In middle school your instructor had never spoken below a yell. Not to his students, anyways. You’d always found it odd how his entire demeanor seemed to change before the school principal, from one of strict aggression to complacent geniality in the span of a second. In middle school you’d learned the very important law of character judgement.

“Never judge a person by how they treat their superiors,” your mother had said in that tone she’d somehow known would ring in your mind years from then, “But how they treat those below them.”

You’d carried the philosophy with you through high school and university, and while a particular bitterness prohibited you from ever truly admitting yourself to beneath anyone, it was not beyond your humility to confess the career path of a barista at the local corner café did require some amount of inferiority in the face of the slew of customers that strolled in every day. Within the first week of training, you’d learned your second law of character judgement.

“The customer,” your middle aged, balding manager declared, “Is always right. We are here only for the customers, understand?”

While it had been simple enough to agree at the time, the following six months proved quite the contrary. Hundreds of macchiatos and thousands of hazelnut blend decafs served in a constant rush of eight hour shifts seemed to effectively shake you out of the mindset of believing what you’d been told. In a dazed stupor of sore feet and coffee scented skin, you reached an epiphany all your own.

First, the customer was not always right. In fact, the “customer” was almost never right.

Second, the customer was rude even more often than they were wrong. If you truly were the inferior one in the customer-barista interaction, there might very well be only a handful of decent people on the face of the coffee drinking planet.

And third, the best way to cope with an incorrect, arrogant customer was through the beautiful art of passive aggression.

This, you had decided, would be your new creed. Even if all it did was ease the burden of the work day by just a little, you’d decided you would never again let yourself be the inferior.

“What?” the man looked up, the irritation obvious in his furrowed brow.

“Did you want one shot of espresso or two?” you asked clearly, gritting your teeth in a show of equal irritation.

The man held up two long fingers, muttering a short “Of course” into the speaker of the phone pressed against his cheek.

With a roll of your eyes, you retrieved the appropriate cup from beneath the counter, sharpie poised against the surface.

“Name?”

“No, no I said make copies of the weekly report, not the monthly one. Jesus Christ, Baek, it’s only four days into the fiscal ing month and you’re ing up already!”

“Name?” you reiterated raising your voice just barely beneath a shout.

The man looked up, blinking in confusion before replying dismissively, “It’s Sehun- No, Baek- Stop- Just – Forget it, I’ll send them later.”

You sighed loudly, scribbling the “S” before the idea struck you. With a small smile, you pressed the ink into the cup, decisively drawing in the remainder of his name.

“S – E – Y –H –O –O- N.” you mouthed silently to yourself before turning to fill his order as the man continued to bark into his phone.

“Sehun.” You called, dropping the honorific your manager would surely have demanded from you, “Your coffee.”

The man reached out for the cup, glancing at the name before turning and strutting out of the shop, the stoic expression on his face remaining unchanged.

A frown lilted upon your lips at the lack of reaction, the thrill of your subtle insult deflating in your chest.

Oh well, you thought. At the very least, he wouldn’t return.

“Caramel macchiato.” A voice demanded from behind the counter. “Two shots of espresso.”

You rolled your eyes, dropping the blender you’d been washing into the sink.

“Name please?” you asked, your voice fading into silence as you turned to meet his gaze.

“Sehun.” He replied firmly, pulling his wallet out from the back pocket of his dress pants.

You nodded awkwardly, pulling the cup out and searching for the pen, when the boy spoke up.

“Are you coming to the dinner party tonight?”

You looked up, blinking in confusion, “W-What?”

He glanced up from the phone between his hands, lifting one to tap a finger against the Bluetooth device in his ear. His lips pressed together in a tight, almost sarcastic smile.

“No, don’t invite her.” He spoke up again, “She’s a ing bore. Flirting with anything that’s got two legs and a credit card.”

You scoffed, loud enough, you hoped, for him to hear before turning to fill his order.

“Yeah, right?” he laughed into the Bluetooth, the sound more childish than you might have thought. For an instant, you wondered how old the boy was.

After pressing the lid onto the cup, you retrieved the pen, biting your lip as you wrote in round, cursive loops, “S – A –Y – H- U- N – N –E.”

“Your order, sir.” You called in a dramatically saccharine voice.

Sehun glanced up, taking the cup from your hand. His eyes skimmed over the black letter, his lips pressing together in what almost seemed like embarrassment.

“Thanks.” He mumbled, turning quickly to leave, the door shutting back into place before you could process the word that had fallen from his lips.

Your elbow rested upon the counter, propping you up by the cheek as you scribbled onto a napkin, biting your lip.

“Saihun.” You wrote, scratching it out shortly after.

“Not good enough.” You muttered to yourself, tapping the pen against the counter as you bit your lip.

“Sey-hon?” you scratched into the fabric, pondering it for a moment before scratching the name off again.

“Se-hun” you spoke the name aloud, tasting it on your tongue. The soft “S” tickled, the subtle “h” coming out like a blissful sigh, each lilt of each syllable taking form upon your lips. You frowned, feeling your skin grow warm as you stared down at the napkin, muttering to yourself, “The name’s too nice for a jerk like him