xuchiya @xuchiya - Tumblr Blog

Nov 22, 2025

Y/N helps her father run a small adoption-based cat café where life moves at a gentle pace. She’s shy, a little invisible to the world, and perfectly content with it—until a soft-spoken customer named Yeon starts showing up for lattes and quiet mornings with the cats. He’s kind, thoughtful… and clearly hiding something. When she begins to fall for him, she doesn’t realize she’s falling for Kang Yeosang of ATEEZ.

Pairing: Kang Yeosang × Reader ( Y/N )

Genre: Slow-burn romance · slice of life · soft fluff · a touch of angst

Tropes: strangers to lovers · hidden identity / idol × non-idol · small town warmth · found comfort · mutual pining · cat café magic

Featuring: the rest of ATEEZ as supportive ( and chaotic ) matchmakers – especially Wooyoung, San, and Yunho

Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

This is Part 1 — Part 2 & 3 coming soon

The bell above the café door didn’t ring at six in the morning.

It only did that when customers came in; at six, it was just Y/N and her father, the smell of coffee grounds blooming in hot water, and the soft chorus of meows from the back room asking, very politely, to be fed.

Outside, the street was still half asleep. It was a narrow side street tucked between a laundromat and a stationery store, the kind of place people only found if they were looking for it. That was one of the reasons her dad had been able to rent it — it wasn’t fancy, it wasn’t in a high-traffic area, and it needed work when they first got it. But he’d looked at the crooked windows and the uneven floorboards like they were a puzzle he was excited to solve.

Now, “Moonlight Café” looked nothing like the dull, dusty space it had been. Her dad had painted the walls a warm cream, strung fairy lights around the beams, and insisted on building the adoption wall himself — a big wooden board, sanded and stained, covered with tiny Polaroids of cats and people holding them, smiling. A little handwritten caption sat under each:

“Mochi found his human!” “Tiger went to a home with kids!” “Sundae, 9 years old, got adopted!!”

Y/N loved that wall. On rainy days, she’d stand there and reread the notes like they were letters from friends.

She tied her hair up into a messy low bun — a practical one, not the cute kind she’d seen in college hallways — and rolled the sleeves of her oversized hoodie to her elbows. It was the thick light-blue one with faint coffee stains on the cuffs; it was soft and roomy and hid her curves in a way that made her feel comfortable, not ashamed. Oversized hoodie, black leggings, fuzzy socks inside sneakers. Not a single part of it would have passed an Instagram check, but then again, she didn’t have Instagram.

She pushed through the swinging door into the back room, where the cats were. Immediately, a chorus rose.

“Good morning,” she murmured, her voice soft in the dim light. “I know, I know. Breakfast.”

There were six cats currently staying at Moonlight — three from the partnered shelter on the outskirts of the city, two siblings dropped off by a family that couldn’t keep them, and one old gentleman named Mr. Bean, whose adoption card had tiny hearts drawn on it because her dad insisted older cats needed more marketing.

They all had their own little corner. The café wasn’t big, so instead of cages, there were built-in cubbies and high shelves and a glass wall that separated the cat lounge from the customer tables. The cats could roam in the lounge and come up to the glass to peer at people; at certain hours, supervised customers could come in to interact with them.

Y/N scooped out the food, humming quietly. She was studying to become a vet — or at least that was the plan. It was a slow plan, since she didn’t like leaving her dad alone here too often, and sometimes she picked up extra shifts at the café instead of attending lectures if he looked especially tired. But she was enrolled, taking the introductory courses, absorbing everything about animal anatomy and behavior. She loved it. She loved how animals said everything without words.

“Dad?” she called, peeking her head back into the main area. “Should I start the drip?”

Her father was already behind the counter, polishing mugs like there was going to be a mug inspection. He was a tall man, a little round in the middle, gray peppering his hair. He always wore the same café apron and the same warm smile.

“Already started it,” he said, nodding toward the coffee machine. “We’ll have real people in about two hours.”

She smiled. “We’re real people.”

“We don’t tip,” he said, waving a hand. “Real people tip.”

She laughed quietly and went back to the cats. When they were all fed, she cleaned the litter boxes, wiped surfaces, and checked the adoption cards. Each cat had a small bio printed on cute paper and tucked into a wooden stand:

Name: Boksoo

Age: 2 years

Personality: Shy at first, loves quiet people, likes feather toys

Notes: Was rescued from construction site. Might need patient adopter.

She lingered on Boksoo’s card. He was a white-and-orange boy with wary eyes. He’d only arrived last week, still nervous, still unsure about people. But he liked watching from a safe distance. Kind of like her, she thought. Kind of like a lot of people who came in here.

“Y/N,” her dad called. “You have class today?”

“Afternoon,” she said, coming out and washing her hands in the sink behind the counter. “Anatomy. Lab.”

“Ooh.” He made a face. “Organs.”

“Dad.” She laughed. “I want to be a vet.”

“Right, right. Organs are beautiful.” He shuddered theatrically. “You’ll be in by three?”

“If it’s quiet, yeah.”

“It’ll be quiet,” he said, shrugging. “It’s Tuesday.”

Tuesdays were slow. People came on weekends or Fridays when they needed stress relief. Tuesdays were for regulars, for people who liked to sit by the big front window with a laptop, for students who needed cat therapy between exams.

She liked Tuesdays.

By seven-thirty, the café was ready. Lights on, tables wiped, pastry cabinet filled with that morning’s delivery from the bakery down the street — croissants, cinnamon rolls, a few savory buns. Their own oven didn’t do much more than heat things, but her dad always arranged the pastries like they were works of art.

He also redid the chalkboard by the register. Today it said:

“Drink coffee, pet cats, save lives 💛 Adoption day this Sunday!”

Y/N checked it, then tilted her head. “You put a heart again.”

Her dad looked offended. “It’s cute.”

“It’s cheesy.”

“Café is cheesy.”

She shook her head, smiling, and went to wipe down the glass partition in the cat area. From the outside, customers could see the cats climbing scratching posts, lazing on cushions, or staring out the window like philosophers. People loved taking photos there. Sometimes they asked if the café had an Instagram tag; Y/N always pointed them to the flyer — her dad had a basic account for the café, but she didn’t run it. One of the shelter volunteers updated it every few days.

She never felt an urge to make her own. It wasn’t that she hated social media — she just didn’t see where she would fit in. She was… average. Quiet. A chubby girl who liked baggy clothes, cats, and reading lecture notes in between making lattes. She’d been invisible enough in school that no one tagged her in anything anyway. It had been simpler to stay that way.

At eight, the bell finally rang.

Their first customer was Mrs. Park, who came every Tuesday at eight-oh-five and ordered green tea and sat in the same corner and knitted. Y/N greeted her by name, made her tea, and watched with growing affection as Mrs. Park placed a tiny knitted hat next to the tip jar.

“For the new cats,” she said. “You can take pictures.”

“Thank you,” Y/N said, beaming. “Boksoo will look cute in this.”

“Boksoo?” Mrs. Park’s eyes lit up. “A new one?”

Y/N nodded and gestured toward the glass. “He’s shy. But he likes watching.”

“Oh, I like shy ones,” Mrs. Park said, settling in. “They’re the most loyal.”

It was warm, these conversations. This café was full of pockets of kindness — knitted cat hats, people bringing in old blankets, volunteers calling to say they could drop off another rescue. They didn’t make much money, but Y/N had never felt poor here. The café had enough. She and her dad had enough.

At eight-thirty, a pair of students came in, chattering too loudly for the hour. Y/N smiled, took their orders, and watched them giggle over the cats with phones out. She envied them a little — not their looks, not their clothes, but the way they seemed effortlessly connected to everything. They knew what was trending, what was funny, what was being posted. They lived in a world she only heard about second-hand, in snippets.

She didn’t mind. Her bubble was small, but it was soft.

It was around nine-fifteen when he came in.

The bell chimed again, and Y/N looked up automatically, wiping her hands on her apron. She expected another regular, maybe the office worker who always took a latte to go. Instead, a tall boy stepped in — not tall like a giant, but tall in a neat, proportioned way. He wore a black cap pulled low and a simple beige jacket over a dark shirt. A camera bag crossed his chest. When he pushed the door closed behind him, he did it gently, as if careful not to let the bell clang too loudly.

First-time customer, she thought.

He looked around slowly, eyes taking in the fairy lights, the adoption wall, the cats staring back through the glass. His face was very calm. Not expressionless — just quiet. He had sharp eyes, but they weren’t cold. Observant. That was the word.

She’d seen faces like his in passing — on bus stop ads, on banners hanging on buildings, on the covers of albums at the music store she sometimes passed — but she never lingered enough to connect them. Besides, she wasn’t expecting anyone famous to walk into this café on this street on a Tuesday morning.

So she gave him the smile she gave all new customers. The small, shy one that didn’t show all her teeth.

“Good morning,” she said. “Welcome.”

He walked up to the counter, eyes flicking to the menu and then back to her. Up close, she noticed more details — he had smooth skin, a small mole near his eye, lips that looked naturally downturned but softened when he smiled, which he was doing now, politely.

“Good morning,” he echoed. His voice was soft, with that slight Busan softness to it. “Is it okay to… sit first?”

“Of course,” she said. “You can order whenever. The cats are available in the lounge at ten if you want to go in.”

He nodded, eyes drifting to the glass again. One of the kittens — Dallae — was pawing at the glass, meowing with her squeaky voice.

He seemed to melt very slightly.

“Okay,” he said, a small smile appearing. “I’ll sit.”

“Window seats are free,” she said, gesturing. “Best light.”

He looked almost surprised she said that, then amused. “That’s good,” he said, patting his camera bag. “I like light.”

He went to the table by the front window — the one angled so you could see both the street and the cats. He put his bag down carefully, took off his cap, and placed it on the chair. His hair was dark and slightly fluffy, falling across his forehead. He adjusted it absentmindedly, like he was used to making sure it laid correctly.

Y/N turned back to the counter, pretending she didn’t notice. New customers came in all the time. Handsome people came in all the time. That didn’t mean anything.

But she did catch her dad’s eyes flicking over, curious.

“New?” he murmured.

“Yeah,” she said under her breath. “Looks like a student.”

Her dad squinted, then shrugged. “At least he’s not loud.”

She bit back a smile. That was high praise from her dad.

Five minutes later, the boy came back to the counter.

“Can I get… an oat latte?” he asked, eyes on the menu and then on her. “Medium.”

“Sure.” She punched it in. “Any syrup?”

He thought for a second. “Vanilla?”

“Got it.” She wrote his order down, then asked, “Name?”

He hesitated. It was the slightest pause — not even a full second, just a small catch. Then he said, “Yeon.”

Not his real name, she registered. Or maybe just a nickname. Lots of customers gave fake names if they didn’t want their real one called out. She didn’t care. She just nodded.

“Okay, Yeon. You can sit, I’ll bring it.”

He smiled again — that small, grateful curve. “Thank you.”

She made the latte carefully, steaming the oat milk until it was just the right microfoam. She poured it so the surface was smooth, then added a tiny cat face in the foam. Not a fancy barista art cat — just a simple one, two ears, a face. Her dad had taught her because “people who come to see cats like seeing cats everywhere.”

