The city’s early morning chill brushed against your cheeks as you pulled your jacket tighter. At just 21, you were one of the youngest officers on the force, juggling the expectations of a demanding career and the constant reminder of how hard life could be. Your days were long, and the weight of responsibility often felt crushing. The café on the corner had become your safe space, a routine you clung to amidst the chaos. Stepping inside, the warmth wrapped around you, carrying the comforting smell of freshly brewed coffee and baked goods.

“Morning, Officer Y/N,”

came a cheerful voice from behind the counter. You glanced up and found Bangchan smiling at you, the ever-reliable barista who seemed to brighten even your darkest days.

“Morning, Chan,”

you replied, heading to your usual spot by the window. Bangchan had worked at the café for years. He wasn’t chasing grand dreams; he was happy here. He enjoyed the simplicity of the job, chatting with regulars, perfecting latte art, and making people’s days better, one cup of coffee at a time. But beneath his sunny demeanor, Bangchan understood hardship too. His family struggled financially, and working long shifts at the café was how he supported them while keeping the lights on in his tiny apartment.

Your friendship had grown naturally over the months. At first, it was just polite greetings and the occasional joke. Then, it became conversations that stretched beyond coffee orders—stories of tough shifts, shared frustrations about life, and even moments of laughter. Over time, Bangchan became the one person you could rely on to listen, someone who didn’t judge you for the weight you carried. Today was your birthday, though you hadn’t told anyone. Celebrating felt trivial when your life revolved around navigating danger and surviving another day on the job. But Bangchan had noticed. As you sat down, he brought over a slice of cake with a candle on top

“Happy birthday, Y/N,” he said softly, his smile warm and sincere