Work Text:
Minho worked as a barista at a small coffee shop his friend thought would be a “good vibe.” The friend had this insane idea that Minho—a person who barely tolerated small talk on a good day—was suited for customer service. As if Minho would ever care about “creating memorable customer experiences” or whatever corporate nonsense they peddled on LinkedIn.
To be clear, Minho loved making drinks. He loved the precision of grinding the beans just right, the exact wrist motion for swirling foam. That fleeting moment of satisfaction when he poured a latte with perfect microfoam? Chef’s kiss. But the customers? They were a nightmare, a never-ending parade of needs, questions, and—worst of all—expectations.
There was the girl with the obnoxious Bluetooth earpiece who practically shouted her entire phone call to the café while ordering. She wanted a soy-milk, no-foam, half-shot, decaf, triple-temperature vanilla latte with one-and-a-half pumps of syrup because “two is just too sweet, you know?” Minho nodded, dead-eyed, while planning out her drink like it was a science experiment. “Sure thing, anything else? World peace, perhaps?”
Then there was the guy who ordered the same cold brew every morning and made a joke every single time about it being “stronger than my ex’s personality.” Minho tried fake-laughing the first three times, but by the fourth, he couldn’t help himself. “Maybe she dumped you because you make the same joke every morning,” he muttered, just loud enough for him to hear.
And don’t get him started on the “milk scientists”—those customers who made life-altering decisions about which milk to put in their coffee. “So, is the oat milk gluten-free?” a woman asked him once, wide-eyed and earnest. “It’s oat milk,” Minho replied, blinking at her slowly. “Are oats gluten-free?” she whispered, panic-stricken, and Minho had to excuse himself to the back before he accidentally told her to Google it like a normal person.
But then there was Seungmin.
Seungmin was different. He was a regular, a face Minho grew to expect each morning as surely as he expected to see the sunrise. Seungmin wasn’t like the others, at least not in the annoying sense. No, Seungmin was the only customer who made Minho actually enjoy being at work—though he’d sooner grind his own coffee beans with his teeth than admit that.
But Seungmin had one deeply frustrating quirk: every single time he came in, he gave Minho a different fake name. And not the normal fake names that Minho could understand, like “Alex” or “Chris” or something casual. No, Seungmin’s chosen names were absurd.
It was an insanely busy day, and Minho was at his limit. Customers had been snapping at him all morning, coffee orders were piling up, and he barely had a second to breathe. He had just finished dealing with a particularly nasty customer, the kind who acted like their morning latte was a life-or-death situation, when the next person in line approached.
He didn’t look like trouble—quite the opposite. With soft brown hair and big, warm eyes, he had an aura of genuine kindness that threw Minho off his usual guarded stance.
“Hey,” the guy said, catching Minho’s eye and offering a sympathetic smile. “Sorry about that last person. Some people don’t know how hard you guys work.”
Minho blinked, surprised. “Oh… thanks?”
“Seriously,” the guy continued, leaning on the counter a bit and giving Minho this gentle, reassuring look. “Anyway, I’d like a simple iced Americano, please.”
A simple drink order? Minho let out a sigh of relief before he could stop himself. He could hardly believe it. “Iced Americano coming right up,” he said, feeling oddly warmed by the guy’s smile.
Minho reached for the marker, glancing up to ask, “Name?”
The guy’s eyes sparkled with a mischief that hadn’t been there a moment ago. “Voldemort.”
Minho stared, not even attempting to hide his deadpan expression. “I’m sorry, did you just say Voldemort?”
“Yep!” He nodded enthusiastically. “You-Know-Who? Like He Who Must Not Be Named? I think it has a nice ring to it.”
Minho could barely process this sudden shift from sweet to complete nerd. He narrowed his eyes, keeping his tone as dry as possible. “So you expect me to write Voldemort on your cup?”
“Yep,” the guy replied, smiling with absolute innocence.
Minho sighed, clicking the marker open and scrawling “Voldemort” on the cup with exaggerated, jagged letters. “You’re aware this is ridiculous, right?”
The guy just beamed at him with a face that was criminally adorable, like a human golden retriever. “Thanks, Minho. You’ve got a great handwriting. And… cheer up, yeah?”
Then he handed Minho a tip that was way too generous, flashing that puppy-eyed grin before walking out the door. Minho found himself staring after him, totally baffled.
What just happened?
He shook his head, looking down at the tip, and he had to admit: okay, maybe the nerdiness was kind of cute.
The next day, Minho was on high alert, wondering if that guy would show up again. Sure enough, as the line shortened, he saw him—grinning as he approached the counter, looking just as cheerful as before.
“Hey, Minho!” the guy greeted, like they were old friends.
“Morning, Voldemort,” Minho replied dryly. “What are we going with today? Thanos? Darth Vader?”
The guy chuckled. “Oh, not Voldemort today. Today, I’m Iron Man.”
Minho blinked slowly, then looked at him like he’d just declared he was Santa Claus. “Are you… are you serious?”
“Absolutely.” He grinned wider, eyes crinkling in amusement. “Gotta keep you entertained, right?”
Minho held his gaze, unimpressed. “Oh, I’m on the edge of my seat.” But he wrote “Iron Man” on the cup anyway, barely keeping his expression in check. “You realize this makes you the biggest nerd on the planet, right?”
The guy just shrugged, taking the cup with a wink. “Maybe, but you’re smiling, so I think it’s worth it.”
Minho rolled his eyes, watching him go, but that tiny smirk lingered on his face long after he’d left.
The following day, Minho had barely gotten a “Good morning” out when the guy leaned across the counter and whispered, “Gollum.”
“Excuse me?” Minho asked, brows raised.
“My name.” He hunched his shoulders, putting on a truly terrible impression. “Gollum… my precious iced Americano.”
