Peter Parker, Luhan’s Maserati Spyder, in his owner’s mind, has separation anxiety, but with a few good whines and complaints from Eunmi to just park the stupid car and enter the café, Luhan reluctantly left Peter. It was his last day this year to drive it, and he wanted to glue himself to the driver’s seat. Peter would miss him badly, and at the end of the year, his car might get angry at Luhan for abandoning him in the garage, gathering cobwebs. Funny, because Peter Parker was a Spyder. (Feel free to laugh now.)

The café was tucked in the outskirts of suburban Seoul, an inconspicuous place that was a few square meters away from being a hole-in-the-wall. Still, it looked pretty cute, kind of quaint, just the kind of place that Eunmi likes, because nowadays she refused to be like the other affluent girls, drinking Starbucks and all. She now wears True Religion jeans that she personally rips, brand-name clothing that nobody has ever heard of, and listens to indie music. Luhan christened this phase as the Hipster Era.

“La Cocotte,” he murmured to himself as he tilted his head, looking at the sign painted on the enormous glass windows. Huh. A French place. It wasn’t designed to look Parisian, though. La Cocotte had lots of glass windows and brick interior, despite it being wedged between a wall and a gaudy-looking ‘beauty parlor.’ The shop’s sign was painted in white on one of the glass windows that faced the street, looping like spaghetti that would be nightmare to read if you were dyslexic. On the glass door, a hand-painted sign said, in stylish print, OPEN.

Yep, Eunmi’s type of place, all right.

The door chimes tinkled as they stepped in, and the smell of brewing coffee and baking pastries hit Luhan full-on, filling his throat with its lingering heady scent. There were just a few people around—an old man reading the newspaper and a slightly overweight girl in the corner sipping something and pecking away at her chunky laptop. Eunmi was babbling about coffee, in general, like what blends would be best or if she would get a blond roast. Luhan, being her boyfriend for two years, had mastered the art of tuning her out as he examined La Cocotte.

The front counter and the pastry display were right in front of them, as they stood directly in front of the glass door. It was made of hard, varnished wood, with the glass display beneath it, exhibiting sweets that looked too artistic to eat. On top of the counter, a recycled jasmine tea can stood for the tips, and a porcelain vase that held a spray of gardenias. A picture frame beside the tea can held a piece of paper that said something incomprehensible in French, in a clear, elegant script, ‘Le mauvais gout mène au crime.’

Then, Luhan saw him.

The world stopped for Luhan, as he saw that young man behind the counter, wearing a crisp white dress shirt and a black apron, his hair tousled and so intensely brown that it looked black. However, he did not remember his dream from yesterday’s nap, but a nagging pull from somewhere, deep in his mind, screamed that he had seen him somewhere, that he knew him. I know him, I know him, I know him. On the apron’s chest, embroidered with white thread in bold font, was the name, Sehun.

Who are you? he wanted to ask.

They had their eyes locked together, staring at each other as the café’s motions passed through slow motion, like running through syrup. Luhan seemed to be paralyzed, a cold shiver running through his bones as he struggled to recall where he had seen this boy, this Sehun, but he can’t, he just can’t and it frustrated him. His features were flawless, like an Oriental, marble god, and beneath his barista’s uniform was a lean and athletic build. There was something about the way his chin was slightly raised in a calm, confident, manner, and how his eyes held a person’s gaze with steadiness that was familiar.

Just when Luhan was getting into the beginnings of a breakthrough, Eunmi had once again ruined it with a loud and high-pitched, “Lulu, are you even listening to me?”

Luhan wanted to strangle that goddammed woman so bad he felt as if he could use that ing picture frame to just bash her in the head and tear her rotten pea-sized brain out and fricassee the damned thing dear ing Jes—

“What, did you want to order already?” he gritted through clenched teeth. Oh dear God, another year and she’ll get him into prison for murder. He could already see his gleeful self on the mugshot.

“I want caramel macchiato and an orange-chocolate soufflé, Lulu! I’ll go find a seat already, oka-ay?” she sang, not that there were a lot of seats left. There was only one remaining table, just beside the window overlooking the street.

