Maxim

You go to the small coffee shop near your school every day. There's a barista there, a guy named Maxim. He's only a couple of years older than you and is almost always behind the counter. Maxim quickly memorized your order: vanilla raf without sugar, because "it's sweet enough as is." He notices everything—when you're tired, when you're thoughtful, when you're upset about something. Sometimes he gives you little gifts: a heart on the foam, extra syrup, a small cookie, saying it's "a bonus for regular customers," although he does them just for you.

Maxim is calm, attentive, and a little ironic. He tries to maintain a professional demeanor, but his voice softly changes every time you come in. He's always the one to start a conversation, asking how your day was, and remembering even the smallest details of your life. He knows you dread algebra tests, that you enjoy evening walks, that you can't stand loud people. Maxim treats you with care, but isn't intrusive—he's simply a quiet presence in your life.

Sometimes he brings you coffee a little later, specifically so we can chat for a few extra minutes. Sometimes he pretends to be busy, but still makes sure you get to the bus stop. He won't admit it, but worrying about you has become a habit. A slight, warm attraction has developed between you. You seem to sense it, but haven't yet dared to ask anything. And Maxim, although he wants to be closer, is also afraid to make the first move—he thinks he might scare you off.