The smell of freshly brewed coffee clung to her hair, her clothes, and probably her soul at this point. The grinder whirred, the espresso machine hissed like an angry dragon, and Celestine Navarro—known here simply as Celine—was absolutely, one hundred percent, winging it.

She adjusted the plain black apron around her waist, glaring at the shiny machine in front of her. It glared back, taunting her with flashing lights and an ominous beep.

“How hard can this be?” she muttered under her breath. “Push a button, pour some milk, smile. People pay a hundred pesos for this?”

She poked the steam wand. A jet of steam burst out and nearly scorched her hand. She yelped, hopping back.

“Brilliant. The billionaire heiress to Navarro Coffee, singlehandedly defeated by a cappuccino machine. My family would be so proud,” she grumbled.

Of course, no one around her knew who she really was. To the morning crowd shuffling in for their caffeine fix, she was just the awkward new barista who clearly hadn’t been properly trained. Which was exactly how she wanted it.

“Order for… Liam?” she called out hesitantly, holding up a paper cup like it was a rare artifact.

From the corner table, a man looked up. Disheveled hair, rolled-up sleeves, faint ink stains on his fingers—he looked like someone who hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in weeks. He stood, walked over, and checked the cup.

His frown was immediate.

“Uh, this says ‘Lain.’ With an N.”

Celine blinked at the cup. Her handwriting was atrocious, even by doctor standards.

“Oops. Artistic freedom?” she offered with a sheepish smile.

“Pretty sure that’s not how names work,” he replied flatly.

She pushed the cup toward him anyway, feigning the confidence she didn’t have. “Coffee’s still hot. Name spelling’s optional. Consider it… modern art.”

He stared at her, unimpressed, then muttered just loud enough for her to hear, “Worst barista ever.”

Her jaw dropped. “Excuse me? Did Mr. Eye Bags just insult me?” she whispered under her breath.

By lunchtime, Celine had officially racked up a record: two spilled drinks, one near-scalding of her own hand, and one irate customer who had stormed out after she accidentally gave him full-cream milk instead of oat.

“This is fine,” she thought, wiping syrup off the counter. “I survived hostile boardrooms, shareholders breathing down my neck, and six-figure negotiations. Surely I can survive… foam.”

She was not surviving foam.

The bell above the door jingled. Her stomach dropped when she recognized the familiar mop of messy hair. Mr. “Worst Barista Ever” was back.

He walked up to the counter, expression as unimpressed as ever. “Large Americano.”

Celine plastered on her brightest smile, determined not to mess this up. “Name for the cup?”

“You know my name,” he said with a raised brow.

“I just like hearing you say it,” she teased. “Who knows, maybe I’ll spell it right this time.”

He smirked faintly, clearly not convinced. “Fine. Liam. Four letters. Simple.”

Marker poised, she exaggerated the motion of writing, then slid the cup toward him with a flourish. He checked it.

It read: ‘Lyam.’

He sighed through his nose. “Top-tier performance.”

“Creative spelling counts,” she said, grinning proudly. “It makes you unique. You’re welcome.”

For the first time, she caught it—the faintest twitch of his lips, the ghost of a smile. He tried to hide it, but it was there. And something about that tiny crack in his stoic armor made her grin like she’d just won a gold medal.

By closing time, most of the staff had left, and the café had quieted to a cozy hum. Celine stayed behind, wiping tables. She didn’t mind. It gave her space to breathe, space to just… exist.

She glanced at the corner table. He was still there. Mr. Americano. Typing furiously on his laptop, surrounded by empty cups like trophies of his suffering.

Finally, he groaned, rubbing his temples.

“Laptop not cooperating? Maybe you spelled your password wrong. With a Y,” she called out.

He looked up, surprised she was still there. “You really don’t give up, huh?”

“Occupational hazard,” she said with a shrug. “We’re trained to keep grumpy customers entertained.”

“Entertained? You call sabotaging my name entertainment?”

“Well, you keep coming back, so clearly I’m doing something right.”

His lips twitched again—another half-smile. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously charming. Admit it.”

He shook his head, chuckling under his breath. The sound was warm, unguarded, and very, very human.

Celine found herself staring longer than she should. Because for the first time in years, someone was looking at her and not seeing an heiress, not a walking bank account, not a boardroom pawn.

Just… her.

As he packed up his laptop and walked out the door, she realized her cheeks hurt. She was smiling too much. And for once, she didn’t care.