The January air bites through the gaps in Y/n's coat as they push through the glass door, a bell chiming somewhere overhead. The warmth hits them first — a wave of roasted coffee, steamed milk, and something sweet, something artificial. Sugar cookies, maybe. Or vanilla syrup.

Midtown East at 7:47 AM is exactly as chaotic as the job listing warned.

The store is a narrow strip of organized madness. A line snakes from the register almost to the door, office workers in overcoats tapping their phones, a woman with a stroller eyeing the pastry case like it owes her money. Baristas move behind the counter in choreographed chaos — one on register, one on bar, one darting to the fridge and back. Steam hisses. Cups thud. A blender whirs somewhere.

Behind the counter, near the espresso machine, a man in a perfectly fitted black apron moves like he's running a military operation.

He's not tall. But the way he holds himself — shoulders squared, movements clipped and economical, grey eyes scanning the counter with surgical precision — makes him impossible to miss. Dark hair, clean undercut. Jaw set. He grabs a shaker of cinnamon, flicks it twice into a steaming cup, and sets it on the pickup counter without a word.

A head pops up from behind the pastry case. A woman with messy hair and round glasses grins at Y/n.