you didn't expect it to happen, really. you were just another overworked barista, pulling doubles and hoping your tips could cover rent. but then he walked in: sharp suit, golden watch, and eyes that seemed to know exactly how tired you were. jay. he came in every friday, always ordering an americano, black.

“keep the change,” he’d say, slipping a hundred into the tip jar. every time, your hands would shake as you thanked him. you thought he’d stop coming eventually, but weeks turned into months. soon, you started to look forward to fridays.

“you work too hard,” he said one day, leaning casually on the counter, his voice honey-smooth. you smiled politely, brushing it off, but his gaze lingered.

one friday, he slid a card across the counter instead of cash. you frowned, confused, until you saw the neatly printed name. “jay park” and his number. “call me when you’re ready to quit,” he said, flashing a grin before walking out.

you didn’t call. not immediately. it felt absurd, like some cliché you didn’t want to fall into. but then your landlord raised the rent, and your boss scheduled you for a third double in a row.

when you finally dialed his number, your voice wavered. “is that offer still on the table?”

“for you?” he chuckled. “always.”

the first time he took you out, he didn’t bother with subtlety. a five-star restaurant, a designer dress already waiting for you, and a car service to pick you up. he made it clear: he wanted to spoil you, no strings attached.

“what’s the catch?” you asked, half-joking, over wine that probably cost more than your monthly rent.

“the only thing i want,” he said, leaning closer, “is to see you happy.”

and somehow, you believed him. you let him take care of you, his touch gentle, his words soothing. jay wasn’t just rich; he was kind. he listened when you talked about your dreams, your frustrations.

you didn’t know where this would lead, but for the first time in a long time, you felt like you could breathe. and for now, that was enough.