Minho pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to fight down the laugh that threatened to escape. “Oh, no. You’re not serious.”
“Oh, I’m very serious,” the guy replied, nodding solemnly. “Besides, it’s keeping your mornings interesting, right?”
Minho sighed, reluctantly scrawling “Gollum” on the cup, his annoyance mixed with an undeniable hint of fondness. “You’re aware I don’t get paid extra for dealing with your particular brand of chaos, right?”
“Consider it a privilege,” Seungmin said, taking the cup with a little bow. “And besides, I tip well.”
Minho snorted, watching him leave with a half-smile. This guy really was something.
By Day Seven, Minho had given up trying to act unaffected. He just leaned on the counter with a sigh as Seungmin bounced over, waiting with crossed arms. “Alright. Let’s get it over with. What’s your name today?”
Seungmin grinned, looking like he’d been waiting all morning for this. “Elvis Presley.”
Minho let out a dramatic groan. “Elvis Presley. Are you seriously—”
“Thank you very much,” Seungmin replied, doing a little hip swivel that was as embarrassing as it was endearing.
Minho shook his head, muttering as he wrote, “If I ever find out your real name, I’m calling you only that for the rest of your life. No exceptions.”
Seungmin chuckled, taking the cup with an exaggerated bow. “Oh, so you’re planning to keep me around for a while?”
Minho flushed, scowling as he pretended to focus on his next order. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
But the truth was, he did kind of hope Seungmin kept coming back.
Days turned into weeks, and Seungmin’s names grew more absurd. One day, it was “Sailor Moon.” The next, he was “Beyonce.” The day after that, he claimed to be “Captain Jack Sparrow.”
And every time, Minho would roll his eyes, mutter about ridiculousness, and then smile a little too much when Seungmin walked out with his coffee.
One morning, after a particularly chaotic introduction as “Naruto Uzumaki,” Minho gave up all pretense of annoyance. “Alright, listen. Are you ever going to give me a real name? Just once?”
Seungmin leaned in, pretending to think it over. “Hm. Nope, probably not.”
Minho sighed, crossing his arms as he looked Seungmin up and down. “Alright, but I’m not calling you Naruto. I’d rather die than see you do Naruto run out the door. Pick a different name.”
Seungmin pouted, but then he grinned, amused visible behind his eyes. “How about Park Jinyoung?”
Minho couldn’t help it—he laughed out loud, a sharp bark of disbelief. “Oh, JYP, huh? Alright, why not?”
As he wrote it on the cup, he muttered, “I hope the real JYP sues you.”
Seungmin chuckled, tilting his head. “What? Not a fan?”
“Of you? Not particularly,” Minho replied, smirking as he handed over the cup.
“Oh, I dunno, Minho. You seem pretty invested,” Seungmin said, that playful smile returning. He gave a little wave, and as he walked away, he called over his shoulder, “See you tomorrow!”
Minho huffed, rolling his eyes with just the faintest blush on his cheeks. Yep. This guy’s a complete nerd.
He had practically given up on ever knowing the guy’s real name—he’d resigned himself to simply enjoying Seungmin’s daily antics. If he was honest, he’d even grown a little fond of them.
“Alright,” he said, crossing his arms. “What’s the name today? Jack Peralta? Katsuki Bakugou? Are we moving into random TV shows characters territory?”
Seungmin just grinned, tilting his head like he was thinking hard. “Actually… I was thinking… eight.”
Minho blinked, momentarily thrown off. “Eight?”
“Yep,” Seungmin said, nodding earnestly. “And then… two.”
“Wait—are you just giving me numbers today?” Minho muttered, reaching for his marker as Seungmin continued, smiling in a way that made Minho feel oddly warm.
“Five,” Seungmin went on, watching Minho scribble it on the cup.
Minho jotted down the numbers, glancing up at Seungmin with a confused look. “What kind of name is ‘825’?”
But Seungmin just kept going, his smile growing as he rattled off more numbers. “Nine. Two. Zero. Four…”
Minho wrote it down, still baffled but admittedly intrigued. When Seungmin finally paused, Minho tilted his head, staring at the cup. Something about the pattern clicked in his head, a little realization creeping in.
“Wait…” He squinted at the numbers. “Is this—is this your phone number?”
Seungmin shrugged, looking up at him with a completely innocent expression. “I don’t know, Minho. Is it?”
Minho’s heart did an embarrassing flip. He stared down at the numbers on the cup, feeling warmth flood his cheeks. He went over them in his mind, realizing it was missing one final digit. He looked up, speechless.
Seungmin gave a casual shrug. “Guess you’ll have to figure out the last one. And when you do…” He paused, that mischievous sparkle in his eye returning. “You can save it under Seungmin.”
For a split second, Minho’s usual composure crumbled. He felt his cheeks go hot, but he cleared his throat, trying to play it cool. “Oh, so that’s your name? Finally, a real one?”
Seungmin just grinned. “Guess so. Better put it to good use, huh?”
Minho scoffed, trying to hide his embarrassment. “Pfft. Whatever, I don’t even want your name,” he muttered, his tone as casual as he could muster, though he was sure the redness in his face gave him away.
Seungmin just laughed, leaving another absurdly large tip on the counter. “See you tomorrow, Minho,” he said with a wink, turning to leave.
Minho watched him walk out, the numbers still fresh in his mind. He didn’t know how, but he already knew he’d be able to figure out that last missing digit. As he returned to work, he couldn’t help the small, thrilled smile creeping onto his face, feeling like he’d just been handed the start of something completely new.
For the rest of his shift, Minho moved around the café with the lightness of someone who had flowers blooming inside him, buzzing with a sense of excitement he couldn’t quite shake.
And all he could think was, Seungmin.