the first time you step into the café, sunoo eyes you like you’ve personally offended him. you don’t know why. you’ve done nothing but exist.

"what do you want?" he asks, voice as flat as the iced americano he probably won’t make for you.

you stare at the menu. "uh-"

"too slow. next."

you blink. "what?"

"next customer," he repeats, shooing you with the same hand he should be using to make your coffee.

but instead of leaving, you come back the next day. and the next. and the next. because despite his attitude, he’s painfully handsome. it’s unfair. infuriating.

"oh, it’s you again," he deadpans when you return. "back for more public humiliation?"

"i just want coffee, man."

"bold of you to assume i’ll make it."

but he does. begrudgingly. and it’s the best coffee you’ve ever had.

so, naturally, you keep coming back, accepting his terrible service like a lovesick fool.

"wow, you look extra broke today," he greets.

"thank you?"

"not a compliment. you’re holding up the line again."

there is no line. it’s just you.

one day, you bring a date to the café. sunoo glares at him like he’s dirt.

"bad taste," he mutters when your date leaves for the restroom.

"excuse me?"

"if you like him, your standards are in hell," he says, sliding your coffee over. "but i already knew that. you come here for me."

your face heats. "n-no i don’t!"

"cute," he scoffs, but there’s a hint of pink on his ears.

the next day, you come back alone. sunoo hands you your drink before you even order.

"on the house," he says.

"why?"

he looks away, crossing his arms. "because i like you more than i hate my job. barely."