It's too early for regrets. But Yuna Han already has three.
First: deciding to open the café by herself when her boss texted at 6:03 a.m. saying he "might be dying (or just hungover)."
Second: skipping breakfast and substituting it with three espresso shots and half a stale croissant that tastes suspiciously like cardboard.
Third and most crucial...balancing two iced Americanos in one hand while adjusting her apron with the other.
Because that's exactly when it happens.
The door swings open, hard enough that the little bell above it lets out a startled briiiing!
A figure steps in. Tall. Lean. Draped in a black hoodie and an oversized bucket hat pulled so low it shadows half his face. He's wearing sunglasses even though it's basically dawn and he's got the tense, hunched posture of someone either extremely anxious or extremely famous. Possibly both.
Yuna barely registers him before she turns to twist the tray onto the counter and one cup slips.
Time slows.
A perfect arc of iced Americano leaves the plastic cup, sparkling in the sun slanting through the window. Dark coffee swirls with ice, glittering like brown diamonds.
Yuna watches it in horror, every neuron in her brain firing no, no, no...
And then it hits.
Coffee slams into the man's pristine black hoodie, splattering across his chest and dripping onto his pants and stark white sneakers like an abstract art installation no one asked for.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The man staggers back, one hand out as though he's been shot.
"Oh my god...!" Yuna shrieks, her voice echoing off the quiet walls. "I am so...oh no...are you okay?! Please don't die. Or sue me."
He stands there, droplets sliding down the folds of his hoodie, seeping into the fabric like dark ink stains.
Slowly...so slowly...he peels off his sunglasses.
Yuna blinks.
He's...beautiful.
No. Beyond beautiful. Like he's been sculpted by some petty deity who wanted to show off. Chiselled jaw, straight nose, skin so smooth it looks photoshopped. Sharp eyes, the colour of dark roasted coffee, framed by lashes any girl would kill for.
There's something achingly familiar about his face.
No.
No. No. No.
Her heart drops straight into her shoes.
It's him.
J-Min.
Global idol. Lead dancer. Main visual of HWAON...the hottest, most untouchable, untouchably gorgeous co-ed idol group in the world.
And she's just baptized him in iced Americano.
For one perfect second, neither of them says anything.
Outside, traffic rumbles along the street. A neon sign flickers. Somewhere, a busker is belting a trot song like his life depends on it.
Inside the café, the silence is thick enough to chew.
J-Min slowly lifts a hand and flicks coffee droplets off the edge of his hoodie.
He looks at Yuna. His expression is...blank.
Not angry. Not amused. Just blank.
And somehow, that's worse.
Yuna starts babbling. "I didn't know...I mean, you were disguised and I...this is cursed. I'm cursed. Please sue me gently."
He exhales a long, slow sigh and glances over his shoulder as if checking for cameras.
"Is there a back room?" he asks, his voice low and smooth enough to melt butter.
"What? Why?" Yuna stammers.
"Because I can't be seen here. And now you've made that a thousand times harder."
Yuna's brain short-circuits. "You want to...hide? In my café?"
He's already tugging at the front of his wet hoodie, looking utterly miserable.
"I'm serious," he says. "If someone photographs this, I'm done. The rumours. The headlines. My fans will explode. Your café will explode. Everything will explode."
Yuna blinks at him. "Everything...explodes?"
He narrows his eyes. "Do you want a scandal? Because this is how you get a scandal."
Yuna swears under her breath and gestures frantically. "Okay, okay, this way!"
She unlocks the storage room and waves him in.
J-Min slips past her, close enough that she catches a whiff of cologne...sharp and woody, mixed with the faint bitterness of coffee. Even soaking wet, he smells expensive.
Yuna hesitates, then ducks in behind him because, honestly, what else is she supposed to do?
The door clicks shut.
Inside, the storage room is cramped and smells faintly of coffee grounds and industrial cleaner. A single flickering bulb buzzes overhead.
J-Min stands there dripping, arms crossed, hoodie clinging to his chest in wet folds that leave nothing to the imagination.
And Yuna...well, she's trying really hard not to look at his chest.
But it's impossible.
His chest is...distracting. There's the faintest V where his collarbone disappears under the fabric. And even though he's slim, there's a subtle definition beneath the wet hoodie.
And it's wet.
Soaked, actually.
