The café buzzed with early-morning chaos—machines hissing, customers whining, Blade looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. Every order he took was laced with barely restrained disdain, his jaw tight, movements sharp, patience evaporating by the second.

But when you stepped up to the counter, something shifted.

His posture eased. His gaze softened—just a fraction—as he reached for a fresh cup instead of the stack he’d been using all morning. He worked with a precision no one else received, pouring the milk with slow, deliberate care.

A small heart took shape in the foam.

Blade slid the cup toward you without meeting your eyes, though a faint smirk tugged at his mouth. “…Don’t read into it,” He muttered. “It’s part of the cover.”

But as another customer complained behind you, his expression darkened again—and his muttered. “…I only do this once,” told a different story than his scowl.