Minho yawns, brown irises fluctuating in size behind the slits of his eyes. His body is not at all ready for work, and he would do anything to go back home and slide underneath the covers. Nobody is to blame for the exhaustion, though. He chose to continue practising basketball until ungodly hours last night, so he is in no place to complain but make do with it.

 

He moves aside when a random passer-by almost bumps into him, cussing silently under his breath before continuing his journey while he shields from the slivers of sunlight.

 

Monday is awful. The sidewalk always bustles with renewed energies from God knows where, pedestrians ever so busy with their handphones to bother watching where they are going, which annoys Minho to no end. He’s not invisible. He will drive his six-feet-something body into them if he wants, out of spite, but he doesn’t feel like doing it. They should be grateful he’s perpetually kind on Mondays.

 

The sound of his stomach growling pulls him back to reality. He shoos away the homicidal thoughts of bulldozing the crowd and replaces them with images of delectable breakfast food. He didn’t get to whip up anything before leaving for fear of running late, but his wristwatch says it’s only 8. The office starts operating at 9. Grabbing a bite won’t take so long.

 

Minho is in the middle of finding a lovely place to stop by when his eyes catch an exciting sight. Right across the street, he sees someone probably in his early 20s wiping the glass windows from the inside, and no, that’s not the interesting bit. He adorns a lilac apron with tiny paw prints framing it, which matches the white long-sleeved shirt he wears underneath. That’s cute.

 

Actually, there is another coffee shop that Minho often visits on his way to work, just a few shops away from this odd-looking pinkish retail. They serve his favourite egg drop sandwich with the best Gibraltar americano to ever exist in Seoul. Consequently, he never felt the need to try out other cafes.

 

However, this one is an exception.

 

Minho glances up at the traffic lights, waits for the red stationary person on the signal to change to a steady green one and crosses the road. His messenger bag rests heavily against his side as he pushes the door, a sweet jingle of the bell announcing his arrival to the pretty boy who ceases his work to rush behind the counter.

 

The yeasty aroma of freshly baked bread and cupcakes invades Minho’s nostrils first thing upon entering, tickling him in the oddest way possible. The entire space smells of vanilla scent as if he stepped into a fairy tale, much to his displeasure because, for God’s sake, he just cannot stand sweet things.

 

“Hello!” The pretty boy beams, and Minho’s heart stutters. He looks so beautiful up close. “May I get your orders, please?”

 

Minho’s eyes dart up the menu board distractedly. Everything on there sounds like a damn dessert in a cup. Half of the list are frappuccinos alone with a whopping 70 grams of sugar, at least. What is this? A children’s heaven of sugar rush and candy canes? Where is the justice for coffee addicts like Minho, who just need enough shots of espresso to kickstart their day?

 

He swallows, already resorting to the last option on the board, the safest of it all—plain water. 

 

But when Minho lowers his gaze and meets a pair of twinkling eyes, eager to know his drink of choice after practically studying the menu board, his decision wavers a bit. For one, he’s not an indecisive person, and he definitely wouldn’t want those explosive unicorn sparkles worth of sugar cubes in his cup. Yet, amidst the crisis, he manages to heave out a question that will promise him a stomach ache later.

 

“What… would you suggest?”

 

The boy’s eyes turn big as saucers, a glint of happiness flashing upon them, and if Minho is any crazier than he already is to be in a cafe full of caramel syrups and mint crystals, he would think it’s worth the unicorn puke. He turns to glance at the menu board and hums.

 

“Let’s see….”

 

Not the e frappuccinos, Minho begs internally. Anything but those, please. 

 

“You see the small star preceding certain names of the drinks? They’re our hottest picks! And since you’re giving me the liberty to suggest, I’d recommend my favourite,” the boy says with a joyous lilt to his voice while Minho fears his future. “The cupcake frappe!”

 

The world stalls. Cupcake is one thing that Minho would never eat for funsies, and now mixing it with frappuccino? The imaginary level of sweetness already makes his teeth ache. He grimaces.

 

And unfortunately, his reaction is not at all subtle because the boy’s smile quickly fades, his excitement washing away with every minute passed in silence. Minho notices it too, somewhat clouded with selfish guilt for not being able to see the smile longer.

 

So, he inhales, long fingers ruffling his hair before he speaks. “Then let me have one of those,” Minho pauses and almost gags on his words. “The cupcake frappe.”

 

As if on cue, the smile resurfaces, and he punches in the order.

 

“Oh, great! It won’t disappoint, trust me. That’s 5,800 won.”