Yuna squeaks and spins to face the shelves. "I'm really sorry. This wasn't how I planned to meet a global superstar today."
"I'm not a superstar right now," he says flatly. "Right now, I'm a walking headline waiting to happen."
Yuna peeks over her shoulder and finds him watching her. Not glaring. Not yelling. Just watching.
And now she notices that, under the cool exterior, his shoulders are tight. His jaw clenched.
His eyes flicked nervously toward the door every few seconds.
He's not angry.
He's nervous. Maybe even frustrated.
Yuna's chest tightens, sympathy warring with mortification. "Okay. I'll fix it. Somehow. Just...don't blacklist me, please. My life is already a sitcom."
J-Min huffs out a quiet laugh and for a heartbeat, the tension breaks.
"You might be useful after all," he murmurs, eyes raking over her face like he's solving a puzzle.
Yuna blinks. "That sounds...ominous."
A drop of coffee plunks off the tip of his hair, landing on his nose. He swipes it away with a look of pure annoyance.
"Seriously, what were you doing carrying two iced Americanos one-handed?"
"I was trying to adjust my apron," Yuna mumbles. "It was stuck. And I'm sleep-deprived. And possibly dying."
He tilts his head. "How much coffee did you drink this morning?"
"Three espresso shots and half a croissant," she admits.
J-Min arches a perfect black eyebrow. "Half a croissant? You're living dangerously."
Yuna scowls. "Hey. I'm on a budget. You want to pay my rent?"
J-Min smirks. "Depends. How much is it?"
"More than my entire soul is worth," Yuna says, deadpan.
He actually laughs...a real, genuine sound that makes her stomach flip.
She realizes she's still staring at his chest.
Yuna yanks a rag off a shelf and flings it at him. "Wipe yourself off before I get sued for causing you pneumonia."
He catches it effortlessly and starts dabbing at his hoodie. The fabric pulls tight across his abs.
Yuna looks away, her face on fire.
A loud pounding rattles the door.
"Miss Han?
Are you okay there?" It's the mailman.
Yuna yelps. J-Min freezes, rag in hand.
"Don't answer," he hisses.
"I have to!" she whispers. "Otherwise he'll think I'm dead!"
J-Min lunges forward and slaps his hand over her mouth.
And that's how Yuna finds herself pressed against a shelf full of napkins, with one of the world's biggest idols towering over her, a faint tremor in his chest as he breathes.
His palm is warm over her lips. Coffee drips down his arm, staining her apron.
They stare at each other.
For one electric second, Yuna is excruciatingly aware of how close they are. The way his dark eyes roam over her face. The sharp line of his jaw. The tick of a vein in his neck.
J-Min's voice drops to a low rumble. "Don't. Make. A. Sound."
Yuna tries to nod, but his hand is still over her mouth.
Outside, the mailman calls again. "Miss Han? Hellooooo?"
Yuna's eyes go wide.
J-Min's mouth twitches...almost a smirk. "You're terrible at being quiet, aren't you?"
Yuna makes an indignant mmph sound.
Finally, the mailman leaves, footsteps fading.
J-Min lets go of her mouth.
They're still close enough that Yuna can feel his breath on her cheek.
"Wow," she blurts. "I just realized...you're really tall."
J-Min blinks. "That's...the first thing you say after I save your café from scandal?"
"Well, excuse me for noticing your height while you're crushing me against a mop bucket!"
J-Min's lips twitch again. It might be a smile. Or indigestion. Hard to say.
He takes his sunglasses and slips them into his pocket. His eyes lock onto hers and the air between them goes weirdly charged.
"Listen," he says, voice low. "You're going to help me. And in return, I'll make sure your boss doesn't fire you for giving his café the worst PR of the year."
Yuna folds her arms. "And how, exactly, am I supposed to help you?"
He pauses. Looks her over, from her messy bun to her coffee-splattered apron.
And suddenly, that faint smirk is back.
"You'll see," he murmurs.
And that's how it begins.
Not with a meet-cute.
But with a coffee crime, a celebrity hiding in her supply closet and Yuna Han wondering how the hell she went from sleepy barista to starring in her very own K-drama.
She has no idea she's about to become the fake girlfriend of the hottest idol in K-pop.
Or that it's going to turn her life into the kind of drama people binge at 3 a.m.
Or that falling for him might be the realest thing she's ever done.