CHAPTER 1 — THE DAY MY COFFEE GOT JUDGMENTAL
The barista stared at me like I had personally offended her ancestors.
“Oat milk,” she repeated slowly.
“No sugar,” I confirmed.
“And… extra cinnamon?” she asked, one eyebrow lifting.
“No cinnamon,” I said. “Please.”
She sighed. Loudly. Dramatically. Like this was a tragedy she would one day tell her grandchildren about.
“Who hurt you?” she asked.
“I woke up,” I replied.
She rolled her eyes and turned to make my coffee, muttering something about “people who don’t deserve caffeine.”
I was used to this.
Ordering coffee had become a personality test I kept failing.
The café—Le Matin Bleu—was one of those places that tried very hard to look effortless. Mismatched chairs. Plants that were either thriving or dying with no middle ground. Soft indie music that sounded like someone apologizing through a guitar.
I loved it.
Mostly because it was the only place within walking distance of my new apartment, and I was still pretending I had my life together.
I took my coffee and turned—
Straight into a wall.
A human wall.
A very solid, very warm, very male human wall.
My coffee sloshed dangerously. His coffee did not. Because of course it didn’t.
“Oh—sorry—” I started.
He looked down at me. Then at my cup. Then back at me.
“You’re holding it wrong,” he said.
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Your grip,” he explained calmly. “Too tense. Coffee can sense fear.”
I stared at him. “Are you… mansplaining coffee to me?”
“No,” he said thoughtfully. “I’m judging it.”
I should have walked away.
Instead, I said, “Well, your coffee looks arrogant.”
He glanced at his cup. Black coffee. No milk. No sugar. The confidence of someone who had never doubted himself.
“It’s efficient,” he replied. “Like me.”
I laughed. It slipped out before I could stop it.
That annoyed me more than his face did.
And his face was extremely annoying.
He smiled—not smug, but surprised. Like he hadn’t expected me to laugh.
“I’m Noah,” he said.
“I didn’t ask,” I replied.
“I know,” he said. “But I felt compelled to introduce myself before you spill oat milk on my shoes.”
I looked down. My hands were shaking.
Traitor.
“I’m Linh,” I said. “And I would never spill oat milk on someone intentionally.”
“Good,” he said. “That would be a waste of oat milk.”
We stood there for a second too long.
Something awkward hovered between us. Not romantic. Not yet.
More like… curiosity with teeth.
“Well,” I said, stepping aside, “enjoy your emotionally unavailable coffee.”
“And you,” he replied, “enjoy your complicated relationship with dairy alternatives.”
I walked to a table near the window, my heart doing that stupid thing it does when it thinks something interesting might happen.
I told myself not to look back.
I looked back.
He was watching me.
Not in a creepy way. In a did-we-just-meet-like-that? way.
When our eyes met, he lifted his cup slightly. A toast. Or a warning.
I didn’t know yet.
But something told me this would not be the last time my coffee order got involved in my love life.
And honestly?
That felt like a threat.