 

Minho hums as a reply. There is no use in dwelling on his choice now, so he pulls out his wallet and pays for his drink.

 

“Your name, please, Sir?” He asks again after claiming a tall cup with a sharpie in his hand, ready to doodle. 

 

“Minho.” 

 

“Minho,” he repeats, his lips pursing out in forced concentration, and Minho just wants to punch the nearby wall from the cute aggression. “I’ll have it delivered to your table. Please have a seat while waiting, Sir Minho.”

 

That’s how Minho finds himself behind a small white table, his back facing the window and eyes trained on the same pretty boy. He looks unreliable, but—judging from his way of pumping the accurately calculated hazelnut syrup (or what Minho hopes to be the correct amount) to spinning the milky blended ice into the tall cup and topping it with some unhealthy dose of whipped cream—he’s undoubtedly best at what he does.

 

Okay, maybe he’s a bit clumsy too. Minho catches him squeaking at the whipped cream residue coming out from the nozzle, alerted eyes wandering to see if his patron is looking. 

 

Silly little thing, Minho thinks as he pretends to play with his phone instead, glancing to detect a blush decorating those plump cheeks at the prospect of getting caught and smiling slightly to himself.

 

After a few moments, the boy finally approaches his only customer. “Hi, here’s your drink.”

 

“Oh, thank you.” Minho takes that chance to glance at the nametag while pulling the cold cup close. Dammit, whose idea was it to give the staff a tag that says ‘staff’? People know.

 

Sighing in defeat, he starts whirring the straw, mixing whatever the contents of his drink are. In retrospect, he should be grateful there are no chunks of real cupcakes in there. Now, bravery is all he needs to take a sip, bearing the consequences in mind like a loser.

 

What if he vomits? What if he passes out? Then, what?

 

“Please let me know what you think of it,” comes a timid call in the form of courage that Minho didn’t ask for.

 

The taller man has been in his head to realise the boy hasn’t left his table. It gnaws at him even more. The expectation falls solid on his chest. One look at the bashful face, and Minho forces himself to close his lips around the straw, bracing himself for some frosty attacks right to his oesophagus and down to spread glittery ice flakes in his stomach.

 

God, it’s awful.

 

Minho fights the need to hurl from the excessive sweetness and forces a smile. “Good,” he croaks, almost hating how his lying voice sounds after the flavour kicks in. “Very good.”

 

The drink is an unmistakable torture which transforms into an innate pleasure when those sparkling eyes disappear behind two small crescents, high cheekbones accentuated by the wide smile. Minho’s heart—the one that was once solidified by the vanilla frosts—warms at the cherubic glee.

 

“I’m thrilled to hear that!” He chuckles before scratching the side of his nape. “I thought you’d hate the taste. Not many men like you enjoy those drinks.”

 

Minho keeps on smiling. He doesn’t have a rebuttal. If he opens his mouth, he will likely pour out the portion he has unfailingly contained in his cavern from the continuous sips. 

 

“Oh, if there’s nothing, then please excuse me.” The boy said with a bow, his blond strands bobbing with the movement as he turns to leave.

 

Just in time, Minho feels a furball rubbing itself against the exposed part of his leg, and he jumps in surprise, almost kneeing the table upside down from the impact. The boy whips his head around with a terrifying speed at his exclamation.

 

“Jesus….” Minho exhales and peeks under the table, trying to spot the cat. Much to his dismay, another one pops up between his legs until he decides it’s not ing funny and he’s had enough.

 

Quickly getting on his feet, standing a safe distance from two fluffy cats, Minho swallows hard. He nearly forgets the existence of the pretty boy there as he watches him in amusement, eyebrows quirked with mischievousness that Minho refuses to acknowledge. 

 

“Are you okay?” He asks. 

 

Better than an insult, so Minho nods his reply. He’s still wary of those stubbly round things, though, which doesn’t go unnoticed by the latter, who leans down and brings both cats away.

 

When he’s back, he still has that pretty smile on his face. “You’re not scared of cats, are you?”

 

“What? Of course not,” Minho scoffs, half-answering and half-lying because , that’s going to be embarrassing. 

 

The boy chuckles and crosses his arms on his chest. “Good, because this is a cat cafe.”

 

A frigid coldness fills Minho’s chest at the declaration. His gaze slides across the shop until it lands on the cat towers that house many more cats lazing and lounging for free. 

 

Minho doesn’t know how he was able to sit back without noticing or hearing anything. Perhaps, he doesn’t care enough about his surroundings so long as he gets to see the pretty boy like this. The sugary drinks don’t quite daunt him to stop coming by, but the cats? He feels his nose starts to itch as a reflex.

