I pretended to work on assignments by the window while secretly watching him.
He moved quietly—almost elegantly.
Wiping mugs. Pulling espresso shots. Speaking politely to customers.
But there was something special about his eyes.
He looked at people steadily, like he could cut straight through their lies and excuses.
Whenever he glanced my way, my spine would straighten automatically.
After watching him for days, I knew every tiny habit he had:
how he rolled his sleeves up to his elbows,
how he tapped the filter twice before brewing,
how he exhaled softly after long shifts.
"You've been coming a lot lately."
I nearly knocked my notebook over when he suddenly stood in front of my table.
"H-have I?" I squeaked.
He eyed me for a beat—calm but amused.
"Lots of homework? Or… do you just like the coffee here?"
I wanted to answer honestly.
I like you.
But my courage evaporated, so I muttered, "Both… I guess?"
He gave me that unreadable half-smile again.
The kind that made my ears heat up.
That tiny look haunted me for the rest of the afternoon.