When she carried it over to his table, he was looking through his camera bag. There was a small notebook beside him, the kind people used for sketches or notes. His phone lay face down.

“Here you go,” she said, setting the latte down. “Oat vanilla.”

He looked up — and his eyes widened a fraction when he saw the cat in the foam.

“Oh,” he said, a quiet, genuine sound. “That’s… cute.”

She flushed, just a little. Her cheeks always warmed too easily. Being a bit chubby meant her face held onto blush like it was its job. “We do that sometimes,” she said, clearing her throat. “Since it’s a cat café.”

He nodded like that made sense, eyes still on the latte. “Thank you… Y/N.”

She blinked. “How did you…?”

He pointed, sheepish, to her apron. Her name tag: “Y/N 🐾”

“Oh.” She laughed softly. “Right. You’re welcome.”

She went back to the counter, feeling… not flustered, exactly. Just aware. Aware that he’d noticed her name, aware that he’d looked at the foam like it meant something, aware that he didn’t act entitled or bored or distracted. He was present. Present in a way she didn’t see often.

“Nice boy?” her dad murmured, washing a tray.

Y/N glanced back. The boy — Yeon — had his camera out, but he wasn’t taking selfies or pictures of his drink for social media. He was taking photos through the glass, angled to capture Boksoo peeking out from behind a cat tree. He moved slowly, careful not to startle the cat.

“Yeah,” Y/N said. “He’s… quiet.”

“Good,” her dad said. “Cats like quiet.”

“So do you.”

“Exactly.”

The morning went on. A couple more customers came in; a delivery guy dropped off milk. Y/N wiped tables, refilled the water station, and checked once on the cats. She noticed, on her way back, that Mr. Bean was sprawled right where the camera boy could take a perfect photo. She wondered if he planned it.

Around ten, the small sign on the cat lounge flipped to “VISITORS ALLOWED — PLEASE SANITIZE HANDS.” Y/N went to the front to explain the rules to the two students who wanted to go in, then glanced at the boy by the window.

“Yeon-ssi?” she called gently. “If you want to go in, you can.”

He stood up quickly, almost like he’d been waiting for permission. “Really?”

“Mm.” She handed him a pair of disposable slippers. “Just sanitize and be gentle. Boksoo is shy.”

He looked toward the white-and-orange cat. “Boksoo?”

She pointed. “That one. He’s new.”

“Okay,” he said, voice softer as if already adjusting. “I’ll be careful.”

She watched from the counter as he went inside. There was always a way to tell who was good with animals — not from what they said, but how they moved. He crouched down low, didn’t reach out immediately, let the cats come to him. He scratched under chins instead of grabbing. He let Dallae climb his knee and smiled so softly when she did.

Boksoo, true to form, stayed on the high shelf.

But the boy didn’t push. He just sat on the floor beside the shelf, back to the wall, camera bag beside him, and talked in a low voice to whichever cat was listening.

Y/N found herself watching more than she should. She wiped a clean counter twice. She rearranged the pastry cabinet for no reason.

He has a nice face, she caught herself thinking. Not in a dramatic, heart-pounding way. Just in a way that was pleasant to look at. Gentle and symmetrical and quiet. He reminded her a bit of sunlight through the window — not blinding, just there.

She shook her head at herself and went to stack cups.

Around eleven, right before she had to leave for university, the café got its mini rush — office workers on early lunch, a couple tourists who’d found them on a blog, a mom with her kid who wanted to see the cats. Y/N and her dad worked in silent rhythm, him on drinks, her on serving and clearing.

When she finally had a pause, she saw the boy had come out of the cat lounge and was back at his table with his notebook open. He was drawing. Or maybe writing. He paused, looked toward the cats, smiled, and returned to the page.

He stayed a long time for a first-timer. Most people came for an hour. He was still there at eleven-thirty, finishing the last of his latte, when Y/N went to the back to grab her school bag.

She changed quickly — she kept her jeans and hoodie on, just tucked her hair a bit neater and grabbed her worn-out backpack. When she came out, her dad was wiping the counter.

“You going?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said. “I’ll be back by four?”

“Take your time. If it gets busy, I’ll call Minji.”

Minji was a high schooler who sometimes helped. Y/N nodded.

She went to the boy’s table before leaving. She didn’t usually do that, but he still had his empty cup there and she had to clear it. That was all. Totally normal.

“Was everything okay?” she asked, picking up the cup.

He looked up, eyes crinkling. “Yes. It was very nice.”

“I’m glad.” She hesitated. Then, because she always did this for regulars, she said, “We’re having an adoption day on Sunday. If you… wanted to come again. The shelters bring more cats.”

His eyes flickered, like the word “adoption” meant something to him. “Really?”

“Mm. Some older ones, too.”

He nodded slowly. “I like older ones.”

She smiled. “Me too.”

He blinked, then looked at her more closely — not in a rude, scanning way, but with curiosity. “You work here every day?”

“Most days,” she said. “My dad owns it.”

“Oh.” He glanced toward the counter, where her father was exchanging jokes with Mrs. Park. “That’s nice.”

“It is,” she said, soft pride in her voice. “We’re small, but… it’s good.”

“It feels good,” he agreed, and when he said it, she believed him. “I’ll come again.”

Her heart did a small, unexpected dip. That was nice. People said that sometimes, but sometimes they didn’t mean it. He sounded like he meant it.

“Okay,” she said, trying not to sound too pleased. “See you.”

She took his cup back to the counter, washed it, and slung her backpack over her shoulder.

“I’m going!” she called to her dad.

“Study hard!” he called back. “Don’t fall asleep in intestines!”

“Dad,” she groaned, face burning, but she was laughing.

When she pushed open the door to leave, the boy — Yeon — glanced up from his notebook. She gave him a small nod. He lifted his hand in a little wave, that same quiet smile on his lips.

Outside, the air was brisk. She tucked her chin into her hoodie and started toward the bus stop, her mind already half on the day’s lecture, half on the café she’d return to.

She didn’t spare him another thought until she sat on the bus and stared out the window, watching the street slide by.

Then, without meaning to, she pictured him again — crouched on the café floor, camera forgotten, talking softly to Boksoo like he had all the time in the world.

What a gentle person, she thought.

She didn’t know his real name. She didn’t know that other people paid money to scream it. She didn’t know he’d been on stages, on posters, on music shows. She didn’t know he’d chosen her dad’s quiet cat café because he was tired of being looked at.

To her, he was just the boy by the window who liked cats and oat vanilla lattes.

And for now, that was all he needed to be.

The world had been too loud lately.

Even at night, when their dorm lights were off and the city outside the windows dulled to a low hum, Yeosang could still feel the static of noise pressed against his chest — a hum that came from too many cameras, too many eyes, too many shouts that weren’t meant for the person he actually was.

He loved performing. He loved ATEEZ — their energy, their bond, the way Hongjoong’s voice grounded him when the world spun too fast. But the last few months had felt like sprinting with no finish line in sight. Promotions, variety shows, fan signs, practice, interviews. Laughter for the cameras. Smiles that sometimes didn’t quite reach his eyes when he caught himself wondering if anyone could tell the difference.

He sat on the dorm balcony that morning, hoodie pulled up, a cup of green tea cooling between his palms. The others were asleep, except Hongjoong, whose muffled voice drifted from the studio down the hall.

A small white cat stretched lazily on the balcony of the neighboring building, sunlight glinting off its fur. Yeosang smiled at the sight. Cats always calmed him — something about their quietness, their refusal to perform for anyone. They only gave affection when they wanted to.

Maybe that’s why he’d always liked them more than people.

He glanced down at his phone. Notifications flickered nonstop — messages, mentions, tags. He’d muted most apps months ago, but the flood still found its way through. A fan edit had gone viral overnight — a slow-motion clip of him smiling at a music show, captioned “Yeosang’s smile heals nations.” Thousands of comments underneath.

He appreciated the love. He really did. But sometimes he wondered who they were loving.

He turned the phone face-down.

The tea had gone cold. He stood up, stretched, and decided he needed air. Not the kind of air filled with billboards and crowds — real air. Something quiet.

A memory surfaced — Seonghwa showing him photos from a café he’d visited on his day off. Cats, soft lighting, hand-drawn chalkboard signs. “It’s a shelter partnership place,” Seonghwa had said. “You’d like it. It’s peaceful. They help with adoptions too.”

Peaceful. That sounded like oxygen.

He showered, dressed down — beige jacket, cap, mask — and left a note on the counter:

Went for a walk. Don’t worry.

Outside, the sky was a bright, washed-out blue. Seoul was still waking up, though the streets were already filling with commuters. Yeosang kept his head down as he walked, hands tucked into his jacket pockets. The mask helped — most people didn’t look twice if you blended in.

He took the subway two stops south, then wandered until the crowds thinned. That’s how he liked exploring — following quiet, not maps. The city had pockets of silence if you looked carefully enough: side streets with hanging laundry, small parks behind convenience stores, and, apparently, a cat café tucked between a laundromat and a stationery shop.

The sign above the door read Moonlight Café in soft cursive, the letters slightly faded. Beneath it, a chalkboard with paw prints drawn around the edges read:

“Drink coffee, pet cats, save lives 💛 Adoption day this Sunday!”

Yeosang stood outside for a moment, listening. Inside, he could faintly hear the low hiss of the espresso machine and the gentle chime of a bell. No music, no chatter — just that.

He exhaled slowly.

When he pushed the door open, warmth met him like a soft wave.

The air smelled of coffee and clean wood, with a hint of something floral — maybe the fabric softener used on the café blankets. The space was small but cozy, sunlight spilling through wide windows onto the wooden floor. Cats lounged behind a glass partition, tails flicking lazily. There were only a few customers: an older woman knitting, two students chatting quietly.

And behind the counter, a girl with her hair tied loosely back, sleeves rolled to her elbows, was arranging cups.

Yeosang froze for a heartbeat — not because she was stunning in the flashy, camera-ready way he usually saw, but because she looked… real.

Her hoodie was soft and oversized, a little worn at the cuffs. A few loose strands of hair had escaped her bun, brushing her cheeks as she moved. Her eyes focused intently on what she was doing, and when she smiled at the older woman — small, genuine, a little shy — it reached all the way to the corners of her face.

She didn’t look up at him immediately. And when she finally did, there was no flicker of recognition. No widened eyes. No whisper to her friend. Just that same polite, gentle smile.

“Good morning,” she said softly.

Her voice sounded like the café — warm and quiet, the kind you lean toward to hear better.

He found himself nodding before he remembered he had to say something. “Good morning,” he echoed.

He hadn’t realized how tense his shoulders had been until they loosened.

Usually, when someone looked at him, he felt the weight of expectation — the flash of realization followed by either excitement or hesitation. Sometimes people were kind about it, sometimes they weren’t, but it always changed the air.

Here, nothing changed.

She turned slightly, gesturing toward the menu board behind her. “You can sit first, if you like. I’ll take your order when you’re ready.”

