Part-Time Barista
Chapter 4 – Part-Time Barista
The first time Joonseo offered to help, he did it the way he did everything that mattered.
Quietly.
As if raising his voice would turn kindness into a performance.
It was a Tuesday–grey outside, the kind of day that made the street look washed out and tired. Second Verse felt warmer than usual, partly because the heater worked harder when it was cold, and partly because Yuna had started lighting a small candle by the register as if scent could convince people to walk in.
Vanilla.
A little sweet.
A little desperate.
Joonseo sat in his corner seat with his Americano, laptop open, pretending to work.
But he wasn’t working.
He was watching.
Yuna moved like she was holding herself together with thread.
She kept checking the clock.
She kept glancing upstairs.
She kept rubbing the back of her neck as if pain had become part of her posture.
At around three, her phone buzzed.
She flinched.
Joonseo pretended not to notice.
She stared at the screen for a long moment before answering.
“Hello?”
A pause.
Then her voice turned careful.
“Yes… yes, I understand… I’ll transfer something by Friday.”
Another pause.
Her fingers tightened around the phone.
“…I said I understand. Please, just–give me until Friday.”
She ended the call.
Her shoulders stayed tense like she was bracing for a second punch.
Joonseo’s throat tightened.
He didn’t need to hear the words to know what the call was.
Rent.
Suppliers.
Bills.
Threats disguised as reminders.
Yuna set her phone down and stared at the counter.
Then she wiped the same spot again.
Same motion.
A rhythm that said, If I keep moving, maybe I won’t fall apart.
Joonseo closed his laptop.
The click was soft.
Yuna looked up.
“Done working?” she asked, trying for lightness.
Joonseo stood.
“I want to ask you something,” he said.
Yuna’s smile faltered.
Her whole body seemed to tighten the way it did whenever a man asked to talk.
“…Okay,” she replied slowly.
Joonseo chose his words with care.
“Do you… have help?”
Yuna blinked.
“What?”
“Here,” he clarified, gesturing vaguely at the café. “Do you have someone who works with you?”
Yuna’s expression hardened.
“I work here alone,” she said.
Joonseo nodded.
“And upstairs?”
Yuna’s eyes narrowed.
“My mom,” she said. “Why?”
Joonseo held her gaze.
Because if he looked away, he might back out.
“Because you’re exhausted,” he said softly.
Yuna let out a short laugh.
“Everyone is exhausted.”
“No,” he said. “Not like you.”
The café was quiet.
The heater hummed.
The vanilla candle flickered.
Yuna’s fingers curled around the edge of the counter.
“What are you trying to say?” she asked.
Joonseo swallowed.
He could feel the weight of his own wealth sitting behind his ribs, pressing.
He could feel all the ways this could go wrong.
If he offered money, she’d hate him.
If he offered advice, she’d resent him.
If he offered pity, she’d shut the door.
So he offered the only thing he could offer without turning into the kind of man she despised.
“I can work,” he said.
Yuna stared.
“…What?”
“I can help here,” he repeated. “Part-time.”
Yuna blinked again, slower this time, like her brain wasn’t sure it heard correctly.
“You want to…” She looked him up and down as if she could locate the punchline on his hoodie. “Work at my café?”
Joonseo nodded.
Yuna’s eyebrows lifted.
“Why?”
Joonseo took a breath.
“Because you need rest,” he said. “Because your mom needs you. Because you can’t do everything alone.”
Yuna’s eyes sharpened.
“And why do you care?” she asked, voice edged.
The question landed hard.
Because the truth was too big.
Because the truth would swallow them.
So he chose a smaller truth.
“Because you’re… not a stranger to me,” he said carefully.
Yuna went still.
Her throat moved.
Joonseo’s heart raced.
He pushed through before she could ask for more.
“I mean,” he added quickly, “you’re… kind. You make good coffee. You gave me cookies. You’re someone I… respect.”
It was clumsy.
Human.
Not CEO Kang.
Just a man trying not to ruin a fragile thing.
Yuna’s gaze stayed on him, searching.
Then she laughed once, short and incredulous.
“You’re crazy,” she said.
Joonseo exhaled.
“Maybe,” he admitted.
Yuna leaned back slightly.
“Okay,” she said slowly. “Let’s say I accept this… ridiculous offer.”
Joonseo didn’t move.
