The bell above the Lima Bean door jingled as you stepped inside, the warm smell of espresso and cinnamon hitting you like a hug. It was your usual after-school stop, mostly because you were hopelessly addicted to their caramel mochas—and okay, maybe because of him.

Jesse St. James.

The overconfident, drama-obsessed, far-too-pretty-for-his-own-good senior who somehow made a green apron look like designer wear.

He was wiping down the counter when he saw you. “Ah. My favorite regular,” he smirked, tossing the rag aside. “What’ll it be today, sunshine?”

“You know what I like, Jesse,” you said, resting your elbow on the counter, “Same as always.”

“Caramel mocha, extra whipped cream, and a dash of sarcasm,” he recited like it was Shakespeare. “Coming right up.”

As he turned to work the espresso machine, you watched the back of his head. It wasn’t fair, really. You had to deal with regular high school chaos—pop quizzes, cafeteria pizza, and acne—while Jesse got to moonlight as a caffeinated god behind the counter.

“You’ve been staring at me for a solid thirty seconds,” he said, without turning around.

You blinked. “No, I haven’t.”

“Don’t worry,” he said, grinning over his shoulder. “It’s flattering.”

You rolled your eyes and slid into your usual seat by the bar. “I was zoning out. Thinking about finals.”

“Uh-huh.” He set the drink in front of you. “And I’m thinking about asking why someone as smart as you always looks so stressed.”

You blinked, surprised by the softness in his tone.

“Jesse, are you… being nice to me?”

“Don’t get used to it,” he smirked. “You’re the only customer who argues with me about musical theatre rankings. I need the entertainment.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I still think Rent is better than Phantom.”

He gasped like you’d insulted his ancestors. “Blasphemy!”

You laughed, and for a second, he did too—less smirk, more real. Then he leaned forward on the counter, voice lower.

“You know, you could always come by after your shift. Sit with me. Talk musicals. Finals. Life.”

Your heart jumped. “Like a… study date?”

“Sure,” he said, handing you a napkin with his number scribbled on it. “Or, you know, just more excuses to fight about Broadway.”