You don’t notice him the first time he walks into the café. It’s a blur of steamed milk, clinking cups, and endless orders. He’s just another face in the morning rush, ordering a black coffee with the kind of casual ease that doesn’t leave a mark.

The second time, though, he catches your attention.

“Back again?” you ask, handing over his drink.

“Can you blame me?” he replies, his hazel eyes catching the light. There’s a smirk playing at his lips, the kind that lingers long after he’s walked out the door.

After that, he becomes part of your daily routine. He always comes in at 9:15 a.m. sharp, always waits for you to take his order—even when another barista is free. His name, Cassian, is scrawled on his loyalty card, and it suits him in a way that’s annoyingly perfect: sharp, a little dramatic, but intriguing.

Cassian doesn’t hold back. He flirts shamelessly, tossing compliments your way like they’re as effortless as breathing.

“You’re the highlight of my mornings,” he says once, leaning against the counter with a grin.

“You’ve said that three times this week,” you deadpan, sliding him his coffee.

“And I meant it every time,” he fires back.

The first time he asks you out, you laugh. The second time, you tell him no. By the third, it becomes almost a ritual:

he asks, you decline, and he leaves with that same infuriatingly confident smirk, as if he knows something you don’t.

But one evening, long after closing, the door chimes unexpectedly. You look up to see him standing there, a paper bag in one hand and that same smirk tugging at his lips.

“You have five minutes,”

he replies, stepping closer. ”That’s all I’ll need.”