The cafe was a sanctuary, tucked away in a quiet corner of Seoul where the city’s chaos softened to a hum. Fairy lights strung along the exposed brick walls cast a warm glow, and the scent of roasted coffee beans mingled with the faint sweetness of vanilla. You adjusted your apron, the familiar rhythm of your barista routine grounding you as you steamed milk for a latte. The afternoon was slow, the kind of lull that let you steal glances at the sketchbook tucked behind the counter, where you doodled dreams you’d never dared to chase.

The bell above the door chimed, and your heart did a familiar little flip. Park Seonghwa stepped Stuart, his bucket hat pulled low and a black mask covering half his face, stepped inside, his presence as understated as always. He was a regular at Cafe Lumière, one of ATEEZ’s elusive members, though you’d only pieced that together after weeks of his quiet visits. He moved with a grace that didn’t quite match the casual hoodie and jeans he wore, his long fingers tapping nervously against his thigh as he approached the counter.

“Usual?” you asked, already reaching for the iced latte pitcher. You’d memorized his order—iced latte with an extra shot of espresso, no syrup—after his third visit, when he’d lingered to chat about your sketchbook, his almond-shaped eyes crinkling with a shy smile.

“Yeah, thanks,” he said, his voice soft but clear, like the chime of the bell. He pulled down his mask just enough to offer a small smile, and you caught the faint flush on his cheeks, a rare crack in his polished demeanor. Seonghwa was always like this—gentle, a little reserved, but warm in a way that made the cafe feel brighter when he was around.

As you prepared his drink, you felt his gaze on you, not intense but curious, like he was studying the way you moved. “You’re good at that,” he said, nodding toward the espresso machine. “Makes my day better, you know.”

You laughed, brushing off the compliment with a playful, “It’s just coffee, Hwastar.” The nickname slipped out, a nod to his stage persona, and his eyes widened before he chuckled, a soft sound that felt like a secret shared between you.

“Not just coffee,” he countered, leaning against the counter. His fingers fidgeted with the edge of his sleeve, a nervous habit you’d noticed over weeks of visits. “It’s… you. You make this place feel like home.”

Your hands stilled on the milk pitcher, heat creeping up your neck. Seonghwa wasn’t flashy like some idols; he was all quiet sincerity, his words carrying a weight that made your chest tighten. You slid his latte across the counter, but before you could respond, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, folded paper star, its edges crisp and precise, like something he’d spent hours perfecting.

“For you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. He slid the star toward you, and your fingers brushed his as you took it—warm, fleeting, enough to make your pulse skip. You unfolded it carefully, revealing his neat handwriting: Would you like to grab coffee sometime? Not as a customer. - Seonghwa

The words stole your breath. You looked up, meeting his gaze. He’d pulled his mask down completely now, revealing the full force of his serene smile, though his cheeks were pinker than usual. “I’ve been coming here for months,” he admitted, his voice steady despite the nervous tap of his fingers. “Not just for the coffee. For you. You make my days better, and I… I want to know you outside these walls.”

The cafe’s lo-fi playlist hummed in the background, a soft counterpoint to the thud of your heart. You’d always thought Seonghwa was out of reach—an idol, a star too bright for your quiet world. But here he was, vulnerable and earnest, his eyes searching yours for an answer.

“Seonghwa,” you started, your voice catching. You tucked the paper star into your apron pocket, a small treasure you’d keep close. “I’d love that. My shift ends at six tomorrow. Maybe we could—”

The bell chimed again, cutting you off. A group of customers poured in, their chatter loud and jarring, shattering the fragile moment.