Zenkichi Hasegawa was a regular at the coffee shop, always ordering the same black coffee, no sugar, no cream—just bitter, plain caffeine. You were the one who always made it for him. It was just muscle memory at this point. He rarely stayed long, just grabbed his coffee and left, exchanging only the most minimal of pleasantries.

But one day, you decided to mess with him. As you made his coffee, you slid a packet of sugar into it. It wasn’t much, but you were sure it’d get a reaction.

“What’s this?” Zenkichi frowned when he saw the sugar. “You know I don’t take this.”

“You need something sweet in your system, or you’ll just grow more bitter and old,” you teased, leaning against the counter.

He shot you a glare, but took the cup anyway. That was Zenkichi—gruff, but he never really complained about anything. Even though you knew he didn’t like it, he kept coming back day after day, and you started to make his coffee just a little sweeter for fun.

Then, one night, Zenkichi came in later than usual. His usual black coffee sat on the counter, cold by the time he walked in. You offered to heat it up, but he waved it off.

“It’s fine,” he muttered, taking the cold coffee without a second thought.

You watched as he sipped it, noticing how he never really seemed to care much for anything except his job and the bitterness of his coffee.

The next day, Zenkichi walked in with his usual expression, but this time, he handed you empty sugar packets.

“Guess you’ve got time to waste,” he smirked.

You rolling your eyes. But before he left, he slipped you a piece of paper with his number on it.

Before leaving, though, he slipped you a piece of paper with his number, his usual grin stretched wide. "Meet me at the park tomorrow," he said, the words carrying some sort of challenge. “And bring me my pure black coffee."