 

He’s allergic to cats.

 

---

 

That day, Minho arrived late to work with a cup of still completely full cupcake frappe. The sight must’ve been equally jarring to his colleagues as it was to him when he walked past a tall mirror, but he silenced them with a pointed eyebrow raise.

 

They should know men could change too.

 

After that incident, Minho wishes he had enough sanity left in his stupid mind to never do it again. Sweet drinks feel like nectar to his lips. It’s foreign and unwelcome in lieu of the bitterness coffee usually provides, no matter how many times he tries to adapt to it. With that affirmation, he believes he won’t repeat the same mistake.

 

Yet, the following day he’s standing there again, right before the glass doors with an ‘OPEN’ tag waving free. If he looks slightly higher, he will see the ‘Kkoong Cat Cafe’ written on the board, paw prints decorating one edge of the frame. He must’ve been off his face not to notice it in the first place.

 

Slowly, he pushes the door and steps inside. The pretty boy, ever so present in his lilac apron, peeks from behind the wall and smiles at his new regular. Minho mirrors it instantly.

 

“Good morning, Minho!”

 

It’s a daily thing now. Minho makes sure to drop by for some crazy mornings where tooth-rotting drinks are offered his way. Sometimes, the boy realises it as well. He chides Minho for having sweet beverages every day, so he tempts him with hot tea and black coffee instead.

 

On those days, Minho tends to be extra flirtatious. He wishes today will be exactly that.

 

A ceramic cup with small cat ears awaits him on the countertop. Minho smiles, and the comforting aroma of coffee wafts up in lazy tendrils to soothe his erratic heartbeat. Today is that day.

 

The boy has specifically instructed Minho to stay close to him near the counter after figuring that the other doesn’t really like cats. (Minho wanted to correct his assumption, but he decided it’d take longer for him to describe his situation, so he played along with it.) He said the cats don’t amble near the main counter.

 

Feeling content, the taller man nurses his favourite liquid and takes a sip, watching the boy who is yet to introduce himself properly wipe the tables. Minho has asked for it several times—over notes and payments—but he only smiles and wishes him a good day ahead. 

 

Still, if there’s anything bigger about Minho than his pride, it’s his passion never to give up. He lowers the cup to the saucer and his lips to repel the dryness. “Are you working alone?”

 

“Hmm? No, I have a friend who helps me around,” he answers before returning to the counter. His forehead glistens from the sheer layer of sweat soon to dry as he smiles. “Why?”

 

Minho shrugs. “I’m just wondering. This cafe is not very big, but it’s definitely tiresome to handle alone. I’m glad to know you have someone to back you up just in case.”

 

“Are you worried?”

 

For a moment, it feels like the boy has inched closer. They are at two different sides of the counter, but he has been propping himself on the elbows since they started talking. Somehow, the proximity lessens, or it’s just Minho’s mind screwing him up for the nth time.

 

“Am… I?” His tone inflicts, giving away the sense of inquiry. When the boy nods, the smile permanent on those lips Minho has been eyeing for two whole weeks now, he hums. “I probably am.”

 

“Well, you shouldn’t be,” he replies with a tinge of cheekiness. “I’m 26. I’ve handled this cafe for a while. It’s under my control.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Really.”

 

Then a meow rings close, startling the older man. He’s so close to spilling the coffee all over the island as the boy leans down, gathering his feline friend into his embrace and stands straight to look Minho in the eye. He tilts his head curiously.

 

“Do you really hate cats?”

 

Minho tries not to breathe, afraid of inhaling cat allergens. For the record, he has downed a few antihistamines before coming, so his allergies may be stifled, but that does less consolation to the terrifying thoughts in his mind. Still, he shakes his head honestly.

 

Silence ensues. Deep inside, Minho wants to tell him kindly to put the thing down and away—he’s so close to sneezing, holy crap—despite the smile looking so incredibly beautiful on him. Strangely, the boy hums, still cradling the furball.

 

“Allergic?”

 

Spellbound, Minho nods again, unable to speak or react. 

 

Finally, the boy lets go of the cat, making sure it scampers towards the right end of the cafe and not towards Minho. Then, he washes his hands, a gesture that the allergic customer is thankful for, before stopping in front of him again. The smile never vanishes.

 

“Taemin,” he says softly.

 

Minho blinks, coffee has long gone cold in the cup. “Who’s that?”

 

“Well… me,” he laughs. “I’m Taemin. It’s only fair to exchange truths, right?”

 

The words affect Minho greatly. The projection of his voice is smooth over the ambient silence, yet it echoes in his head even after Minho leaves, waltzing back home after work on that slow evening.

