HMN C12

Chapter 12

“Boss, I’ll leave this here. The flow of movement…”

“Mm. Much better there. I’m all for it.”

With an interview that took less than ten minutes, Daeyoung had won the owner’s full favor and started immediately; by his first day, he was already fully adapted. In fact, the part-timer was busier than the owner, who had jumped into running a cafe in a rush, knowing next to nothing.

Buy one Americano to-go, get one free!

In Daeyoung’s view, that grandiose event was the culprit. With local students tightening their belts, the cafe was packed from the opening bell. Arriving a bit early, he kept a clear head and moved briskly in place of the flustered owner; sweat warmed his back.

“Four Americanos are up. Want a carrier?”

“Yes, yes.”

He packed the drinks and handed them over. From behind, where he was nonstop pulling espresso, the owner guffawed and praised him.

“Good thing I folded all those boxes like our Daeyoung said! Aigo, hire one good part-timer and you get the work of three!”

The praise, delivered in a friendly mix of Standard Korean and dialect, left him no time to reply. With a half-muttered “Yes,” he returned to the counter to take the next order.

He was anxious. For starters, the owner—still getting used to the espresso machine—was too slow, and that solid, broad-shouldered body with no knack for workflow was a major obstacle.

“Sir, excuse me—just a moment.”

At first glance, the space behind the counter had seemed roomy; but the owner’s solid frame, glued to the machine, was so thick that each pass required a polite request. Then he’d go, “Oh my, I’m in the way again…,” brace those muscles, and press forward to make room. The tightly tied apron gained darker horizontal stains, layer by layer.

He’d braced himself, but day one was hell. It began the moment he saw the event poster pasted proudly on the cafe window.

“If we’re doing a takeout event, we need to fold a lot of carriers ahead of time. They’re surprisingly fiddly later…”

It was Daeyoung who had prodded the owner—who’d put up a poster and gone off to steep tea. He reorganized the wildly inefficient workflow and pre-folded paper boxes into carriers while the owner clapped stiffly.

“I’ll do smoothies, then make lattes and Americanos right here. Boss, please take this and run the register.”

“Mm. Should I move?”

“Yes.”

The saving grace was that the owner did as told. If he’d dragged his feet even on instructions, the stress would have clenched Daeyoung’s esophagus—but no. He was good at exactly what he was asked to do. “Pull shots,” and he stood at the machine and pulled them. “Steep tea,” and he steeped tea earnestly.

“Ah-tta, pulled it nice. Real nice… Two hot coffees!”

“Sir, Americanos.”

“Right. Two hot Americanos!”

At the booming voice, the waiting customers all flinched. But there was no time to correct volume; it was too busy. While the smoothie whirred in the blender, Daeyoung finished three more drinks, and at last the crowd thinned a little. He managed a sip of water.

“Sir, you said your nephew helps when it’s busy.”

“Ah, says he’s busy today. I told him come when he can… Should I call him now? Are you dyin’ here?”

“…Please take orders.”

Was that even a question? From the moment he’d heard “my nephew will help,” he had steeled himself to shoulder the work alone. Too busy, out playing, “studying”—reasons not to come would abound.

While the new customer hesitated over a drink, he rolled his left wrist—his smartwatch had buzzed lightly. A new message.

Sender: Gochu(Pepper).

“Rude little bastard…”

He scowled.

It was a reply to the message he’d sent earlier. He hadn’t wanted to contact him at all, but had to. The fact that the reply came hours after the morning message, in that “lost” tone of his, grated. What, only he gets to be busy?

The memory of a few nights ago—becoming the drunk gay who buried his face in a man’s chest—was still vivid. The next time he faced Min-hye, who had witnessed it, how was he supposed to explain? Would she even hear him out? Had that bastard added some line of his own? Resentment surged. He pulled his phone from the apron pocket and typed a reply. His fingers were slightly damp, but he was annoyed; that wasn’t a priority.

He aimed to be as curt as possible, but the immediate reply was even more insufferable.

“……”

Wow. He’s a natural.

“Cafe mocha… shall I make it?”

Catching sight of the smolder in his face, the owner ventured a question. He shook his head briskly and stepped up to the machine.

“I’ll do it.”

Hissss. Hissss. The steam sounded like it was inside his skull. Just a couple more hours till closing. His short sigh evaporated into the air. On the bright side, the busy pace of cafe work made time fly.

