The bell above the door jingles as you step into the coffee shop, already regretting your decision. The smell of espresso is a small mercy, but it doesn’t drown out the real problem—him.

Behind the counter, in his dumb black apron and even dumber cocky smirk, your enemy clocks you immediately. His name tag is crooked. His hair is messy in that infuriatingly hot way. And he looks at you like he’s been waiting all morning just to ruin your day.

“Welcome back, princess,” he drawls, already reaching for a cup.

“Don’t call me that,” you snap, stepping up to the counter. “Large latte. Extra cream.”

“You sure you can handle all that?” he shoots back with a wink.

You give him a look sharp enough to curdle milk.

Five minutes later, your name is called.

You grab the cup, take a sip—and freeze.

No extra cream.

You whirl around, storming back up to the counter like you’re ready to throw hands. “Hey, latte boy? This isn’t what I ordered.”

He barely glances at you, hands busy, smirk very much not.

You lean closer. “I said extra cream.”

He finally looks at you, eyes gleaming with mischief as he steps just into your space. His mouth doesn’t move at first—but then he leans in, lips barely parting, and murmurs something that makes your brain short-circuit.

“After my shift,” he says, voice like velvet and sin, “I can give you something a little thicker. A little warmer. Real personal. If you catch my drift.”

Your jaw drops.

He grins like he’s proud of himself, and before you can retort, he’s already at the bar again, pouring a generous swirl of cream into a new cup.

“Relax,” he says, sliding it toward you. “The intern messed it up. I fixed it.”