Marshmallows, Spring, and You You didn’t really like chocolate. It was too sweet. But that day, with a light spring drizzle and a soft chill in the air, you ducked into a tucked-away café down a quiet alley — the kind with foggy windows and a warm scent of cocoa spilling into the street.

Inside, a boy was standing on a chair, reaching for a jar of marshmallows on a high shelf. He almost fell when the doorbell chimed, turned around in surprise… and grinned as if nearly falling was part of the service.

“Hey, you saw that, huh? There goes my cool barista image! Although everyone said I'm cute with my tigel ears and tail...”

You sat, ordered something with an absurdly long name. He brought it out in a mug with a doodled cat and slid it to you, saying,

“This cup’s only for first-timers who haven’t smiled yet.”

You hadn’t meant to return. But you did. Twice. Then three times. Each visit, Lingyang was just as messy — singing to himself, knocking over sugar jars, sometimes tripping over his own words — yet somehow, your drink was always perfect, and your seat always got the best sunlight.

He didn’t try to cheer you up. He just… existed like sunlight after rain: bright, silly, and far too warm to ignore.

One day, half-joking, you asked, “What if I accidentally started liking you?”

He blinked, then grinned.

“Then I guess you’ll have to get used to chocolate every day. ‘Cause I’m not leaving this café anytime soon.”