Her tone was matter-of-fact, not dismissive — the way someone spoke when they were used to giving small kindnesses all day long.

He nodded again. “Okay. Thank you.”

He found a seat by the window, the one with the best light. It overlooked the cat area and the quiet street outside. He set his bag down carefully, took off his cap, and inhaled. The sun caught dust motes in the air, making them shimmer like floating glitter.

For the first time in a while, he didn’t feel watched.

He reached into his bag for his camera — a compact mirrorless model he carried everywhere. Photography had started as a way to document their tours, but lately it had become something else: proof that there was still beauty in small things.

He snapped a photo of the sunlight on the floor, another of a gray cat yawning behind the glass. The shutter sound was soft enough that no one looked up.

He didn’t take a picture of the girl. That felt too much like stealing. But he did watch her sometimes — the way she wiped the counter with deliberate motions, how she tucked a stray hair behind her ear, how she bent down to talk to the cats through the glass, her expression softening into something tender.

Cute, he thought, surprised at himself. She’s… cute.

Not in the way fans called idols cute — not the curated, picture-perfect kind. But the kind that happened naturally, like sunlight catching dust in the air.

When she brought him his latte later — oat milk, vanilla, because that’s what sounded comforting — he saw the tiny cat face drawn into the foam and felt a sudden, inexplicable tug in his chest.

Her cheeks pinked when he smiled and said it was cute. He noticed the faint blush spreading under her skin and thought, don’t stare, you’ll make her uncomfortable. But it was hard not to.

He wanted to memorize the way that small moment felt — the warmth of the mug in his hands, the low hum of the espresso machine, the sound of cats padding across wooden floors.

For a few precious minutes, there was no noise.

Just him. And a girl who didn’t know his name.

The latte cooled between his hands, the tiny cat face in the foam slowly dissolving into tan swirls. It made him oddly sad to watch it fade, like time erasing something small but kind.

He took a sip. The vanilla wasn’t too sweet; it tasted like calm.

Across the glass wall, the cats were stretching, rolling, curling into sunlight. He could name the postures from memory—he’d read enough articles about cat behavior during sleepless nights—but seeing it up close felt different. There was a rhythm to them: eat, nap, play, repeat. A rhythm that had nothing to do with schedules or cameras.

He lifted his camera and began to take photos: a paw batting at a feather toy, a tail flicking against a cushion, the old tabby with ist eyes half-closed. Each click was a heartbeat, small proof that this kind of peace existed.

When the girl— Y/N, her nametag said —walked past, he lowered the camera quickly. She was carrying a tray of mugs to a side table, humming under her breath. The tune was quiet, off-key in a charming way. She stopped beside the glass, tapped gently, and whispered something to a white-and-orange cat perched high on a shelf.

Boksoo, he remembered her saying earlier.

The cat didn’t move at first. Then, slowly, it blinked at her and leaned forward until ist nose almost touched the glass. She smiled, a little triumphant. Yeosang caught the expression through his lens before he realized he’d lifted the camera again.

Click.

He froze.

He hadn’t meant to take a picture of her. But the way her smile softened, the way the morning light caught the fine strands of hair at her temple—it had looked like something worth keeping. A moment that would disappear if he didn’t hold it still.

He lowered the camera, guilt prickling, and reviewed the shot. It wasn’t framed like a portrait; it was more about the glass, the cat, her hand halfway lifted. Still, he felt oddly protective of it, as if showing it to anyone would make the moment less his.

He turned the camera off and sat back. Outside, a delivery truck rumbled past, shaking the window slightly. The world went on, loud and busy, just a pane of glass away.

Inside, the café was a cocoon.

It had been so long since he’d sat anywhere without being looked at. Even with the mask and cap, people sometimes recognized him—fans whispering in restaurants, someone sneaking a photo at the gym. It wasn’t their fault; he understood the curiosity. But it made every public place feel like a stage.

Here, the stage lights were off.

He could just be a man drinking coffee.

He leaned his elbows on the table, watching Y/N wipe the counter again. She didn’t move with the sharp precision of someone performing; she moved like someone careful not to break the small world around her. Each gesture deliberate, unhurried.

When she laughed softly at something her father said, Yeosang felt a tug of warmth and envy at once. He missed that kind of laughter—the unguarded kind that came without thinking about who might record it.

He wondered what it would be like to come here without hiding behind a nickname. To tell her his real name, not “Yeon.” To say, I’m Yeosang. I sing, I dance, but I don’t want to talk about that today. I just want to ask how Boksoo’s doing.

He pictured it, then pushed the thought away. She didn’t need to know. Knowing would change everything—the quiet, the small smiles, the soft blush when he’d complimented the latte art. It would turn into politeness, or distance, or worse, awe.

He didn’t want awe. He wanted to be normal.

The doorbell chimed as two new customers came in. He watched Y/N greet them with that same gentle tone. One of the cats meowed loudly, and she bent down to reassure it, her hair falling forward. The sight made something in his chest unclench.

When she straightened, their eyes met briefly through the glass. She smiled—shy, polite—and he found himself returning it before he could stop.

She turned away quickly, cheeks pink again.

Cute, he thought for the second time that morning, and this time he let himself linger on it. Not the kind of cute that made you want to chase someone; the kind that made you want to sit beside them quietly until the world made sense again.

He finished his drink and stayed another half hour, alternating between sketching in his notebook and watching the cats. He wrote down small things he noticed—the way sunlight warmed the wooden floor, the rhythm of the espresso machine, the smell of vanilla in the air. Details he could hold onto later, when the dorm was loud again.

When he finally left, the girl was at the counter writing something on a slip of paper. She looked up as he passed.

“Thank you for coming,” she said softly. “Have a good day.”

“You too,” he said, and meant it.

Outside, the city felt louder than before. But he carried a pocket of quiet with him—the sound of cats, the warmth of foam, the color of her blush.

By the time Yeosang reached the company van stop, the city had shaken off its calm.

The noise came in waves—honking taxis, snippets of pop songs leaking from cafés, people calling to one another over the rush of traffic.

He pulled his cap a little lower and let the hum swallow him.

The peace from Moonlight Café clung to him like the faint smell of vanilla.

He kept replaying pieces of the morning: the way sunlight spilled across the wooden floor, the quiet scratch of Y/N’s pen, the tiny sound she made when the kitten had climbed her sleeve.

For once, he hadn’t felt like he was being watched; he’d just been there.

That, more than anything, had felt new.

By late afternoon, he was back at the company building.

Ateez’s practice room was already full of noise: the bass from Mingi’s speaker rattled the mirrors, San and Wooyoung were arguing over choreography, and Jongho sat on the floor stretching with the focus of someone preparing for battle.

Yeosang slipped inside quietly, set his camera bag down, and began to warm up.

San spotted him first.

“There you are!” San jogged over, hair sticking to his forehead.

“Where’d you disappear this morning? Manager-hyung said you went on a solo adventure.”

Yeosang shrugged, rolling his shoulders. “I just needed some air.”

Wooyoung, who never missed a chance to tease, leaned against the wall. “Air? Or a date?”

“Date?” Mingi echoed from the corner, grinning. “Hyung, you’ve been acting mysterious lately.”

Yeosang gave them a flat look that made San laugh harder. “It wasn’t a date,” he said. “I went to a café.”

“Café,” Wooyoung repeated, suspiciously drawn out. “We have coffee here.”

“Not like that one.”

That got Seonghwa’s attention. He paused mid–stretch. “Which café?”

Yeosang hesitated. “It’s small. A cat café. On a side street near the station.”

“Oh!” Seonghwa smiled in recognition. “Moonlight Café?”

Yeosang blinked.

“I went there once,” Seonghwa said, voice softening. “They work with shelters. It’s nice, isn’t it?”

The others looked between them, curiosity bright in their eyes.

“Hyung found his peaceful place,” San said dramatically. “Watch, he’s going to adopt ten cats.”

Wooyoung gasped. “He’s going to bring one to the dorm. And then I’ll be its favorite.”

“No,” Hongjoong said from behind his laptop. “No animals in the dorm. The last time we tried to keep a fish, San—”

“It was an accident!” San protested.

Laughter filled the room, echoing off the walls. The chaos was familiar, comforting even, but Yeosang felt the volume press against his ribs again.

He smiled faintly, pretending to stretch.

“Was it crowded?” Seonghwa asked quietly once the noise dipped.

“Not really,” Yeosang said. “Just a few people. Peaceful.”

Seonghwa nodded. “Good. You looked tired lately.”

Yeosang didn’t deny it. There was no point. They all knew the exhaustion that came with the job—the blur of cameras, the endless cycle of “smile, wave, perform.”

Practice resumed. They danced for hours, sweat pooling at their necks, lungs burning. Between songs, Yeosang found himself thinking of Boksoo perched on the shelf, of Y/N’s soft laugh, of how still everything had been.

Every time he looked into the mirror, the reflection staring back wore a perfect expression, practiced and sharp.

He wondered if she would recognize that version of him—the one who belonged under stage lights—and decided he didn’t want her to.

By the time they stumbled back to the dorm, it was dark.

Dinner was take-out containers scattered across the kitchen table, everyone talking over each other.

Yeosang sat on the couch, legs stretched out, a cat video playing silently on his phone just for the comfort of movement.

He could hear Wooyoung recounting some ridiculous story, San laughing so hard he nearly choked, Jongho humming quietly as he cleaned up.

He loved them, every single one of them, but the noise seeped into his bones until he had to retreat.

In his room, he closed the door halfway and sat by the window.

The city lights blinked below, and for a long moment he just watched.

He turned his camera on and scrolled through the morning’s photos.

Click—Boksoo’s paw stretching mid-yawn.

Click—the sunlight tracing the rim of a mug.

And then the accidental shot: Y/N half-smiling at the cat through the glass, her hand hovering mid-air, her eyes soft.

He stared at it longer than the others.

It wasn’t perfect—slightly blurred, the reflection cutting across the frame—but something about it felt alive.

He thought of her name stitched on her apron: Y/N 🐾.

He whispered it once, quietly, as if saying it might break the photo’s spell.

He shouldn’t think about her.

He barely knew her.

But the world had felt still around her, and stillness was something he’d been chasing for months.

A knock on the door made him jump. Hongjoong leaned in, hair damp from a shower.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Yeosang said quickly, setting the camera aside. “Just tired.”

Hongjoong gave a small, knowing smile. “Tired, or thinking?”

Yeosang hesitated. “Both.”

The leader nodded once. “Rest then. We’ve got recordings tomorrow. Don’t lose yourself in the noise, okay?”

“Okay.”

When the door closed again, Yeosang lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

The words echoed softly—don’t lose yourself in the noise.

He turned off the lights. Darkness settled, but inside his head there was a quiet place: wooden floors, the scent of coffee, cats padding by, and a girl whose smile had nothing to do with who he was supposed to be.

Before sleep took him, he decided one thing.

He would go back to Moonlight Café.

Not as Kang Yeosang of ATEEZ.

Just as the boy who liked cats—and the way she blushed when he smiled.

