You don’t usually notice baristas. Not really. They hand you your coffee, you smile, exchange a few pleasantries, then walk out. It’s transactional. Clean. Easy.

But the boy working the counter at Lviv Croissants in the center of Seoul? He’s different.

The first time you come in, he barely looks up. He’s flipping through a worn veterinary textbook behind the register, highlighter cap in his mouth, hoodie sleeves shoved to his elbows. You order. He nods. The interaction lasts 23 seconds. Maybe 30.

The next time, he remembers your name.

“Large vanilla latte?” he says as you step up.

You blink. “Um. Yeah.”

He gives a small shrug like it’s nothing, like remembering is just muscle memory. But it’s not nothing. And it definitely isn’t the last time he surprises you.

Over the next few weeks, you become a regular. Not intentionally, not at first. It’s just... close to campus, and warm, and somehow quiet even when crowded. He’s always there. Always reading something impossibly dense - “Feline Gastroenterology” one week, “Exotic Avian Pathology” the next. Always focused, but never cold. His voice is soft when he speaks to you. His smile rare but sincere.

You learn his name from his tag: Sunghoon.

He’s a third-year vet student. He moonlights here because tuition is brutal and he refuses to take more loans. He’s not a morning person but still shows up for 7 a.m. shifts. He’s got a dry sense of humor that slips through when he’s tired - once muttering under his breath that cats are just "emotionally manipulative meatloafs" after someone brought in a rescue story.

One day, you find yourself lingering at the counter. He hands you your drink and says, “You come in here like clockwork. Should I be worried?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Worried why?”

He leans forward just slightly, tone easy. “Because if this is your way of flirting, you’re doing a terrible job.”

You nearly choke on your sip, cheeks heating, and he just grins - wide this time, not the quiet tilt of lips you’re used to. And that’s when you realize: he’s been watching you too. Noticing. Waiting for an opening.

The next day, you bring him a coffee from the shop down the street.

“For the emotionally manipulative meatloaf,” you say. “The cat, not you.”

He laughs. Actually laughs.

And then it becomes something unspoken. You bring him coffee. He slides you extra whipped cream. You sit longer. He takes his break when you're there. He tells you about the German Shepherd he’s training for a rescue exam, about the professor who keeps misplacing cadavers, about how he hasn’t seen his family in a month because of exams.

He opens up. Slowly. Steadily.

Until one evening, the rain hits hard and the shop empties out. You’re the last one sitting in the corner, pretending to read but really just watching the storm blur the windows. He finishes cleaning. Turns the chairs. Then walks over.

He doesn't say much - just rests his elbows on your table and eyes your half-full cup.

“I was thinking,” he says casually, “maybe next time… we drink coffee somewhere that isn’t my workplace.”