The Regular

Chapter 3 – The Regular

By the time Joonseo became a regular, it was no longer something he could pretend was accidental.

A regular wasn’t a coincidence.

A regular was a decision.

It was choosing the same door again and again, knowing the bell above it would ring, knowing she would look up, knowing his presence would start to take up a small space in her life.

And space was dangerous.

Because space could become comfort.

And comfort could become attachment.

And attachment was the one thing he’d trained himself to avoid.

Yet every afternoon, after the market closed and the city began to soften into evening, his feet would turn without him telling them to.

Second Verse.

The chipped sign.

The dusty windows.

The warm light that made the café feel like it was protecting itself from the world.

The bell.

And Yuna.

Always Yuna.

At first, she only acknowledged him with that careful customer smile–polite, practiced, slightly distant.

Then her eyes started to recognize him.

Not with awe.

Not with idol-fan distance.

With familiarity.

The kind you reserve for people who appear often enough to become part of the background.

“Americano?” she’d ask now, before he even reached the counter.

He’d nod.

“Hot?”

“Yes.”

She’d make it without asking for payment first, like she trusted he wouldn’t vanish without paying.

Like she trusted him.

The thought made his chest feel too full.

So he looked away.

On the tenth day, she stopped giving him leftover cookies.

Instead, she gave him a cookie she had clearly baked that morning.

Fresh.

Warm.

Still soft in the center.

She slid it onto his saucer with exaggerated nonchalance.

“It was going to go stale,” she said.

Joonseo stared at it.

It was shaped like a heart.

Not perfectly.

The left side bulged slightly like she’d pressed too hard.

The right side was thinner, as if she’d hesitated.

He looked up.

Yuna was already wiping the counter.

Same spot.

Same motion.

But her ears were faintly pink.

Joonseo picked up the cookie carefully.

“It’s… cute,” he said.

Yuna’s wiping paused.

“It’s a mistake,” she muttered.

“A mistake?”

“I was trying to make circles.”

Joonseo took a bite.

It was sweet.

Simple.

Comforting.

Like something a mother would pack into a lunchbox when the world felt too big.

“It’s a good mistake,” he said.

Yuna’s shoulders loosened by a fraction.

“…Your taste is weird,” she replied.

He smiled.

“Maybe I like weird things.”

Yuna glanced at him.

Her eyes held something unreadable.

Then she looked away.

“Careful,” she said softly.

Joonseo didn’t ask why.

He already knew.

Because weird things didn’t survive in a world that demanded perfection.

And she knew that better than anyone.

Second Verse never got busy.

Not really.

Some days, a couple would wander in, holding hands, drawn by the warm lights and the promise of quiet. A student might come in to study, only to leave after an hour when they realized there was no crowd to hide in.

Occasionally, an older neighbor would buy a takeaway latte and complain about their knee.

But most days, it was empty.

So empty that Joonseo started noticing the kind of silence that only exists when you’re losing money.

The fridge hum.

The clock ticking.

The wind rattling the door when it was cold.

And the sound of Yuna’s phone buzzing with messages she didn’t want to open.

At first, she’d glance at it and ignore it.

Then she started opening the messages with a tired resignation.

He caught glimpses.

RENT DUE.

PAYMENT REMINDER.

OVERDUE.

Yuna would swallow, then set the phone down face-up like she was daring herself to look again.

Joonseo pretended not to see.

Because looking would turn it into pity.

And she had made it clear she didn’t want pity.

But the numbers in his head kept moving.

Rent.

Utilities.

Supplies.

Medical bills upstairs.

He could sense the weights the way he sensed market pressure before a crash.

The café was bleeding.

Yuna was bleeding.

Quietly.

One late afternoon, she came down the stairs from upstairs carrying a small basket of laundry.

Her steps were slow.

Her face was pale.

Joonseo looked up from his laptop.

“You were upstairs,” he said.

Yuna nodded.

“Mom’s sleeping.”

He hesitated.

“How is she?”

Yuna’s mouth tightened.

“Some days are good,” she said. “Some days are… not.”

She set the basket down behind the counter, then leaned against the wall for a second like her body needed permission to exist.

Joonseo watched her.

Her hands had faint burns on them.

Coffee burns.

Kitchen burns.

