Chapter 1 — The Wrong Drink, the Right Person
The first thing that went wrong was the coffee.
I ordered an oat milk latte, no sugar, extra hot—because I am predictable, emotionally cautious, and deeply afraid of unnecessary sweetness. What I received was a caramel macchiato with whipped cream and a level of optimism I had not consented to.
I stared at the cup like it had personally betrayed me.
“This isn’t mine,” I said to the barista.
The barista, who looked about nineteen and permanently exhausted, blinked at the cup. “That’s… definitely yours.”
“I promise you,” I said calmly, “I have never ordered whipped cream in my adult life.”
A voice behind me cut in.
“She’s right.”
I turned.
He was holding my cup.
Oat milk. No sugar. Extra hot.
Of course he was.
“You took mine,” he said, examining the whipped-cream disaster in my hands. “And I took yours.”
“That feels symbolic,” I muttered.
He smiled. Not aggressively. Not charmingly in a way that made me suspicious. Just… amused. Like life had mildly entertained him, and this was another episode.
“I can switch,” he offered.
“You don’t have to.”
“I really do. I’m lactose intolerant.”
I paused. “Then why would you order—”
“I didn’t. I ordered what you ordered.”
We looked at each other.
Then, simultaneously:
“Oh.”
The barista sighed loudly. “So you two are the mix-up.”
“We’re not together,” I said quickly.
The man nodded. “Very much not.”
The barista slid two new cups onto the counter. “I’ll remake both. Please stop talking like you’re about to break up.”
We stepped aside, awkward silence settling between us.
“I’m Lucy,” I said, because silence makes me nervous and I am weak.
“Ethan,” he replied. “Nice to meet you under… dairy-based circumstances.”
I laughed despite myself. “You come here often?”
He winced. “I work upstairs.”
“Ah. So this is your territory.”
“I apologize in advance for everything.”
The drinks arrived correctly this time. I took mine, nodded politely, and turned to leave.
And then—because the universe enjoys timing—I tripped.
Not dramatically. No falling. Just enough to spill a small wave of coffee onto his sleeve.
“Oh no,” I said. “Oh no.”
He looked down at his shirt. Then back at me.
“…Well,” he said, “this is new.”
“I swear I’m usually coordinated.”
“I believe you,” he said, not sounding convinced.
I grabbed napkins. Too many. “I’ll pay for dry cleaning.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine.”
“It really is.”
“I once cried over a broken mug. I can’t let this go.”
He smiled again. “Okay. Dry cleaning. But only if you let me buy you a coffee next time.”
I froze. “Next time?”
“Well,” he shrugged, “you already ruined this one.”
I laughed. “Fair.”
We exchanged numbers—very casual, very not a date, very obviously something.
As I left the café, I glanced back.
He was still standing there, holding his cup, smiling to himself.
And that’s when I realized:
The coffee wasn’t the only thing that had gone wrong.
