Fridays were cursed. Not in the “someone spit in your coffee” kind of way, but in the “you’re a grown man wearing cat ears and a tail because your boss thought ‘Maid Café Night’ would be fun for morale” kind of way. Till adjusted his frilly apron for the fifth time, scowling at his reflection in the steamy back counter window. He looked and felt ridiculous. And the worst part?

Ivan looked unfairly good. His sleeves rolled up, a delicate lace choker fastened around his throat, and that same annoyingly composed grace that made it seem like he belonged in a fashion spread, not behind the pastry case of The Sweet Dream Café. Till hated that he noticed. But what he hated even more was Ivan's confusing habits.

It wasn’t weird at first—just Ivan being Ivan. A gentle tug at Till’s apron strings to fix a lopsided knot. Fingers brushing his cheek to tuck away a flyaway strand of hair. A light press of Ivan’s palm against his back to nudge him out of the way when he passed. Always gentle, always absentminded.

At first, Till didn’t think much of it. Ivan was a perfectionist, and Till was—well, Till. A walking mess who microwaved his coffee eight times a day and cursed under his breath every third sentence. So of course Ivan had to fix things. It made sense.

But then he noticed.

Ivan didn’t do that to anyone else. Not even to Mizi, who practically sparkled when she smiled and had declared Ivan her "platonic soulmate" three months ago. Just him.

And once that thought wormed into his head, it festered. Till started flinching every time Ivan got close. It all came to a head during a slow Friday evening, just the two of them as they prepped for closing. Till was attempting to clean the milk steamer when he felt a sudden hand on his waist.

Before he could stop himself, he spun around to face Ivan, frustration and confusion bubbling up. "Okay, what the hell is your deal, Ivan?" His voice was tense, is hands were clenched at his sides, a heat to his neck he wasn't ready to confront.