Survival burns.

“You should sit,” he said.

Yuna scoffed.

“I sit when customers come so they don’t think I’m desperate.”

Joonseo’s throat tightened.

“Do you eat?” he asked quietly.

Yuna blinked.

“What?”

“Do you… eat properly?”

Yuna’s face hardened.

“Why are you asking?”

Joonseo kept his voice calm.

“Because you look like you’re running on coffee and stubbornness.”

Yuna stared at him.

Then she exhaled, long and tired.

“Coffee is cheap,” she muttered.

“And stubbornness?”

“Stubbornness is free.”

Joonseo’s chest ached.

He wanted to say, Stubbornness shouldn’t have to be free.

Instead, he stood.

He walked behind the counter–carefully, like he was entering a space he wasn’t sure he was allowed to enter.

Yuna stiffened.

“What are you doing?”

Joonseo opened the small fridge.

There was milk.

A few eggs.

Half a bag of spinach.

A lonely slice of ham.

He closed it.

Then he opened a cabinet.

Instant ramen.

Rice.

A jar of old kimchi.

He turned back.

“You have ingredients,” he said.

Yuna crossed her arms.

“And?”

“And you’re going to eat something that isn’t instant ramen.”

Yuna blinked.

“…Are you ordering me?”

Joonseo paused.

He realized what he was doing.

He wasn’t a manager.

He wasn’t her boyfriend.

He was just a customer.

A regular.

He lowered his voice.

“I’m… asking,” he corrected. “Please.”

Yuna’s expression flickered.

For a second, she looked like she wanted to fight.

Then her shoulders sagged.

“…Fine,” she muttered. “But if you burn the café down, you’re paying for it.”

Joonseo’s mouth twitched.

“That’s fair.”

He rolled up his sleeves.

The motion looked absurdly natural.

Like he’d been waiting for someone to let him.

He made a simple meal.

Rice warmed in the microwave.

Eggs scrambled with spinach and kimchi.

A soup that was basically hot water with soy sauce and bits of seaweed.

Nothing fancy.

Nothing that screamed wealth.

Just warm.

Just human.

Yuna sat at the corner table–the one he always sat at–and watched him like she didn’t know what to do with a man who cooked without asking for applause.

When he placed the bowl in front of her, she stared.

“You cook?” she asked.

He shrugged.

“I’m… functional.”

Yuna snorted.

“That’s not an answer.”

He pulled out the chair across from her and sat.

“I learned,” he said simply.

Yuna looked down at the food.

Then she picked up her spoon.

She took a bite.

Her eyes closed for a second.

Joonseo’s heart tightened.

“…It’s good,” she admitted quietly.

He watched her eat, slow at first, then faster–like her body had been starving longer than she wanted to admit.

When she finished, she set the spoon down carefully.

“Thanks,” she said, voice small.

Joonseo nodded.

“You’re welcome.”

There was a pause.

Then Yuna spoke again.

“Why are you like this?”

Joonseo blinked.

“Like what?”

“Like… you care.”

The words were quiet.

But they hit him like a hand to the chest.

Joonseo felt the secrets in his closet press against his ribs.

He forced his voice to stay neutral.

“I’m a customer,” he said.

Yuna scoffed.

“No,” she said. “Customers don’t cook.”

Joonseo’s throat tightened.

He didn’t answer.

Because the truth was too big.

Because the truth was: I cared before you ever met me.

And he couldn’t say that.

Not yet.

So he chose the only thing he could say.

“I don’t like seeing people suffer,” he murmured.

Yuna looked away.

“…People suffer all the time,” she replied.

“I know.”

Her voice softened.

“Then why me?”

Joonseo’s chest burned.

He swallowed.

“Because I’m here,” he said.

It wasn’t the whole truth.

But it wasn’t a lie.

The next day, a woman came in.

She wore a mask and a cap pulled low.

She didn’t look like much–just another person trying to be invisible.

But the moment she stepped inside, Yuna froze.

Her hand tightened around a cup.

Joonseo watched her eyes widen.

“Unnie…?” Yuna whispered.

The woman lifted her head.

Even with the mask, Joonseo recognized her.

Hana.

One of the LUMINA members.

Yuna rushed forward, pulling Hana into the back corner like she was protecting a secret.

