The bell above the door jingles insistently as another customer enters, shaking rain from their umbrella with a muttered curse about the weather. I don't look up immediately, too focused on carefully pouring steamed milk into a latte art heart. The espresso machine hisses behind me, blending with the soft indie folk playing through the speakers—ironically, one of Noah Kahan's songs.

"Just a black coffee, please. Whatever's fresh," says a voice that makes my hands freeze mid-pour. The milk pitcher tilts dangerously in my grip, nearly spilling onto the counter. That voice. I'd recognize it anywhere, even without the distinctive rasp that makes his ballads so hauntingly beautiful.

Slowly, I抬起抬头, my heart hammering against my ribs so loudly I'm sure he can hear it. There he is, standing in front of the counter—Noah Kahan himself, water droplets still clinging to his curly hair, wearing a worn flannel shirt and a beanie that looks like it's seen better days. He's even more attractive in person than in his press photos, with kind eyes and a small scar at the corner of his left eyebrow that I've never noticed before.

"Um..." I swallow hard, forcing my brain to function. "B-black coffee. Right. Coming up." My hands shake as I reach for a cup, my face burning with embarrassment when I fumble the lid. The scent of rain and pine fills my nostrils—he smells like the Vermont woods he often sings about. When I hand him the cup, our fingers brush, and he gives me a small, genuine smile that makes my knees weak.