He didn’t breathe.
Yuna continued:
“I can’t pay much,” she said, blunt. “Like–barely anything. I’m already behind on payments. I’m not hiring staff. I can’t afford staff.”
Joonseo nodded.
“I know.”
Yuna’s eyes narrowed.
“You know?”
Joonseo caught himself.
He softened.
“I… can tell,” he said.
Yuna stared.
Then she exhaled, long.
“See?” she muttered. “This is why it’s weird. A normal guy wouldn’t offer to work somewhere that can barely pay him.”
Joonseo’s mouth twitched.
“I’m not that normal,” he said.
Yuna watched him.
Her shoulders slowly sagged.
Not in defeat.
In surrender.
To the idea that maybe she didn’t have to do everything alone.
“…Fine,” she said finally.
Joonseo’s chest eased.
Yuna lifted a finger.
“But,” she added sharply, “I’m warning you. It’s not glamorous. It’s cleaning and carrying and dealing with rude people and making coffee for nobody.”
Joonseo nodded.
“I can do that.”
Yuna’s eyes flicked upstairs.
Then back to him.
“And,” she continued, voice quieter, “if you do this… don’t treat me like a charity case.”
Joonseo held her gaze.
“I won’t,” he said.
Yuna looked away.
“…Okay,” she whispered.
The word sounded like both an agreement and a prayer.
His first shift began the next day.
Yuna handed him an apron that was too big, the straps dangling like loose ends.
“Here,” she said. “Put this on.”
Joonseo took it.
The fabric was worn.
Stained with coffee.
Smelled faintly of vanilla candle and detergent.
He tied it around his waist.
It fit badly.
Yuna stared at him for a long second.
“…You look like a part-timer,” she said, voice dry.
Joonseo blinked.
“That’s the goal.”
Yuna huffed.
“Okay, part-timer.” She gestured to the espresso machine. “This is your enemy.”
Joonseo stepped closer.
He’d used machines far more complex than this.
He’d built systems that learned from human behavior.
But the espresso machine looked at him like it didn’t care.
Yuna showed him how to grind beans.
How to tamp properly.
How to pull a shot.
Her hands moved automatically, like muscle memory.
Joonseo watched her fingers.
They were quick.
Capable.
They had once held microphones.
Now they held portafilters.
The thought made his chest tighten.
“Not like that,” Yuna snapped suddenly.
Joonseo flinched.
“What?”
“Your tamping is uneven,” she said, frowning. “If you do it like that, the extraction will be weird.”
Joonseo stared at the puck like it had insulted him.
“It’s… coffee,” he said weakly.
Yuna shot him a look.
“It’s not just coffee,” she replied.
Joonseo went quiet.
He understood.
Because for her, this wasn’t just coffee.
This was survival.
This was pride.
This was the only stage left.
He tried again.
Yuna watched.
Then she nodded once.
“Better,” she said.
The praise was small.
But Joonseo felt it like warmth.
Working at Second Verse was not glamorous.
The floor needed scrubbing.
The fridge needed reorganizing.
The trash needed taking out.
And the customers–when they appeared–were unpredictable.
One older man complained that his latte wasn’t hot enough.
A student asked for free water and stayed four hours without buying anything.
A couple took photos of the interior and left without ordering, like the café was an aesthetic, not a business.
Through it all, Yuna’s patience stayed thin.
Not cruel.
Just stretched.
She snapped sometimes.
Then apologized.
Then snapped again.
Joonseo didn’t mind.
He could handle pressure.
He’d handled boardrooms.
He’d handled crises.
But there was something more intimate about handling a person’s exhaustion.
It required a different kind of skill.
Not intelligence.
Tenderness.
And he was learning.
The change happened slowly.
Yuna started letting him close the café while she went upstairs to check on her mom.
Yuna started taking breaks–real breaks–sitting down with a cup of tea instead of standing until her legs shook.
Yuna started eating.
Not much.
But something.
Joonseo noticed the way her under-eyes looked slightly less hollow after a week.
He noticed the way she laughed more often–even if she tried to hide it behind sarcasm.
He noticed the way she began to trust him with small tasks.
“Don’t forget to lock the back door,” she’d say.
“Don’t let the milk expire again,” she’d scold.
“Don’t… stay too late,” she’d mutter, almost like she was talking to herself.
