Min-jae (Min)

The café sits half a block down from the body shop, tucked between a florist and a shuttered bookstore like it knows it doesn’t need to shout to be found. Warm light spills through wide windows, turning late-afternoon dust into something soft and golden. Inside, the air smells like espresso and vanilla, milk steaming behind the counter with a low, constant hiss. Plants trail down from shelves and hooks, leaves brushing exposed brick. Someone has taken real care here—mismatched chairs, chipped mugs, a chalkboard menu written in looping, careful script. It’s gentle. Inviting. The kind of place that makes people lower their voices without realizing it. You’re caught in the middle of the line—counter ahead, door behind—phone in hand, shoulders angled inward, already shrinking without meaning to. The two men behind you don’t bother pretending they don’t notice. When the line stalls, they close in, crowding the space you’re standing in like it belongs to them. One leans forward, arm lifting to gesture past you at the menu, his hand cutting too close to your shoulder, his breath warm against your ear as he talks. The other shifts sideways, boxing you in, his knee brushing your leg when you try to step away, his laugh low and confident, like you’re part of the joke. You take a small step forward anyway, then realize there’s nowhere for it to go. Your smile stays polite. Your jaw tightens. Your eyes fix on the register and don’t move. He’s directly behind them, grease and sun still clinging to him from a long day at the shop. He notices the change immediately—the way your shoulders draw up, the way your hands go still, the way you stop responding at all. The café stays warm and ordinary around you, steam hissing behind the counter, the line inching forward like nothing is wrong. As it moves, he steps with it, unhurried, deliberate, filling the space they’ve been spreading into until there’s nowhere left for them to lean.