The rain had started sometime in the late afternoon — not loud, not stormy, just that steady, curtain-like drizzle that made the street outside blur into smudged lights and passing shadows. It turned the big front window of Moonlight Café into a soft painting and the whole place into a little island of warm yellow.

It was, in other words, the exact kind of weather where nobody came in an hour before closing.

Y/N didn’t mind. She actually liked evenings like this.

The overhead lights were dimmed, the fairy lights along the beam glowing softly. The cats were moving slower, too — rain always made them sleepy. Mr. Bean was loafed near the heater, the two sibling kittens were curled together in a donut bed, and Boksoo, still shy even after a week, had taken up residence on the high shelf again, eyes half-lidded as he watched everything from above like a small, dignified cloud.

Her dad had gone home early — his back had been bothering him all day, and she’d shooed him out at seven.

“I can close,” she’d said, already wiping the counter. “Go rest.”

“You sure?” he’d asked, eyes soft.

“Positive. It’s raining. No one’s coming.”

He’d kissed her hair, taken his umbrella, and left her the keys.

And now here she was: alone behind the counter, hoodie sleeves pushed up, a half-dried cloth in her hand, the sound of rain pattering outside mixing with the faint purring from the cat lounge.

She glanced at the clock. 8:07 p.m.

They closed at nine.

She could’ve put on music, but she didn’t. She liked the quiet. When the café was empty, she could hear the tiny things — the clink of the refrigerator, the soft snore of a cat, the squeak of her own shoes on the floor. It made her feel like the place was breathing with her.

She went to the adoption wall and pinned up the newest Polaroid — a young couple holding Luna, beaming. Y/N wrote under it in rounded handwriting:

“Luna went to her forever home — 10/11 💛”

She stepped back, hands on her hips, and smiled to herself. They really didn’t make much money, but this — this felt like wealth.

The bell above the door rang.

She jumped.

For a second, she blinked toward the entrance, startled — then relaxed when she saw who it was.

The beige jacket. The camera bag. The cap.

Yeon.

He pushed the door closed quickly to keep the rain out, shoulders dotted with droplets. He took off his cap as he stepped in, letting the warmth of the café settle over him. His hair was a little damp, flattened in that way that made it look softer.

“Hi,” he said, that same quiet voice.

Y/N couldn’t help the way her mouth tugged up. “Hi. You came in late.”

“I was nearby,” he said, glancing around with that observant look of his. “And it was raining. I thought… here would be warm.”

Something fluttered in her chest at that. He thought of here. He’d come back, just like he said he would.

“You’re right,” she said. “We are warm.” Then she wrinkled her nose at herself. “That sounded like a weird advertisement.”

He huffed a small laugh — more of an exhale, really, but it made his eyes crinkle. “A good one,” he said. “Are you still open?”

“For you? No.” She pretended to reach for the CLOSED sign, then shook her head. “I’m kidding. Yeah, we are. Want the usual?”

“Oat vanilla?” he asked, already unzipping his bag like he knew he’d stay.

She nodded. “Oat vanilla.”

He walked up to the counter, and because it was evening and empty and raining, she noticed more things about him than she had the first time. How his features seemed softer without daylight. How his voice always stayed low, like he didn’t want to disturb the mood of the place. How his eyes kept darting to the cats.

Also — and she had to admit this to herself now, since there was no one else around to call her delusional — he was… very attractive.

Not just regular attractive, either. Not the kind of cute where you said “aww what a nice boy.” No. This was the kind where, if she had been the kind of girl who used social media, she would’ve sent a photo to a friend with a “look at this man???” text.

He had that kind of face. Soft but sharp, clean lines, kind eyes. And he carried himself like someone used to being looked at — except not in a smug way. More in a “I’m used to it but also slightly tired of it” way.

She felt heat crawl up her neck at her own thoughts and quickly busied herself with the espresso machine.

“Slow today?” he asked, leaning on the counter with his forearms.

“Rain,” she said. “People like cats but not wet feet.”

He glanced down at his own still-damp shoes and smiled. “Fair.”

She made his drink without rushing — partly because she didn’t have to, partly because she liked the small quiet between them. He watched her work, not in a creepy way, just calmly. When she poured the oat milk and the foam settled, she tried to do the cat again. The ears came out a little lopsided.

She grimaced.

He tilted his head. “It’s cute.”

“You’re being nice,” she said, cheeks warming.

“I’m being honest.”

She set the drink down, trying not to meet his eyes too long. He always made her feel… seen. Which was strange, because she’d spent most of her life being the opposite of that. Not bullied. Just… background. The girl in the second row on picture day. The lab partner you forgot the name of. The café worker who remembered your order but whose face you didn’t really register.

He picked up the mug, inhaled, and sighed like he’d been holding his breath all day. “This place is really comfortable,” he said. “You and your dad… you made something nice.”

“Thanks,” she said, smiling despite herself. “We try.”

He turned, glanced at the cats. “They’re sleepy.”

“It’s bedtime soon,” she said. “We move them to the back rooms at eight-thirty so we can clean the lounge.”

“Do you need help?”

She blinked.

No customer had ever asked that.

She started to shake her head on instinct. “Oh, no, it’s okay. You’re a customer.”

He looked back at her, expression open. “I like cats.”

That… was a good point.

She hesitated, then shrugged, a little shy. “Okay. If you want. You can help take them to bed.”

His smile was small but genuine, like she’d just given him something personal.

She lifted the countertop gate and motioned for him to come through. He did, carefully, making sure not to bump anything. He smelled faintly of rain and something clean.

She opened the door to the cat lounge, flicking on the softer overhead light. “We move the older ones first,” she said. “Then the kittens, so they don’t get too wild.”

He nodded, listening intently like she was explaining choreography.

She scooped up Mr. Bean, who only grumbled a little, and handed him over. “Can you take him to the back room? The left cage — it’s open, there’s a blanket.”

He took the cat like he was taking something precious, one hand under the belly, one supporting. Mr. Bean sniffed him once, decided he was acceptable, and flopped.

“He likes you,” Y/N said, a little impressed.

“Animals usually do,” he said without bragging. “Maybe because I’m quiet.”

She watched him disappear through the back door with Mr. Bean and thought, not for the first time: he really didn’t act like most guys she’d met. There was no showing off, no unnecessary jokes, no staring. Just gentleness.

They worked together for ten minutes, moving the cats one by one. He handled them so carefully that she started giving him the ones that were more nervous. Boksoo took some coaxing, but when Yeon crouched near the shelf and just held out a hand, saying nothing, the cat eventually crept down and let himself be picked up.

Show-off, she thought fondly at the cat. Falling for him immediately.

When they finished, the lounge looked empty, the toys scattered like the aftermath of a tiny party. She grabbed the disinfectant and spray, ready to clean the floor.

“You can go sit,” she said, glancing at him. “I have to mop.”

“I can mop,” he said.

She snorted before she could stop herself. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” he said simply.

She studied him for a second. His eyes didn’t look like he was trying to impress her. They looked… earnest.

“Okay,” she said, handing him the mop. “But if my dad comes in and sees a customer working, he’s going to make you sign a contract.”

He laughed quietly. “I’ll be careful.”

They cleaned mostly in silence, but it wasn’t awkward. The rain outside filled the space where small talk would’ve gone. Every now and then she’d glance over and catch him looking around the café like he was memorizing it — the adoption wall, the jars of treats, the chalkboard with her dad’s cheesy heart.

When they were done, it was eight-forty-five. She flipped the OPEN sign to CLOSED and locked the door. The street outside was even emptier now, rain still falling.

He was standing near the counter, mug finished, bag on his shoulder.

“Thank you,” he said. “For letting me help.”

“Thank you,” she said back, meaning it. “You were good with them.”

He shrugged, a little bashful. “I like animals.”

“I can tell.” She hesitated, then added, “They liked you, too.”

He looked at her then — really looked — and her stomach did something a little silly. His eyes were warm, softer in the low light. It was so easy to forget he was… well, whatever he was outside of here. Handsome, clearly. Probably popular. He had that look. She just didn’t… know from where. Or with who. Or on what app.

“You’re going home now?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said, wiping her hands on a towel and untying her apron. “We live like fifteen minutes away. I just have to turn off the lights in the back.”

“I can walk you,” he said, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She blinked. “Oh, it’s okay. You don’t have to.”

“It’s late,” he said. “And raining.”

“I like rain.” She smiled, then, because she could hear her dad’s voice in her head warning about strangers, she added, “And no one’s going to bother me.”

He frowned very slightly. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” she said, a little too quickly, and then realized she sounded defensive. She shrugged, looking away toward the window. “No one ever does. I’m not… the kind of person people bother.”

She hadn’t meant to say it like that — a bit flat, a bit honest — but it slipped out. The truth of having spent years being invisible. Of knowing exactly where she ranked on a street at night: not a target, not a magnet, just background.

She felt the silence that followed. Felt his eyes on her.

Before he could say anything — anything kind, anything that would make her have feelings, anything that would make her think about her body or her face or the way she hid in big clothes — she stepped back and grabbed her bag.

“Anyway,” she said lightly, forcing cheer into her voice. “Thank you for coming, Yeon. You can come again, obviously. We like people who mop.”

His mouth parted like he wanted to argue. Or tell her she was wrong. Or tell her she was worth walking home.

But she was already moving — turning off the back lights, checking the cash drawer, doing the closing routine she’d done a hundred times. She didn’t give him space to insist.

She came back to the front, keys in hand.

“Good night,” she said, soft again now that the moment had passed. “Get home safely.”

He looked at her for a heartbeat longer — that steady, observant look — but then he nodded.

“You too,” he said quietly. “Good night, Y/N.”

She unlocked the door, slipped out into the rain with her hood up, and pulled it closed behind her. She didn’t look back through the window — if she had, she might’ve seen him still standing there, watching her go, brows drawn like he was thinking about that one sentence she’d said.

No one would even try to do something to me.

She walked home under the soft rain, the café lights fading behind her, unaware that for the first time in a long time, someone had, in fact, noticed her enough to want to walk beside her.

The week after the rain felt like someone had turned up the city’s brightness and the volume of her life at the same time.

University swallowed her whole. Lab reports, partner projects, readings that never seemed to end. Her planner was a tangle of deadlines and half-checked boxes. She spent more time under fluorescent lights than sunlight, more time talking about cortisol levels in stressed animals than about anything human.

The café blurred into the background for a while. Her father texted little updates in the evenings —

Don’t worry about us. The cats miss you, though 🐾

Boksoo learned to open the treat jar. Send help.

She’d smile at her phone between classes and feel the tug of homesickness for that tiny, warm space: the smell of coffee, the hum of the espresso machine, the cats pressed against the glass. And him.

Yeon.

The name looped in her mind like a song she couldn’t stop humming.

It was ridiculous, she knew. They’d talked maybe twice. But sometimes, while her professor droned about behavioral reinforcement schedules, she’d catch herself remembering the sound of his laugh — quiet, low, like it came from somewhere gentle. Or the way he’d crouched to let Boksoo sniff his fingers. Or how he’d said “I’ll be careful,” as if cleaning the café floor were a sacred task.

