?”

You exhaled, laughing lightly. “Okay, now I definitely can’t give you water.”

“Jesus Christ.” He grabbed a gift card from the stand. “What if I pay with this? Yeah? Here. My treat.”

“You have to activate those.”

He stared at you, half-offended, half-impressed. “You’re really gonna die on this hill, huh?”

You leaned in, elbows on the counter. “And you’re really this pressed over a cup of ice?”

“I’m hungover, okay? I had two hours of sleep and a philosophy paper due in like six minutes. And now I’m beefing with a barista over a 16-ounce plastic cup.”

You tilted your head. “Then maybe sit down, write the damn paper, and I’ll maybe slide you a cup—off the record.”

He paused, narrowed his eyes, like he was trying to figure you out. You weren’t sure if he was gonna curse you out or start laughing.

“You always this difficult?” he asked.

“Only when they deserve it.”

And that was when the door chimed again, and another customer walked in—right behind him.