Chapter Text
The smell of freshly ground coffee mingled with the sweet scent of summer rain, still lingering on the streets of Bangkok. It was a morning like any other, and yet for Book Kasidet, everything always felt a little more magical when he rolled up the shutters of "GMM Café."
A small, cozy spot tucked in the heart of the city, nestled between colorful buildings and a tangle of parked scooters. The café had mint-green walls, wooden tables with mismatched chairs, and a bookshelf brimming with novels in every language. But there was one book that Book knew by heart: The Dawn of Our Life, written by the elusive author known only as Foxeyes.
"Foxeyes..." Book murmured, running his finger along the worn spine of the book. "Who are you, really?"
"That's ten times this week you've whispered his name like he's your imaginary boyfriend."
The teasing voice came from First, who was already at his usual table, hand in hand with his long-time boyfriend, Khao. The two had been inseparable since university and loved nothing more than teasing their single best friend.
"Please, not today," Book groaned, slipping on his apron. "If you don't believe in spiritual love, at least respect mine."
Mark walked in right on cue, his glasses fogged up from the humidity outside. "Spiritual or not, you do know that 'Foxeyes' is one of our authors, right? If you want, I could find out who he really is."
"No!" Book answered too quickly, eyes wide. "Don't ruin the mystery."
---
Meanwhile, across town in a sleek, minimalist apartment...
Force Jiratchapong sat at his desk, a cup of green tea in hand, staring at the open draft of his newest novel. His eyes drifted away from the glowing screen and out the window, watching the city wake up beneath gray clouds.
He had been writing under the pseudonym Foxeyes for years. It was his sanctuary. His mask. No one knew his true identity—not even his editor. Only Mark, the loudmouth from his university days, had figured it out on his own and promised to keep it a secret. Force wasn’t entirely sure why he trusted him, but so far, Mark had kept his word.
"Force, you need to get out more," came Mark’s voice through the phone, a touch too smug for that early in the morning.
"Out? Where?"
"There's this little café I like. Great coffee. I'll send you the address."
---
Later that morning…
When Force stepped into GMM Café, the first thing he noticed was how small it was. And how good it smelled.
The second thing was a voice.
"Excuse me, sir, but this is a café, not a library. If you want peace and quiet to read, there's a National Library a few blocks down."
Force turned, lifting an eyebrow. A young man with tousled hair, a slightly crooked smile, and big brown eyes stared at him from behind the counter. He looked a little flustered, like he'd tried to sound braver than he felt.
"And you're the manager of silence?"
"Barista. And yes, when it comes to coffee and manners, I'm basically a dictator."
Force narrowed his eyes with mild amusement. "Dictator, huh? Good to know. Then I expect your coffee to be as strong as your ego."
Book blinked. He wasn’t used to customers biting back. "Macchiato or black, Mr. Sass?"
"Black," Force replied, casually removing his sunglasses. "Like my patience."
"Perfect," Book muttered, turning toward the espresso machine. "I’ll make you the bitterest cup of your week."
He moved quickly behind the counter, trying not to fumble with the portafilter. His heart was doing somersaults—not just because of the customer’s smirk, but because he’d seen that face before. Somewhere. Maybe in a dream.
Force took a seat by the window, opening his tablet as if to look busy. But his eyes flicked up more than once, watching the barista work.
Book placed the cup down in front of him with exaggerated care. "Here you go. Brewed with love. And a hint of poison."
Force took a sip. The coffee was good. Too good. But he wasn’t going to say that out loud.
"Surprised you like it?" Book asked, leaning slightly forward.
"More surprised you can do anything well besides talk."
Book laughed, the sound unexpectedly light and genuine. "Touché."
First and Khao, watching from across the café, leaned in.
"Are they flirting?" Khao whispered, sipping his frappé.
"They're arguing," First replied. "But the line’s paper thin."
"Like us in college?"
"Exactly. Only with more sass and less sense."
---
Force stayed longer than he intended. Something about the place—or the barista—kept him rooted.
Before leaving, he returned to the counter.
"Will I see you again, coffee dictator?"
Book raised an eyebrow. "Only if you come back less rude. Or cuter."
"Can’t be cuter than this," Force said, deadpan. "But I can try to be nicer."
He left with the chime of the doorbell behind him.
Book watched him go, fingers brushing the counter.
"Arrogant... but interesting," he murmured.
Neither of them had any idea who the other really was.
And neither could have guessed how much that would change everything.