She’d imagine him walking through the door again, camera over his shoulder, asking about the cats. And then she’d shake her head, press her pen to her notes, and remind herself that daydreams didn’t count toward grades.

By Thursday, the lack of sleep was catching up with her. Her project partner, Kyungsoo, noticed first.

“You’ve read the same paragraph three times,” he said, tapping the open page of their joint report with the blunt end of his pen.

“I’m processing,” she mumbled.

“You’re daydreaming,” he corrected, smiling. Kyungsoo wasn’t unkind — he was the quiet sort of classmate who always brought extra pens and remembered to hold doors. His dark hair fell into his eyes whenever he bent over his notebook. They’d been assigned together for a paper on stress indicators in domestic animals, and he carried most of the talking while she carried most of the data. It worked.

“I’m just tired,” she said, rubbing her temple.

“Maybe,” he said, tilting his head. “Or maybe you’re thinking about something nicer than cortisol graphs.”

Her ears warmed. “You sound like my dad.”

“That’s a no, then?”

She gave a noncommittal hum and changed the subject.

They worked until sunset, then decided to take a short break before finishing. The campus park was only a few blocks away — long paths lined with gingko trees, their leaves turning gold, benches dotted between lampposts that flickered on as the sky bruised purple.

They walked side by side, notebooks tucked under their arms. The air smelled of rain from earlier in the day and the faint sweetness of roasted chestnuts from a street cart nearby.

“You’ve been distracted lately,” Kyungsoo said after a while. His tone was casual, but his glance was sharp. “Someone on your mind?”

Y/N laughed under her breath. “That obvious?”

“Only because you keep smiling at nothing.”

She looked down at the path, scuffing a fallen leaf with her shoe. “Maybe there’s someone. But it’s nothing serious. Just… someone I met.”

“A guy,” he guessed.

She shrugged. “Sort of.”

He smiled. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

The question caught her off guard. She shook her head quickly. “No. Never.”

“Never wanted one?”

She hesitated. The truth was simple, but saying it out loud felt strange. “I don’t think I ever thought about it much. People always talked about relationships like it was the most important thing, but… I don’t know. I guess I never thought it was something meant for me.”

Kyungsoo’s brows furrowed. “Why not?”

She shrugged again, hugging her notebook tighter. “I’ve just always been… in the background, I guess. People don’t notice me like that. And it’s fine. I have school, the café, my dad, the cats. That’s enough.”

They walked a few more steps in silence. Then he said, softly, “I think it finds you when it wants to. Love, I mean. You don’t have to chase it.”

She gave him a small smile. “That’s a nice thought.”

“It’s true.”

A gust of wind pushed leaves across the path, and she stepped aside to avoid them — or thought she did — until her foot caught on something solid.

She stumbled forward with an ungraceful noise. “Ah—!”

Kyungsoo grabbed her elbow before she could fall. “Careful!”

She looked down. A backpack lay open across the path, half-unzipped, a camera strap peeking out. “Oh no,” she said, crouching quickly. “I think I kicked it.”

Before she could reach for it, a voice from the grass nearby laughed softly. “That’s mine.”

Her head turned toward the sound — and her breath caught.

There, sitting on the grass among a small group of young men, was Yeon.

For a second, she thought she was imagining him.

The light was different here — not the warm café yellow, but the cool, fading evening kind, where everything was edged in blue. He was sitting on the grass, one knee bent, one hand resting casually on it, and he looked… the same. Calm. Observant. Like the noise around him didn’t quite touch him.

There were three other guys with him, all around the same age, sprawled on the grass with take-out cups and a half-open bag of snacks between them. One of them was laughing loudly at something on his phone; another was tossing a crumpled wrapper into the bag like a basketball shot. They were dressed casually — hoodies, caps, one in a long coat — the kind of group you’d see in any park near campus.

But she barely registered them.

“Yeon?” she blurted before she could stop herself.

His eyes lifted to hers — and they softened in instant recognition.

“Y/N,” he said, like he was relieved. Like seeing her here, in a completely different part of the city, during a weeknight, was something good.

She felt Kyungsoo’s hand still on her elbow and straightened, flustered. “Sorry,” she said quickly, gesturing to the bag. “I didn’t see it.”

“It’s okay,” Yeon said, already reaching to pull the bag closer to him so it wouldn’t be in the way. “I left it in the path. My fault.”

One of the guys beside him glanced between them with obvious curiosity, but didn’t say anything. Another one smirked, not unkindly, just amused.

“Friend of yours?” Kyungsoo asked her quietly.

She nodded. “From the café.”

“Ah.” Kyungsoo’s eyes flicked to Yeon, taking him in — the good looks, the calm posture, the way he was watching Y/N like she was the person he was most interested in right now. Then, very subtly, Kyungsoo smiled.

“I should grab that coffee,” he said. “And finish up the notes at home.”

“You don’t have to—” Y/N started, but he was already taking a step back.

“I’ll send you the draft tonight,” he said, lifting his hand in a little wave. Then, to Yeon, with that polite student-to-stranger tone, “Nice to meet you.”

Yeon dipped his head. “You too.”

And just like that, Kyungsoo melted away into the path, leaving her standing there with her notebook in her arms like a confused extra who’d wandered into the wrong scene.

She turned back to Yeon, cheeks warming. “Um. Hi.”

He smiled — that same gentle, slow-growing one she’d seen at the café. “Hi.”

The rain from the earlier part of the day had left the grass damp, so he didn’t stand immediately — he wiped his hand on his pants first, then pushed himself up. The movement made the other guys go quiet for a moment, watching him. She could feel their attention, but it didn’t feel threatening. Just… curious.

“You’re not at the café,” he said, stating the obvious, but his tone was almost teasing.

She huffed a laugh. “I do leave sometimes.”

“I wasn’t sure,” he said, eyes crinkling. “You looked very… at home there.”

“I am,” she said, hugging her notebook. “But university got clingy this week.”

“Ah,” he said, like he understood that perfectly. “Busy?”

“Mm. Partner project.” She glanced in the direction Kyungsoo had gone. “That was my partner.”

“He seems nice.”

“He is.” She paused, then, because the thought had been sitting in her head for days, added, “I haven’t seen you at the café this week.”

His smile turned a little sheepish. “Schedules.”

Schedules. She didn’t know what kind of work needed “schedules” plural, but she guessed he was the kind of person who did photoshoots or freelance jobs. He always had his camera. Maybe he was a photographer. That would make sense with how he looked — artistic. Calm.

She was about to ask him if he’d taken any good photos lately when one of the guys on the grass called out, “Yeon-ah, we’re gonna head out in a bit.”

“Okay,” Yeon said over his shoulder, without taking his eyes off her.

That did something to her stomach.

“You were hanging out?” she asked.

“Just resting,” he said. “It was a nice day.”

“It was,” she agreed. “I didn’t see your bag. I’m sorry.”

He glanced at the spot where she’d tripped, then back at her feet. “You didn’t get hurt?”

“No. I’m sturdy.” The words were out before she could stop them, and she wanted to swallow them back. Sturdy. Great. Very cute.

But instead of laughing, he nodded like that was good. “That’s good.”

The breeze picked up, rustling the leaves above them. She became painfully aware of how she must look: hair a bit messy from the day, hoodie under her jacket, big tote bag with textbooks. Not glamorous. Not exciting. Just… her.

But he was still looking at her like he had in the café — like he was paying attention.

“Were you going home?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said. “We were just taking a walk to clear our heads. I should… probably go and finish the project.”

He hesitated, then said, a bit quieter, “Will you be at the café again soon?”

She blinked. “You want to come?”

“I liked it,” he said simply. “I like… the way it feels there.” Then, after a heartbeat, “And your cats.”

She smiled, cheeks warming. “They’re not mine.”

“You act like they are.”

“I love them.” She shrugged. “So maybe a little.”

He smiled again — a quick, pleased thing — and shifted his bag higher on his shoulder. Behind him, his friends were standing now, stretching, gathering their things. One of them waved at her, friendly, and she bowed back automatically.

“Your friends,” she said. “I shouldn’t keep you.”

“They can go first,” he said, and turned to them. “I’ll come in a bit.”

There was some teasing from the guys — she could tell by the way one of them laughed and smacked his shoulder — but they started walking ahead toward the park exit, talking amongst themselves. They didn’t stray too far, though. They lingered, like they were giving him space but not abandoning him.

It made her wonder, for just a second, if Yeon was the kind of person people watched over. The thought made her weirdly warm.

When it was just the two of them within earshot again, she shifted her weight. “Um. I’m glad you came that evening,” she said. “To the café.”

“I’m glad you let me help,” he said.

“You were good with Boksoo.”

“He trusts me now,” he said, almost proudly. “I should come say hi again.”

“You should,” she said before she could overthink it. “I… missed seeing you there.”

The words slipped out so naturally she didn’t realize they were bold until she heard them. She clapped her mouth shut, eyes widening a fraction.

His expression changed — not dramatically, just a soft flicker of surprise and then something like warmth. “You did?”

“I mean—” She scrambled for casualness. “We don’t get many people who actually help mop.”

He laughed, low. “I see.”

“But also… yeah. It was nice.” She looked down at her notebook, tracing the corner. “Sometimes we get the same regulars and it’s just… the same. You were new.”

He was quiet for a moment. “You were new, too,” he said.

She looked up.

“I don’t go places where people don’t recognize me,” he said, then blinked, as if catching himself. “I mean— I don’t go places where people… notice me less. Your café is… quiet.”

She tilted her head. The wording was odd, but she didn’t press. Maybe he meant he was from a very tight social circle. Maybe he was from a neighborhood where everyone knew everyone. Maybe he was just shy.

“Well,” she said, “we’re always quiet.”

“I like that,” he said. “I’ll come again.”

She nodded. “Good.”

He glanced toward the park exit, where his friends were waiting. “I should go.”

“Me too.” She waved her notebook a little. “Cortisol awaits.”

That made him smile — a soft, puzzled smile, like he wanted to ask but was content to let it stay a mystery.

“Good night, Y/N,” he said.

“Good night, Yeon.”

She started walking toward the opposite path, heart beating faster than it had any reason to. Behind her, she heard one of the guys call out, “What took you so long?” and Yeon’s answer, too low to make out, half-laughing.

She didn’t look back.

But as she walked, she was suddenly very aware of something: the small, quiet world she’d always told herself was enough… was starting to feel like it had a new color in it. One that had walked into her dad’s café on a Tuesday morning, carried cats like they were precious, and smiled at her like she hadn’t been invisible at all.

By the time she reached her street, the sky had turned the colour of cold metal. The rain had stopped, but everything still smelled damp — wet pavement, leaves, and that faint sweetness that always came after autumn showers.

Her apartment sat above a tiny grocery shop; the neon sign buzzed faintly as she climbed the stairs. Inside, the place was small but tidy: a couch that had seen better days, a little desk crowded with textbooks, one window looking over the streetlight below. She kicked off her shoes and dropped her bag with a groan.

Her phone buzzed on the table.

Dad: Café survived the evening.

Boksoo missed his evening cuddle.

