In the heart of a quaint little town—one so small and inconsequential that most people went all their lives having never even once heard of it—Lyric Taylor reigned as the master coffee-slinger of the one and only café. The fiery, auburn-haired barista with eyes like honeyed gold, brewed more than just java, serving a heaping side of fellowship. After all, a shared caffeine addiction had fostered an artificial sense of community amongst the townsfolk. 

As the general manager, she orchestrated a delicate symphony of espresso shots and laughter, guiding her small but fiercely loyal team through the daily grind. After years of camaraderie, they moved in harmony, like a well-worn melody. Each day, amidst the powerful notes of roasted beans, the aroma of delicious baked goods, and the structure of good ol’ routine, familiar faces popped in and out, fiending for a fix. 

However, the seemingly cheerful Lyric found little genuine satisfaction in her work—as was the way of any self-proclaimed antisocial nihilist that hid behind a pseudo-social exterior. While it may not have been the most glamorous or dignified job for someone approaching twenty-six, it covered the bills. What mattered most to someone as introverted and functionally lazy was the simplicity of the work. Each day was the same, a routine engraved in her heart that she moved through almost mechanically. 

Among the masses she served was the majority of the workforce of their sleepy town—school teachers and administrators, mechanics, local business owners, army soldiers from the nearby base, and most notoriously, the surgeon and his army captain boyfriend—at least, that’s what their self-proclaimed fans prayed for every night before bed. 

Lyric never wanted to notice them, but it was impossible the way they—unintentionally—drew attention. Lyric hardly exchanged more than a few cordial sentences with them when taking their orders, yet she felt like she knew them quite well. Begrudgingly, of course. 

The cold surgeon, who always appeared impossibly put-together despite the absurdly demanding expectations of his profession, was one of five attendings employed at the small community hospital—and apparently, if you listened to local gossip, the “best” amongst them. But, if anyone dared ask Lyric’s opinion, she’d steadfastly claim his popularity had absolutely nothing to do with mere medical prowess alone. 

Like a plot straight out of a cliché romcom set in a nondescript, podunk town, Dr. River Voss was a favorite amongst the townsfolk, especially a very particular subset she’d seen meeting at the library every weekend to fangirl over very erotically drawn cartoon-like Internet comics. After all, not only was he a doctor, River was also a walking culmination of exceptional height and immaculate looks. The only hint of disorder in his otherwise polished appearance was his stubbornly tousled hair, which he managed to style into a surprisingly tasteful combover of golden waves. Yet, even he couldn't achieve flawless perfection; a few rebellious strands often escaped, playfully falling over his forehead—and somehow further adding to his charm.

Otherwise, she was sure people would not have obsessed over him. After all, she’d heard the other attendings were almost as good; they also made trips to the café, but did she know their names? Did they turn heads? Did people foolishly fawn over them? Had she grown to despise them because of how ridiculous the constant admiration had become?

Not at all. Not one bit. 

River’s verging-on-ice-cold demeanor coupled with his propensity to clothe himself a certain way had caused murmurs dubbing him “the duke” behind his back. She had no idea what that meant, however. As far as she knew, he was far from royalty, but from what she gathered, he was a distinct reverie for the most delusional. Lyric saw no need for him to dress so elegantly in his line-of-work, deeming the button-ups and especially the armbands to be beyond ostentatious. 

“He saved my sister,” she’d heard once. “And gosh, is he handsome! He’s just like the sexy and cold archduke. Have you read the new chapter yet? They finally fu—”

“Dr. Voss has the magic touch. My dad was literally on his deathbed. He’s like a brand-new person and ten years younger!” another praised. “Should we call him ‘the duke’ or ‘His Highness’?” Insert girlish giggle. “He kind of reminds me of the ML on the cover of that new webtoon that just came out, the one where he's squeezing the heroine's giant ti—”

Lyric wondered how much he might have been paying these people to spout nonsense in public, where everyone could conveniently hear, so that he could draw attention to himself whilst maintaining his aloof persona. Because there was absolutely no conceivable way—at least not in real life, anyway—that people could idolize someone with such fervor. Yet, here they were. 

“Captain Frost is so nice!” Lyric heard once. “He literally climbed a tree when my cat got stuck."

“He told me to call him Augustine,” another squealed excitedly. “That means something, right? He’s so approachable, always smiling.”

In contrast, the doctor's militant counterpart, a third-rank officer of the army, was every bit equal in physical descriptors, though conversely gregarious and charismatic. He welcomed the pesky attention and was every boot-chaser’s dreamboat in his ACU’s. Each time he stepped inside the café and removed his camo-print cap, his short, dark hair would seamlessly fall over his forehead, and every time he smiled, his pale grey eyes would sparkle while his single dimple would pop.

However, the only sentiments Lyric possessed for these two small-town celebrities was that they both made her equally nauseas. 

By some perverted stroke of atrocious bad luck, she was almost always the one to assist them whenever they made their morning coffee run, and she always got a front-row seat to the theatrics of their self-proclaimed fanclub. It was so unbearably frequent that it often disrupted service. She found herself having to gently disperse the adoring aficionados so often, it felt like a second full-time job—and one that didn’t pay a single penny. The worst part of it all was that she had to do it with a giant smile on her face. 

Fortunately, however, it appeared that things were unusually quiet today. Lyric hadn’t seen a single sign of the mob of match-making mothers, nor the flock of lovestruck bachelorettes that often clogged up the lobby as they all vied for the duo’s attention. It was a welcome change in pace. 

“Unbelievably quiet today.”

A low, velvety inflection, rich and absent of any sweetness like espresso, drew her focus as it uttered one of the two forbidden words of service: “busy” and “quiet.” Lyric’s eyes snapped onto the man instantly. How dare Dr. Voss utter such a thing, as if he sought to conjure calamity? She fought back a frown, nearly forgetting her personable performance. Each time she met those impenetrable, blue eyes, she had this bizarre desire to provoke him, to make him reveal even an iota of deeper emotion. 

“Don’t think she’d agree with you, Voss,” Augustine chuckled, his eyes bright as he directed a bit of his signature charm Lyric’s way. But she was the very definition of his kryptonite, completely unaffected by that lame power of his. Again, she resisted the urge to scowl, instead forcing a prickly smile onto her own lips. 

“Well—” Lyric stalled, seeking to divert the topic. She refused to allow the doctor's cursed remark to take root. “It’s a silly superstition, but we don’t usually like to talk about how… nice things are.” 

She avoided articulating anything within the realm of “busy” or “calm.”

“It is quite nice today, isn’t it?” Augustine grinned. “I may have the opportunity to actually converse with you today, Ferosa.”

“Mr. Frost,” Lyric pushed through a wooden smile, “I asked you, multiple times, not to call me that. I don’t even know what it means.”

“But it’s so fitting,” Augustine protested—lightheartedly, of course. “In fact—” 

“Mr. Frost,” Lyric continued sternly, “can you just order—”

But it was too late; the first signs of the jinx had been evoked.