 

There’s just so much to digest and unpack. First, okay, his name is Taemin. It suits an angel like him, literally the most beautiful person to walk on Earth. Second, what does he mean by exchanging truth for truth? Has Minho lied about fearing cats? Never. He may have not mentioned anything about his allergies yet, but that doesn’t constitute lying.

 

… Right?

 

Minho’s steps come to an abrupt halt. The realisation comes crashing down on him like a torrential rainfall, his heart beating a tad faster. If he understands Taemin’s words correctly, it means he’s been holding back that information, knowing Minho is not being completely honest about himself. 

 

His name for the truth of his allergies. Does Taemin know he hates those stupid frappes, too, then? Because Minho swears to God, he’s going to—

 

---

 

“I’ll close the cafe. You may leave first, Kibum.”

 

The taller staff bows in gratitude before undoing his apron, hanging it aside and walking out of the shop. Taemin waits until the jingle of the bell dies to let out a sigh and throw himself onto the chair. Cleaning is tiring.

 

“Kkoong-yah,” Taemin calls out, bending slightly to find the addressed cat. Somewhere on the wide window pane, she rests mightily, easy and unbothered as the human reduces the distance between them. “You’re ignoring Papa now? Is that it?”

 

She meows in return, coaxing a smile to Taemin’s weary face. He’s about to lean in and kiss her crown when the door dings open, the bell jingling wildly from the force coming from the other side, causing him to flinch back in shock.

 

“What—” his angered accusation is silent upon recognising the person. “Minho? What are you doing—”

 

“Taemin, I hate frappuccinos,” Minho says quickly, cutting him short and breathing raggedly through his nose. He sees confusion in the boy’s facial expression, of disappointment or rage he doesn’t know, but he continues anyway. “I despise sugary drinks with a passion. I would never touch whipped cream with a 10-foot pole, and I’m sorry for lying. I’m sorry for not being honest about my dislikes and allergies. I just think it’s easier to go with the flow than confront my intractable fear for… I don’t know, sugar cubes? Whatever it is that you dump in my drinks.”

 

The confession seems to appease Taemin. He raises both eyebrows, tonguing his cheek while scratching down Kkoong’s back languidly, leaving enough space for the other to continue. It’s obvious that he’s not done yet.

 

“And it turns out that I don’t hate frappes so much, you know? I still don’t like how it feels sticky in my throat and upsets my stomach, but I don’t hate it anymore,” Minho sighs. “I just need excuses to visit your cat cafe. I’m running out of antihistamines.”

 

For some reason, Taemin can’t deny the bubbles of mirth. He demures and looks away with a huff, still chortling to himself from the scene. “Go on.”

 

“Please.” Minho laughs breathlessly and leans back. 

 

He may have been dumb all his life, but he will not have this feeling mistaken for something else. The first day he met Taemin, the surge of warmth that spread in his body was like no other. He thought he was about to faint when he saw that angelic smile and the fever didn’t cease until he dragged himself to the same place again to order the same sickening drink, waste the same amount of time and sit on the same high stool with legs floating to avoid the busy cats.

 

Minho thought he was dying from how fast his heart throbbed at the mere thought of seeing Taemin (or not seeing him at all). The beads of sweat were his final straw, so he went to the doctor, expecting some chronic diagnosis from his ty lifestyle and bags of pills to accompany him to sleep. However, he left empty-handed, with the doctor’s advice filling his empty skull.

 

“You’re not sick. You’re just in love.” 

 

It wasn’t convincing enough until the moment he felt the urge to touch Taemin’s hand. Talking was fun, but he needed more. He wanted to hold him close and get to know him better, not as a patron but as a potential lover. That was when he knew the doctor was right.

 

And here, Minho is adamant about making it clear. Carefully, he offers Taemin his phone, the chuckle has slowly faltered. He clears his throat. “You… said a truth is in exchange for another truth.”

 

Taemin looks at the dial pad, up to Minho, and then down at the screen with a small laugh. “Are you bargaining with me?”

 

“I mean,” Minho huffs a laugh before shrugging. His warm eyes melt Taemin’s heart. “The confession is worth a phone number at least, no?”

 

“You’re unbelievable.”

 

Taemin is pink all over as he reaches for the phone, leaving his phone number before returning it to the owner. His smile is a tad freer now, nose a little scrunched up, like a kitten. “But you might need more antihistamines in order to meet me.”

 

“If I can spend a hefty amount on drinks that I barely can swallow—but do anyway—what makes you think I would hesitate to invest in medications?”