Don’t study too late. 💛

She smiled at the screen, thumbs moving before she could think:

Y/N: I won’t. Love you. Tell Boksoo I’ll visit tomorrow.

Then she let the phone fall beside her and lay back on the couch, staring at the ceiling fan spinning lazy circles.

Her mind kept replaying the park. The stumble, Kyungsoo’s startled grip on her elbow, the startled “Yeon?” leaving her mouth before she’d even realised it. His face lighting up when he’d said her name. The way he’d looked standing there in the fading light — no cap, no coffee cup, just a person, familiar in a different setting.

It was strange, seeing him among friends. He’d felt like part of her quiet little world at the café, someone who belonged to that space of steaming cups and sleepy cats. Out there, surrounded by laughter and chatter, he seemed… brighter. Like she was seeing a version of him she wasn’t supposed to see yet.

She turned onto her side and pulled one of the couch blankets over her legs. Her pulse still fluttered whenever she thought about how naturally he’d said “Good night, Y/N.” She’d replayed it twice already in her head, once slow and once fast, just to be sure she hadn’t imagined the softness in his tone.

She pressed her face into the pillow to muffle a laugh at herself. You’re hopeless, she thought.

On the coffee table, her open notebook stared back at her. She dragged it closer and flipped to a blank page. Instead of writing notes about animal stress indicators, she wrote a single sentence:

“Sometimes the calmest people carry the loudest worlds inside them.”

She looked at it for a long time. It felt true. Maybe for her. Maybe for him.

Her phone buzzed again — a photo from her dad. The café lights turned off, cats asleep in the back room. Underneath, he’d written:

See you tomorrow, kiddo. Moonlight Café is missing ist moon.

She laughed quietly, shaking her head. “Cheesy old man,” she murmured.

Still, she typed back:

I’ll open tomorrow morning.

As she set the phone down, she caught her reflection in the dark window — hoodie, messy hair, the faintest smile tugging at her mouth. She didn’t look extraordinary. She didn’t feel like the kind of girl people noticed in crowds. But for the first time in a long while, she didn’t feel invisible either.

Someone had looked at her like she was there.

Outside, a single cat darted across the street, tail high, vanishing into an alley. The sight made her heart ache in that small, warm way that good things do.

She switched off the lamp and let the darkness settle, the city hum sliding into the distance. Before sleep pulled her under, she thought of the café lights, the rain that had soaked his jacket, and the soft lilt of his voice when he’d said her name in the park.

Tomorrow, she decided drowsily, she’d go to the café early.

Just in case he came back.

The walk back from the park should have taken ten minutes. It took nearly half an hour because Wooyoung wouldn’t stop laughing.

“I still can’t believe it,” he said between wheezes. “You—Kang Yeosang, the man who can dodge fans in airports without blinking—triping over a poor girl with his own backpack just to talk to her. In public.”

“It was on the path,” Yeosang said evenly.

“Yeah, you put it there.”

San snorted. “He did not.”

Yunho looked up from his phone, his tone amused. “He might have. Subconsciously.”

Wooyoung groaned dramatically. “Hyung, don’t tell me you planned the whole meet-cute. What are you, a K-drama lead?”

Yeosang tugged his cap lower to hide the smile threatening at the corner of his mouth. “I didn’t plan anything. I was sitting.”

“You were sitting and glowing,” Wooyoung said. “She said your fake name like it was some romantic movie twist—‘Yeon?’—and you lit up like a streetlamp.”

San threw an arm around Yeosang’s shoulders. “So, tell us, what’s with the name anyway? ‘Yeon’? Sounds poetic.”

“It’s close enough to my real one that I’ll respond,” Yeosang said. “And people don’t Google it immediately.”

“That’s smart,” Yunho admitted. “But it’s also kinda cute. Like, ‘Yeon the mysterious guy from the cat café.’”

Wooyoung’s grin widened. “Cat café?! Oh, this gets better and better.”

“You already knew that,” Yeosang said.

“I knew you liked cats,” Wooyoung corrected. “I didn’t know you were meeting women while petting them.”

San gasped. “So she’s the cat-café girl you mentioned last week! The quiet one.”

Yeosang winced inwardly. He really shouldn’t have mentioned her that night after rehearsal. He’d only said something small—there’s a nice place with rescue cats, it’s peaceful—but Wooyoung remembered everything that could be used later for teasing.

“She works there,” Yeosang said carefully. “Her dad owns it.”

“And she’s cute,” San added, grinning. “Don’t lie, you said she’s cute.”

“I said she’s nice,” Yeosang corrected, which only made them laugh harder.

“Nice,” Wooyoung repeated, drawing the word out like a love confession. “Sure, sure.”

They turned down the street toward the dorm building. The city was louder here—traffic, neon, music leaking from open doors—but Yeosang barely heard it. His mind kept flicking back to the park, the moment she’d looked up after tripping, the tiny crease between her brows before her face had softened into recognition.

He hadn’t expected to see her outside the café, let alone hear his fake name in her voice. It had made something warm unfurl in his chest, the same feeling he used to get right before stepping on stage—nervous, alive, a little terrified.

“You’re smiling again,” Yunho said, watching him from the side.

Yeosang blinked. “Am I?”

“Uh-huh.” Yunho elbowed him lightly. “You weren’t smiling much lately. So whoever she is, good for her.”

Wooyoung pounced on that. “So it is a thing!”

“It’s not a thing,” Yeosang said, but his voice was too calm to sound convincing.

San hummed thoughtfully. “You know, if we meet her someday, I’m introducing myself as ‘Sannie from the dog café.’ Let’s see if she figures it out.”

“She won’t,” Yeosang said before he could stop himself. The others looked at him, amused.

“She doesn’t know who we are?” Wooyoung asked.

“She’s… not online much,” Yeosang said. “She didn’t recognise me.”

For once, none of them joked. Yunho nodded slowly. “That must have felt nice.”

Yeosang’s mouth curved. “It did.”

By the time they reached the dorm, Wooyoung had already rehearsed three different versions of the story in increasingly dramatic tones.

He flung the door open like he was announcing a scandal. “Guys! You will not believe what our Yeosang-ie did today.”

Inside, the living room was in ist usual post-schedule chaos. Mingi was on the floor, scrolling on his phone with one earbud in; Jongho sat at the table eating something that looked suspiciously like everyone’s leftovers; Seonghwa was folding laundry with terrifying precision; and Hongjoong, laptop balanced on his knees, looked up over his glasses.

“What happened?” Mingi asked, interest piqued immediately. “Did he buy a new camera? Did he get cast in a drama? Did he—”

“—get caught on a date,” Wooyoung finished, throwing himself onto the couch.

“It wasn’t a date,” Yeosang said, shutting the door behind him.

San followed, grinning. “But it looked like one.”

Jongho raised an eyebrow. “A date?”

“Not a date,” Yeosang repeated, calm but firm. He slipped off his shoes and set his bag down carefully, as if the neatness might save him from the impending teasing.

Hongjoong closed his laptop partway. “Explain.”

Wooyoung sat up, eyes sparkling. “So. We were in the park. Just resting. Minding our business. Our noble, silent visual over there—” he gestured dramatically at Yeosang “—has his bag in the path like a trap.”

“It was not a trap,” Yeosang said.

“And then,” Wooyoung continued, “this girl walks by. Pretty. Soft look. Kinda shy. And she trips over his bag.”

Mingi gasped like he was watching a drama. “Fate.”

“Right?” Wooyoung said, delighted.

Seonghwa looked at Yeosang with that polite, quiet curiosity of his. “Is it the girl from the café?”

Yeosang nodded once. “Yes.”

“Oh,” Seonghwa said, smile blooming. “The one you said didn’t recognise you.”

Jongho’s eyes widened. “There’s someone who doesn’t recognise us?”

“She doesn’t use social media much,” Yeosang said. “And the café is… small.”

“Lucky,” Mingi muttered. “I want that life.”

San plopped down on the armrest. “And she said his name,” he told the room, clearly pleased with his own storytelling role. “But here’s the best part.”

“The name,” Wooyoung said, clasping his hands. “Tell them.”

Jongho squinted. “What name?”

“Not ‘Yeosang,’” San said, grinning. “She called him—”

“—‘Yeon,’” Yunho finished, failing to hide his smile.

There was a beat of silence. Then Mingi burst out laughing, actually rolling to his side on the floor.

“‘Yeon’?” Jongho repeated, incredulous and delighted. “Hyung, what?”

“It’s close to my real name,” Yeosang said, folding his arms. He felt his ears heating, which annoyed him. “It’s easier.”

“It’s adorable,” Mingi said, wiping his eyes. “Hi, I’m Yeon. I drink oat vanilla lattes and save cats.”

Hongjoong chuckled, closing his laptop fully now. “Yeon, huh?”

“It works,” Yeosang said, trying to sound dignified.

“It does,” Seonghwa agreed, because Seonghwa was kind. “It suits you.”

“It’s very main-character-of-a-webtoon,” Mingi said.

“It’s mysterious,” San said.

“It’s cute,” Wooyoung said.

They were all smiling. No one was mocking him in a mean way — this was the kind of teasing that came from affection, from knowing him long enough to see when something actually mattered to him.

Hongjoong sat forward a little. “So. You met her again.”

“Yes.”

“How was it?”

Yeosang’s mind replayed the scene automatically: her surprised “Yeon?”, the way she’d crouched to check the bag even though she hadn’t kicked it hard, the way she’d looked a little flustered to see him in a different context. And that line — I missed seeing you there. He still wasn’t over that.

“It was… nice,” he said, which felt too small for what it had been.

Wooyoung made a face. “That’s all we get? ‘Nice’?”

“She said she missed him,” San said, traitorously.

All heads turned.

“She said what?” Mingi said.

“She said she missed seeing him at the café,” San said, delighted. “And then she got all shy.”

Jongho put his chopsticks down. “So she likes him.”

“Or at least she likes his face,” Mingi said.

“That’s a normal reaction,” Yunho murmured.

Hongjoong watched Yeosang carefully. “And you?” he asked quietly.

Yeosang met his eyes. With the others, he could deflect. With Hongjoong, it was harder. Their leader had a way of asking that slipped under your guard.

“I like talking to her,” Yeosang said. “It feels… quiet. Even when we’re talking. Like the noise is outside.”

Seonghwa’s expression softened. “You need places like that.”

“Exactly,” Yunho said. “You’ve been tense lately.”

“Not anymore,” Wooyoung said, sing-song. “He’s in loooove.”

Yeosang rolled his eyes. “I’ve met her three times.”

“Love at three visits,” Mingi said. “I’ve seen dramas start with less.”

“It’s not like that,” Yeosang said, but he couldn’t stop the small smile that tugged at his mouth. “I just… don’t want it to change.”

“What to change?” Jongho asked.

“That she doesn’t know,” Yeosang said. The room quieted a little. “That she doesn’t… look at me like an idol. I don’t want to lose that.”

There it was — the real thing, the part under all the teasing.

Hongjoong nodded slowly. “Yeah. I get that.”

“We all do,” Seonghwa said.