Simultaneously deciding what to get from the handwritten chalkboard menu and discreetly eyeing that handsome barista—it was perfectly normal for a man to admire people, that’s alright, he tried to console himself—Luhan decided that the guy must have done some modeling somewhere, though God knows why he ended up here. Barista Sehun should be on a billboard. He must’ve been one of the models for the company’s or some other businesses’ ads, because Luhan felt like he had seen him somewhere before, looking as perfect and airbrushed as he is right now… even though he’s wearing tasteless clothes… and still looking more gorgeous than Luhan would in Armani…

What would he look like without clothes, though?

“Jesus!” Luhan spluttered, choking on his own damned spit. When he looked up, he saw the barista frowning with concern. Or maybe he just thought Luhan missed his meds, or something. Luhan coughed, and he felt his whole face getting redder by the second.

“Are you o—“ the barista started to ask when Luhan just cut him off to save himself the embarrassment.

“I-I’ll have a c-caramel macchiato, a Mo-Moroccan mint t-tea, orange-ch-chocolate soufflé, a-and a pain au ch-chocolat, please,” Luhan stammered, feeling his hands tremble badly as he took out his wallet, not because the prices were appalling but because of the blend of two things—one, his stupidity and sheer awkwardness, and two, this annoyingly handsome barista in front of him.

The fact that only a pastry display and a hardwood counter stood between them did not help.

Barista Sehun did not speak for a moment, just looking at him with this weird expression on his face, and Luhan was beginning to get worried that he might say something like, Are you autistic, sir? or You really need medical help, or worse, You have a hard-on.

Instead, the barista only said, “All right. Is that all?” in a smooth, calm voice, as if everything was normal and Luhan did not stutter and yell out Jesus out of nowhere. His speech was kind of unusual, though, sort of… accented in some way. A non-Korean accent. Luhan didn’t understand it what could be and let it go.

“Y-yes, that’s all.”

“And your name, please?” inquired the barista, holding a tall paper cup and marker. I wish I was that cup, he thought.

“Luhan. I-It’s Luhan.”

The barista frowned slightly. “Would you like me to use Han or Luhan?”

Luhan’s eyes widened a bit, because only people he personally knew had referred to his first name. He had opted to use his full name in a conjunction, as most people in Korea use a disyllabic first name. “H-How did you—“

“Oh,” the barista laughed lightly, erasing all of Luhan’s worries. “I assumed you were Chinese. It’s in the way you talk. So I guess it’s Luhan, right?”

Luhan can’t find his voice. He simply nodded, his mouth open.

“Then Luhan it is.” The barista flashed a dazzling smile at him as he looked up from writing Luhan’s name on the cup. I think I just had a miniature cardiac arrest right there oh help me Lord—

Luhan hardly heard what the cost of the meal would be, and signed the receipt in shocked stupor. It was like seeing heaven being torn apart and angels descending upon earth. He was thinking of keeping that cup for a souvenir, even stealing Eunmi’s cup, too, if he could.

Luhan barely managed to swipe his card and survive the walk to the seat where Eunmi was, where he plopped down on one of the chairs that seemed to not match any of the furniture, like everything was just bought off of a designer yard sale. His ears were ringing and he can’t think properly,or at least, he imagined it, just like being twenty inches away from a flash bomb when it exploded. I think I just shat my pants right there, he thought, still dazed from that amazing smile. Jesus. Oh my God. Why am I like this? What is this feeling?

Eunmi had been watching the whole spectacle, greatly entertained by how Luhan, who usually was very suave and cool, managed to trip over himself just from ordering beverages and pastries. She was holding back her laughter, which she wasn’t having much success on. Now Luhan, being hurtled down back into normalcy by Eunmi, was out of his got-shocked-by-seeing-what-may-be-an-angel stupor and back to being the perpetually self-controlled young man he was, before that creature—Luhan didn’t even think he was human—appeared.

“What’s so funny?” he sourly snapped at Eunmi, who was giggling behind her perfectly manicured hands. She tried to stop, but couldn’t, so she bit her lip and tried to talk between fits of laughter.

“Oh my gosh, Lu,” she finally managed to breathe out, “I didn’t know you could be like that!”

“What’s that?” retorted Luhan spitefully. One of these days, Eunmi, I’ll chop you up and ship you to the Yangtze where no one will find your body, you wench. Th