Joonseo pretended to focus on his laptop.

But his ears caught fragments.

“…I saw your post,” Hana murmured. “About the café.”

Yuna’s laugh was brittle.

“It was just… a photo. It’s not like anyone cares.”

Hana’s voice softened.

“I care.”

Yuna went quiet.

Then she whispered, “I’m tired, Hana.”

Hana’s mask hid her expression but not her tone.

“I know.”

Yuna’s voice cracked.

“Sometimes I wake up and I still think I’m going to the practice room.”

Hana’s hand reached across the table.

“You’re still you,” she said. “Even without the stage.”

Joonseo felt his throat tighten.

The same sentence.

The one he’d said.

The one that sounded like comfort until you realized how much grief it carried.

Yuna laughed softly, like she was about to cry.

“That’s what you say when you don’t know what else to say.”

Hana paused.

Then she said something quieter.

“You don’t have to do this alone.”

Yuna’s voice was small.

“I don’t want to burden anyone.”

Hana’s tone turned firm.

“You’re not a burden. You’re… Yuna.”

Joonseo’s fingers hovered above his keyboard.

He felt like he was listening to a prayer.

When Hana left, Yuna stood by the door for a long moment, staring at the street outside as if she was watching a life she couldn’t step back into.

Joonseo waited.

He didn’t move.

He didn’t speak.

Because sometimes the only kindness you could offer someone was silence.

Yuna finally turned back.

Her eyes were red.

She caught him watching.

Her expression hardened reflexively.

“You didn’t hear anything,” she said.

Joonseo nodded.

“I didn’t.”

Yuna stared at him like she was trying to decide if she could believe that.

Then she looked away.

“…Thanks,” she muttered.

Joonseo’s chest warmed.

A small word.

A small crack in the wall.

That night, he sat in his apartment with his laptop open.

His models scrolled.

Market signals pulsed.

Opportunities blinked like stars.

He could make money.

He could make more.

He could make enough to buy her entire street.

But he didn’t.

Because money wasn’t the problem.

Money was never the real problem.

The problem was pride.

Dignity.

The way Yuna’s voice had turned sharp when she said she didn’t take help from strangers.

The way she had flinched at the idea of owing someone.

The way rich men had once tried to buy her and then abandoned her when she stopped being profitable.

Joonseo stared at his screen.

Then, slowly, he closed it.

He leaned back in his chair.

He thought of the wobbling chair leg.

The leaking faucet.

The empty tables.

The rent reminders.

The burns on her hands.

The way she ate like her body didn’t trust food would come again.

His chest tightened.

He could help.

But he had to help without chains.

Without making her feel small.

Without confirming every fear she had about rich men.

So he made a decision.

Not a billionaire decision.

A regular decision.

He would show up.

He would be consistent.

He would be safe.

And if she ever let him, he would help with his hands.

Not his money.

At least… not yet.

The next afternoon, he walked into Second Verse again.

The bell rang.

Yuna looked up.

And for the first time, she didn’t just recognize him.

She smiled.

Not wide.

Not bright.

But real.

“Joonseo,” she said.

His name.

Like she’d decided he belonged to the café now.

Joonseo felt something inside him loosen.

He walked to the counter.

“Americano?” she asked.

He nodded.

“Hot,” he said.

Yuna turned to the espresso machine.

And as she worked, she said quietly, without looking at him:

“…Thanks for yesterday.”

Joonseo’s chest tightened.

He kept his voice steady.

“You’re welcome.”

Yuna paused.

Then she added, almost like she hated how much she meant it:

“It was… nice. Eating real food.”

Joonseo swallowed.

“It should be normal,” he said softly.

Yuna’s shoulders lifted slightly–like she was absorbing the warmth.

Then she scoffed, hiding it.

“Don’t get used to it,” she muttered. “I’m not making you my chef.”

Joonseo’s mouth twitched.

“I wouldn’t dare.”

Yuna glanced over her shoulder.

Her eyes held his for a second.

And in that second, Joonseo understood something with frightening clarity.

This wasn’t just him supporting an idol.

This was him learning how to be in someone’s life.

Not from the sidelines.

But in the same room.

At the same table.

With two chairs.

And the space between them–

slowly, quietly–

becoming home.