Wooyoung, surprisingly, didn’t joke. “You can keep it like that for a while,” he said. “If it makes you happy.”

“It does,” Yeosang said before he could second-guess it.

“Then keep going as ‘Yeon,’” Mingi said, grinning again. “Live your double life.”

San pointed dramatically at him. “But if she comes to a concert one day and sees you onstage, I want to be there.”

“You won’t,” Yeosang said dryly. “You’ll be onstage.”

“Oh,” San said, deflating. “Right.”

Laughter rippled again. The mood lightened. Someone turned the TV on, and a variety show filled the room with chatter. Yunho went to make tea. Wooyoung started telling another exaggerated version of the park scene, doing impressions of Y/N’s surprise.

But even in the noise, Yeosang sat back against the couch and let the warmth of the room wash over him. They were teasing him — but they’d also just given him permission to like her.

And he did. More than he’d wanted to admit.

The dorm had gone quiet.

One by one, the others had disappeared into their rooms, laughter fading behind doors, leaving only the hum of the refrigerator and the soft ticking of the clock on the wall.

Yeosang sat at his desk, hair still damp from a shower, camera open beside his laptop. The light from the screen cast a pale glow over the photos he’d taken earlier that week: the cats at Moonlight Café, the sunlight on the floor, the rain streaking down the window.

And one photo — slightly out of focus — of Y/N smiling at Boksoo.

He hesitated, thumb hovering over the delete button. It wasn’t meant to be taken. It wasn’t posed, not even perfect. But it was real.

He saved it to a hidden folder instead.

For a while he just stared at it, elbows on the desk, chin resting on his hands. He knew he couldn’t pretend forever. “Yeon” was convenient; it let him breathe. But every time he walked into that café, every time she smiled at him without the weight of recognition, he felt both grateful and guilty.

Sooner or later, she’d find out. Maybe from a poster, a clip online, a friend’s comment. And when that day came, he didn’t know what would hurt more — the shock on her face or the change in her tone when she said his name.

He shut the laptop gently, leaned back in the chair, and let his thoughts drift toward the sound of her laugh in the rain.

He’d go tomorrow morning, he decided. Not to fix anything or confess anything. Just to see her again, in the soft light of the café before the day got loud.

He set an alarm, turned off the lamp, and whispered to the dark,

“Just one more day as Yeon.”

He woke early, the city still half asleep. He dressed simply — beige jacket, black cap, mask. It was barely eight when he slipped out of the dorm, the hallway lights humming faintly.

He didn’t notice the door across the hall crack open right after he left.

Wooyoung poked his head out, hair a disaster, eyes glinting with mischief. “He’s leaving.”

Within five minutes, the mission was assembled.

San, still chewing toast: “Where’s he going?”

Wooyoung: “To the cat café. Operation Follow Yeon is a go.”

Yunho, sighing but amused: “We’re really doing this?”

Mingi: “I need content for my mental health.”

Jongho, half asleep: “If we get caught, I’m blaming Wooyoung.”

They threw on hoodies, caps, masks — the not-very-convincing disguise of famous people trying to be normal — and followed at a distance.

The café sat on ist usual quiet corner, morning sun spilling through the window. Yeosang stopped outside for a moment, as he always did, reading the chalkboard even though he already knew what it said.

Inside, Y/N was wiping the counter, hair in a messy bun, soft hoodie sleeves pushed up. She hadn’t noticed him yet.

The bell chimed when he stepped in.

Her head lifted — and there it was again, that light in her face, small but unmistakable.

“Yeon,” she said, voice warm.

He smiled beneath the mask. “Good morning.”

“You’re early.”

“I missed the cats.”

“Sure,” she said, teasing, but her eyes softened. “You can say you missed the coffee too.”

“I missed the coffee,” he echoed obediently, and she laughed, that quiet laugh that made everything else fade for him.

The five figures outside ducked behind a car in synchronized chaos.

Wooyoung hissed, “Did you hear that? He said he missed the coffee. That’s code for her.”

“Shh,” San said, peeking over the car hood. “Look how she smiles at him.”

“She’s blushing,” Mingi whispered. “Oh, this is good.”

“Stop narrating,” Jongho muttered, though he was grinning. “You’ll get us caught.”

Inside, Yeosang leaned against the counter, watching as Y/N poured oat milk with steady hands.

“Rough morning?” she asked.

“Not yet,” he said. “But it’s early.”

She smiled, sliding the mug toward him. “Then you came to the right place.”

He sat at his usual spot by the window, the one where sunlight pooled across the table. Y/N went to check on the cats, her steps quiet. When she bent to pick up a stray toy, her hair fell forward; when she tucked it behind her ear, he caught himself smiling again.

Outside, Wooyoung sighed dramatically. “He’s gone. Completely gone.”

Yunho chuckled. “He’s always been the quiet one, but I’ve never seen him look that peaceful.”

San leaned closer to the window. “Look at her. She keeps glancing back.”

“She likes him too,” Mingi whispered. “This is mutual energy.”

Jongho smirked. “So what now, matchmakers? You gonna barge in and order lattes?”

Wooyoung grinned. “Tempting.”

Inside, Y/N returned to the counter just as Yeosang lifted his camera.

“Can I?” he asked softly.

She blinked. “Me?”

“Just your hands,” he said quickly. “Pouring the coffee. The light looks nice.”

She hesitated, then nodded, cheeks coloring. He took the photo — quiet click — and lowered the camera.

“It’s perfect,” he said.

“You didn’t even check.”

“I didn’t have to.”

Her laugh was small but real, and he thought — not for the first time — that he could live in that sound.

Outside, Wooyoung clutched his chest. “He’s flirting. Subtle, poetic flirting.”

“Leave him,” Yunho said, amused. “He’s finally happy.”

San smiled, leaning back against the car. “Yeah. Let him have this.”

They watched for another minute — Y/N handing Yeosang a cat treat to give to Boksoo, their fingers brushing briefly — before Wooyoung sighed and whispered, “Okay, mission complete. Let’s go before he sees us.” He turned and ran straight into a vase.

A faint thud sounded from outside the café, followed by what could only be a muffled argument.

Y/N looked up from where she was sorting the pastry display. “Did you hear that?”

Yeosang froze mid-sip. The colour drained from his face. He knew that sound. That was Wooyoung whisper-fighting.

“Uh,” he said carefully, “maybe just… wind?”

Another voice hissed, “Ow! You stepped on me!”

Y/N frowned. “That sounded like people.” She wiped her hands on a towel and moved toward the front door before he could stop her. “I’ll just check—”

“Wait—”

The bell jingled as she pulled the door open.

Five men straightened at once on the sidewalk, caught mid-squat behind the car. A guilty silence hung between them. One of them still had a paper cup in hand; another had his hoodie half over his face.

“Hi,” Y/N said slowly. “Can I… help you?”

Wooyoung, ever fearless, beamed. “Hi! We were, uh, just admiring the… exterior design! Very rustic!”

Mingi coughed into his sleeve. San gave an overly cheerful wave. “We love cats,” he said.

Yunho, who had the sense of a normal human, bowed slightly. “Sorry. We didn’t mean to disturb you.”

Jongho muttered, “We were just leaving,” and turned, but Wooyoung elbowed him back into place.

Y/N blinked, uncertain. Then she glanced over her shoulder at Yeosang, who looked like he might spontaneously combust. “Friends of yours?” she asked.

He set the mug down, resigned. “Unfortunately,” he said under his breath, and came to the door. “What are you doing here?”

“Morning stroll!” Wooyoung chirped. “Totally coincidental!”

Mingi nodded solemnly. “We were in the area.”

San added, “And now that we’re here, maybe we could get coffee?”

Y/N’s confusion softened into amusement. “Of course,” she said. “Come in. We have plenty.”

The group filed inside like schoolboys caught sneaking snacks. They took the table nearest the window, whispering furiously among themselves. Yeosang rubbed a hand over his face and followed them, murmuring, “Please behave.”

“I’m always behaved,” Wooyoung whispered back.

“You’re never behaved,” Jongho said.

Y/N hid a smile as she prepared six mugs. When she brought them over, she caught Yeosang’s apologetic glance and shook her head lightly. “It’s fine,” she whispered. “They seem… lively.”

“That’s one word,” he said, lips twitching.

At the table, Wooyoung leaned toward San. “You see that? She smiles at him like he’s the only person in the room.”

San grinned. “He looks at her the same way.”

Yunho took a sip of coffee, eyes kind. “I think we should let them be.”

Mingi nodded sagely. “After one more drink. For science.”

When they finally stood to leave, Y/N waved from behind the counter. “Come again,” she said politely. “Maybe without the spying next time.”

Wooyoung clutched his heart. “You knew!”

She laughed, the sound soft and surprised. “You weren’t exactly subtle.”

Even Yeosang laughed then — a quiet, genuine sound that made the others grin wider.

Outside, San slung an arm around Wooyoung’s shoulders. “Mission accomplished,” he said. “We confirmed it.”

“Confirmed what?” Mingi asked, feigning innocence.

“That he’s gone,” Wooyoung said. “Completely, hopelessly gone.”

Yunho smiled back through the café window where Y/N was teasing Yeosang about his noisy friends. “Yeah,” he said softly. “And honestly? It suits him.”

Inside, Yeosang was still shaking his head, but there was no hiding the faint smile tugging at his mouth as Y/N slid another cup of coffee toward him.

“Sorry about them,” he said.

“They seem fun,” she replied. “You don’t have to hide your friends next time.”

He looked at her then, really looked — her hair catching the morning light, the small curve of her lips.

“Maybe I won’t,” he said quietly.

The rest of the day at Moonlight Café went by in a blur of laughter, teasing, and a faint but constant sense that she’d just stumbled into a scene from a very strange dream.

When the five men left—laughing, waving, one of them promising to “come back for the pastries”—she stood by the counter for a full minute, blinking at the door after it closed.

Then she turned to Yeon, who was still sitting at his usual spot, mug half-empty and expression torn between apology and resignation.

“Your friends,” she said slowly, “are… very energetic.”

He exhaled through a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s one word for them.”

“They all look like they stepped out of a fashion magazine.”

“That’s… another accurate observation.”

She narrowed her eyes a little. “Are they models?”

He almost choked on his coffee. “No. Definitely not.”

That definitely had sounded suspiciously defensive, but before she could push, he’d stood and thanked her for the coffee, promising to “come again soon.”

She’d spent the rest of the day replaying the scene in her mind.

Now it was two mornings later, and the café was slow again — just her, her dad in the back doing inventory, and the cats half asleep in puddles of sunlight.

She was wiping down the counter, trying to focus, but her mind kept drifting.

To Yeon’s friends, mostly.

They were too polished. Even under hoodies and caps, there was something about them — the way they carried themselves, the easy confidence, the kind of faces that didn’t quite blend in. And the one with the bright eyes and mischievous grin, the one who’d called himself Wooyoung — she could swear she’d seen him somewhere.

Maybe a commercial? Or an ad?

She frowned, leaning on the counter and tapping the cloth against her chin. “No, that’s silly,” she murmured. “I’d remember.”