He obeyed.
Like these were rules worth living by.
One night, they closed later than usual.
The city outside was quiet.
The streetlights made the pavement look soft.
Inside, the café felt like a bubble.
Yuna counted coins at the register, lips pressed tight.
Joonseo wiped down tables.
The silence between them was comfortable now.
Not awkward.
Not tense.
Just… present.
Yuna suddenly spoke.
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
Joonseo’s hand froze on the table.
He looked up.
Yuna didn’t look at him.
She kept counting coins like the question was casual.
But her voice was too flat.
Too carefully controlled.
Joonseo swallowed.
“No,” he said.
Yuna hummed.
“Figured.”
Joonseo blinked.
“Why?”
Yuna shrugged.
“You’re always here.”
The sentence landed like a soft punch.
Joonseo’s throat tightened.
“I… like the café,” he said.
Yuna’s mouth twitched.
“Liar,” she muttered.
Joonseo didn’t argue.
Because he was.
But not in the way she thought.
Yuna finally looked up.
Her eyes were tired.
But there was something else now too.
Curiosity.
A fragile interest.
“And you?” Joonseo asked, voice gentle. “Do you… have someone?”
Yuna laughed once.
“No.”
The word came out too fast.
Too sharp.
Then she exhaled.
“I’ve always been single,” she added, quieter.
Joonseo didn’t speak.
Yuna’s gaze dropped back to the coins.
“When I was an idol,” she continued, “there were men who tried.”
Joonseo’s fingers tightened around the rag.
Yuna’s voice stayed calm, but the calm was brittle.
“Rich men,” she said, like it was a dirty word. “They’d show up with gifts. Bags. Jewelry. ‘Opportunities.’ They always said the same thing–I’m different.”
Joonseo’s heart sank.
“And then?” he asked softly.
Yuna’s laugh was humorless.
“And then the group disbanded,” she said. “And they vanished.”
She tossed a handful of coins into the drawer with a harsh clink.
“Like my value expired.”
Joonseo’s chest tightened.
Yuna’s eyes lifted.
“I hate rich guys,” she said.
The sentence was quiet.
But it cut.
Joonseo forced his face to stay neutral.
He knew his heartbeat would betray him if she touched his wrist.
Yuna leaned back against the counter.
“They think money makes them safe,” she continued. “Like it excuses everything. Like they can buy a person and call it love.”
Joonseo’s throat burned.
He wanted to tell her he wasn’t like that.
But that sentence–I’m different–had already been poisoned.
So he said nothing.
Yuna looked at him.
Her gaze narrowed.
“…You’re not rich, right?” she asked.
The question was sharp.
Defensive.
A test.
Joonseo swallowed.
“No,” he said.
The lie sat on his tongue like a coin.
Cold.
Heavy.
Yuna’s shoulders eased.
“Good,” she murmured. “Then you can stay.”
The words landed softly.
Not romantic.
Not dramatic.
But Joonseo felt them sink into him like warmth.
Then Yuna turned away, busying herself with the register like she hadn’t just made a decision that changed the air in the room.
Joonseo kept wiping tables.
But his hands were shaking.
Not from fear.
From the strange, tender ache of being allowed.
That night, after they locked up, Yuna headed upstairs.
She paused halfway.
“Joonseo,” she said without looking back.
He looked up.
“…Thank you,” she murmured.
His throat tightened.
“For what?” he asked.
Yuna hesitated.
“For being here,” she said.
Then she disappeared upstairs.
Joonseo stood alone in the café.
The lights dim.
The vanilla candle burned low.
He stared at the empty tables.
At the two chairs at his corner.
At the space between them.
And he thought, with a kind of quiet dread–
This is getting dangerous.
Because he had lied.
Because he had let her believe he was ordinary.
Because he wanted to stay.
And because one day–
she would find out that the man washing her dishes and scrubbing her floors had built an empire.
That he could erase her debts with a phone call.
That he had the power to save her.
And the fear wasn’t that she would want his money.
The fear was that she would look at him and see only what she hated.
A rich man.
With hidden motives.
With strings.
With a lie disguised as kindness.
Joonseo exhaled slowly.
Then he picked up the rag again.
He cleaned the counter.
Same spot.
Same motion.
Because he didn’t know how to stop.
And because, for now–
he was still allowed to stay.