“Rough first day. Clock out early!”

“Yes. I’ll buy a coffee and do a bit of homework before I go.”

Finishing the last drink before clocking out, he took off his apron.

“You’ve got no sentiment, none. From now on, coffee’s free for life. Go sit over there where the sun pours in and study all you like.”

“Thank you.”

Apparently, the way he’d burned through the takeout event had made an impression. He bowed to the owner, who flashed two thick thumbs-up, pulled a coffee, and headed for a corner seat. The sun had already set and the sky was dim, so, as he’d said, sunlight didn’t pour in—but watching the streetlights flick on one by one pleased him.

7:50 p.m. He rummaged in his backpack and pulled out the laptop.

Click, click.

First, he booked the intercity bus. Tomorrow was the weekend; thankfully, there were seats left on a morning run. On a bad day, there were none; then he had to take the train. But the train station lay far from his parents’ place, so the bus was his usual.

Barring complications, he usually spent weekends at his parents’. The shop was packed on weekends—he had to help—and if he skipped now, exam season would keep him away entirely. Then would come his father’s calls, lamenting how rare it was to see his son’s face, and the subtle “come down” tug. Better to go often when things were calm; it made everything easier.

Next, he listed what he needed to do before next week. Books to buy, assignments to tackle; he couldn’t even lift his steaming cup. From time to time, he shook out the tingling wrist.

Scrape.

While his eyes rested on the monitor, the chair opposite dragged back and a gap opened. He looked up instinctively.

“Ah.”

Go Chiwoo. Clearing his throat, Daeyoung half-closed the laptop. The guy slung a sports bag from one shoulder and set it down; his hair was slightly damp—post-workout, presumably—as he unzipped his jumper.

“……”

Not a word of courtesy, just shrugging off the jacket and raking a hand through his hair—he looked… infuriatingly handsome. He wanted to scrub his brain for thinking it, but objective eyes wouldn’t lie. Why wasn’t he acting instead of folding himself into a campus just to torment him? If only he’d kindly vanish into show business.

“Ahem!”

He braced his back against the chair and folded his arms. With a face plainly bristling and loaded for conversation, it was only natural that Chiwoo, jacket off, gave him a once-over.

“What’s with the glare? I’m not late.”

As in, why the dagger eyes? Brazen.

“Got nothing to say to me?”

“No.”

“You—”

He bit back the tumble of words, clenched his molars, and did his best impression of calm.

“You saw me almost fall at the bar the other night.”

Grating the words through his teeth, he got a belated “Ah,” and a nod.

“Oh, when you pulled that whole act to throw yourself into my arms?”

“…What? ‘Act’?”

Incredible. Even if he were gay, it would be a bizarre scenario. What gay man would, out of nowhere at university, bury his face in the chest of some guy he fancied? Speechless, jaw slack, he watched Chiwoo lean in a fraction, eyes raking him up and down.

“Ah, not gay? You clung to a woman before. What, bi?”

“Noona, were you playing with me?

Pfft.”

Summoned without permission, the memory flushed his face hot.

It was unjust. How many times had the bastard watched him to memorize this stuff? And why the constant digs? A jagged stone in the middle of what should have been a smooth campus life.

So he kept his mouth shut. Chiwoo, glancing at his phone with a bored look, raised his head. Their eyes met, and beneath black lashes, black pupils settled on his face—then those straight lips parted. That moment—

“Oh? You two know each other? Close?”

A heavy shadow fell across the table. The owner set down a takeout cup in front of Chiwoo. Daeyoung raised his chin at once.

“No.”

“No.”

The answers came fast and exact, in unison. The owner paused at their firmness, then chuckled and thumped Chiwoo’s back.

“Then you can get close now. Daeyoung, this punk’s my nephew. I’m his uncle.”

Rattle.

For an instant, Daeyoung’s gaze snapped to Chiwoo’s face, then back to the owner. His eyes had tried, without permission, to find a family resemblance—none showed. The owner rubbed the back of his hand over the apron that looked like it might pop a strap over his cinched waist.

“Chiwoo, you’re clocking in next week no matter what. Daeyoung’s wrists are about to give.”

“Oh. The part-timer.”

As a faint smile touched Chiwoo’s face, Ahn Daeyoung blew out a long sigh. So there would be no safe zone near campus to avoid this bastard. That was that.