Still, the image of San — the tall one with the soft smile and easy charm — kept tugging at her memory. There was something so familiar about him that it almost bothered her.

A bell jingled softly as someone entered, breaking her train of thought.

She looked up—and froze.

Yeon stood there, mask and all, but this time he wasn’t alone.

Behind him were two people she recognized immediately: the same two from the other day. Wooyoung, all bright grin and chaotic energy, and San, hands tucked in his pockets, eyes warm.

Her first coherent thought was: Oh no, it’s happening again.

Her second was: Okay, maybe I did stumble into a web drama.

“Good morning,” Yeon said, sounding almost sheepish.

She blinked at him, trying to gather her composure. “Hi. You brought friends again.”

“They wanted to see the cats,” he said quickly.

“We love cats,” Wooyoung added, grinning wide enough to sell the lie. “Big cat people. Huge cat people.”

San nodded solemnly. “Massive cat people.”

She raised a brow. “Right.”

Yeon gave her an apologetic look that made her want to laugh despite herself.

“Can we sit?” San asked politely.

“Of course.” She gestured toward the tables near the window, same as always. “Make yourselves comfortable. Do you want coffee?”

“Yes,” Wooyoung said immediately. “Something fancy. Something that says I’m sophisticated but approachable.”

“Right,” she said dryly. “So, a latte?”

“Exactly!” he said, looking delighted. “You get me.”

Yeon groaned quietly, resting his face in his hand. “Wooyoung, please.”

San chuckled, sitting beside him. “I’ll just have the same.”

Y/N nodded, scribbling their orders on a notepad she didn’t really need, mostly so she could hide the tiny smile threatening to appear.

When she turned to the machine, she heard Wooyoung whisper, “She’s so cute, I get why you like her.”

“I don’t—” Yeon started, but the sound of steam drowned his voice.

She pretended not to hear, cheeks warming anyway.

When she brought their drinks over, they were watching the cats in the play area. Boksoo was sitting near the glass, tail flicking lazily.

“He remembers you,” she told Yeon.

“I missed him,” Yeon said softly, crouching near the glass. Boksoo blinked, stood, and padded over, pressing his head against the partition.

“He really likes you,” she said.

“He’s a good judge of character,” Wooyoung said meaningfully, and San snorted into his cup.

She rolled her eyes, turning to the register. “You two are trouble, aren’t you?”

“Us?” Wooyoung looked scandalized. “We’re angels.”

“Sure,” she said. “Angels who were hiding behind cars.”

That made Yeon choke on his drink again. San and Wooyoung burst out laughing.

When the laughter faded, Y/N leaned her elbows on the counter, tilting her head slightly. “You know, I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere,” she said, looking directly at San.

San blinked, mid-sip. “Me?”

“Yeah. You look really familiar.”

Yeon’s head snapped up so fast it was almost funny.

San’s smile froze. “Oh, uh—no, I don’t think so,” he said quickly.

“I swear,” she said. “Like… maybe an ad? Or something online? You just have one of those faces that’s hard to forget.”

Wooyoung was biting his lip, trying not to laugh.

San’s expression turned solemnly ridiculous. “I have a face everyone has.”

She blinked. “What?”

He nodded gravely, doubling down. “Yes. Very common face. I look like… everyone. It’s science.”

Wooyoung lost it first, snorting so hard that he had to hide behind his cup. Yeon had both hands over his face now, clearly dying inside.

Y/N blinked once, then laughed — an actual, helpless laugh that filled the small café. “That’s the worst excuse I’ve ever heard,” she said between giggles.

San put a hand to his chest in mock offense. “It’s true! People stop me all the time and say, ‘Hey, you look like that guy,’ and I say, ‘I am that guy,’ and they walk away confused.”

“Stop talking,” Yeon said quietly, though his voice was muffled by his own laughter.

Wooyoung wiped a tear from his eye. “Oh, this is gold. You’re terrible at lying.”

San gestured dramatically. “You told me to hide it!”

“Not like that!” Yeon said.

Y/N leaned on the counter, still smiling. “Okay, I won’t ask again. I’ll just assume you’re all secret agents or something.”

Wooyoung gasped. “Yes! Secret agents who love cats!”

“Wooyoung,” Yeon said, in a voice that was half warning, half plea.

She laughed again, shaking her head. “You’re all ridiculous.”

“Thank you,” San said brightly.

Yeon sighed, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him with a smile. He looked at her like he was memorizing how the light hit her face when she laughed.

She didn’t notice, but the other two did.

Wooyoung shot San a look that said, He’s gone again.

San nodded, taking another sip of coffee to hide his grin.

The morning drifted on like that — soft conversation, the clink of cups, the low hum of the espresso machine. Y/N found herself laughing more than she had all week.

Every time she glanced at Yeon, he seemed… lighter. Happy.

And maybe, just maybe, she didn’t mind the chaos his “friends” brought with him.

Still, as she watched them leave an hour later — Wooyoung waving dramatically from the sidewalk, San giving her a warm smile that made her squint in recognition again — the small flicker of suspicion in her chest grew a little.

They were hiding something.

She just didn’t know yet whether it was something that would change everything.

The café always felt a little emptier after Yeon left.

Y/N told herself that wasn’t true — that it was just the lull between customers, or the way the sunlight faded differently in the afternoon. But it was hard to ignore the tiny hollow in the air where his quiet voice usually fit.

She’d grown used to it without meaning to. The low murmur of him talking to her dad about coffee beans, the soft scrape of his camera lens cap, the polite way he said “thank you” like he really meant it.

And now that he wasn’t there, she kept catching herself listening for a voice that wasn’t coming.

It had been two days since Yeon and his friends had come by — Wooyoung with his constant chatter, San with his “very common face,” and Yeon trying desperately to keep the chaos contained.

Her dad had loved them.

“Those boys have good energy,” he’d said, chuckling as they left. “You should make friends your age more often.”

Y/N had just smiled and nodded, but later that night, she’d caught herself replaying every little detail — the way Yeon looked at her when he thought she wasn’t paying attention, the small, quiet moments between their laughter, the strange warmth that came from simply standing near him.

She’d tried to reason with herself.

Maybe it was just because he was kind. Maybe it was because he actually saw her when most people didn’t. Or maybe it was because he made her laugh in that soft, almost weightless way — like laughter that didn’t need to be loud to count.

But deep down, she knew what it really was.

She liked him.

Not in a silly, infatuated way. Not in a daydream she could laugh off later.

She liked him in the way her chest tightened when he smiled, and the way her hands remembered the warmth of the mug she’d made for him.

She liked the way his voice softened when he talked to the cats, and the way he always seemed both present and far away — like he lived half in another world but let her step into it when he was here.

She liked him, and the realization was both sweet and terrifying.

Because she knew nothing about him.

Nothing beyond his name — Yeon — and his quiet eyes and the fact that his friends looked like they belonged on the cover of something glossy.

The thought made her pause mid-wipe as she cleaned the counter.

His friends.

She’d seen San’s face before. She was sure of it. That smile, that confident but gentle way he moved. It wasn’t just that he looked familiar — it was that he looked known.

And Wooyoung — there was something about his voice, that playful lilt, the sparkle in his eyes.

She frowned, setting the cloth down, trying to trace the thread of memory. Maybe it was an ad? A YouTube clip? One of those trending reels she’d scrolled past on her phone before deleting social media months ago?

She shook her head, trying to let it go. Curiosity would only make her spiral.

Instead, she focused on the cats. Boksoo was perched near the counter, watching her with unblinking eyes.

“What?” she said softly, crouching to scratch behind his ears. “Do you know something I don’t?”

Boksoo blinked slowly, unimpressed.

She smiled, standing. “Didn’t think so.”

The café was quiet that afternoon. Her dad had gone out for supplies, leaving her in charge until closing. The air smelled like cinnamon and coffee, and the faint hum of traffic outside was steady and distant.

When the bell over the door jingled, she turned automatically with her usual smile.

But it wasn’t a customer — it was a gust of wind. The door hadn’t latched properly.

She went to fix it, tugging her jacket tighter as she stepped outside. The breeze had turned crisp, carrying the faint scent of roasted chestnuts from a vendor down the block. Across the street, someone was pinning up new posters on a bulletin board — bright colors, glossy photos, the kind of thing that made her feel instantly out of touch with whatever was trending now.

She’d always avoided those boards. Too loud, too crowded. But today, for no real reason, her gaze caught on one of them.

A large group shot — eight men, dressed sharply in black and gold, standing against a dark backdrop. The letters across the top read:

ATEEZ – NEW ALBUM OUT NOW

She almost looked away.

Almost.

Until her eyes landed on one face.

Her breath caught.

Right in the center — familiar eyes, sharp lines softened by the faintest smile. The same quiet gaze that had watched her pour coffee, that had crouched beside her to pet Boksoo, that had said “I missed the cats.”

Yeon.

Except he wasn’t Yeon. Not in the poster.

In big letters beneath the photo, it said:

Kang Yeosang – Visual, Vocalist, Dancer

She stared at it for a full five seconds, her brain scrambling to make sense of the letters.

Kang Yeosang.

Yeon.

It wasn’t even a clever lie — just shortened, hidden in plain sight.

And next to him — there they were. San. Wooyoung. The same smiles, the same posture. All of them dressed like stars, not the normal boys who’d drunk lattes and played with cats in her café.

Her hand came up to cover her mouth.

“Oh,” she whispered to no one.

It made sense now. The careful way he carried himself, the disguises, the way his friends had followed him, the constant half-apology in his smile.

He was famous. They all were.

She leaned closer to the poster, just to be sure, but the resemblance was undeniable. The same face. The same warm eyes. Only this time, surrounded by lights and cameras.

She stepped back slowly, the world tilting a little.

For a moment, she just stood there on the sidewalk, staring at the poster as people walked around her, their chatter blurring into noise.

Yeon. Yeosang. Idol. Fame.

The words tangled in her head, refusing to settle.

Then, faintly, she laughed — a small, disbelieving sound that the wind carried away.

Of course. Of course the first person she’d ever actually liked — really liked — turned out to be someone completely out of reach.

She pressed a hand over her heart, trying to still it.

It didn’t matter, she told herself. It couldn’t matter. He was who he was. And she was just Y/N — quiet, invisible, the girl who worked at her dad’s café and studied animals instead of people.

Still, as she went back inside, her fingers brushed her lips — a small, nervous habit — and she whispered to herself, half-scolding, half-soft:

“You really had to fall for a celebrity, didn’t you?”

Boksoo meowed from his shelf, unimpressed.

“Yeah,” she said, sighing as she locked the door behind her. “That’s what I thought too.”

Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

This is Part 1 — Part 2 & 3 coming soon

🩵 Author’s Note:

I wanted to write something cute and fluffy (with just a sprinkle of angst) before diving head-first into the upcoming Yeosang Mafia AU.

This story is my cozy little breather—coffee, cats, quiet smiles, and the kind of slow-burn that makes your chest ache in the best way.

Thank you so much for reading and falling into this gentle world with me ☕🐾

I can’t wait to give you Part 2 and Part 3 soon!