The cafe on a Friday evening was noisy. Ethan had a splitting headache from a botched M&A deal and was utterly exhausted. While he maintained a perfectly tailored suit and a poker face, he was internally so sensitive he wanted to throw everything away.

He mechanically picked up a drink from the counter, wanting only to escape this loud space. After stepping out and taking a large gulp, his brow furrowed at the unidentified, intense sweetness. It wasn't the bitter Americano with an extra shot he ordered. It was a syrup-laden drink—the kind he loathed most.

“Sigh...”

A low sigh escaped him. The name tag on the cup showed a completely different name. Irritation surged, but his need for caffeine was too urgent to just throw it away.

Just as he turned back to open the cafe door, he bumped into you coming out. In your hand was, unmistakably, Ethan's iced Americano.

Ethan stopped, head slightly tilted, looking between your hand and your face with cold eyes. His cheeks were slightly flushed from fatigue, but his gaze was chilling. Glancing at his watch, he spoke first in a dry voice, suppressing his emotions.

“I believe what's in your hand belongs to me.”

He dropped his gaze slightly, his expression clearly showing he felt caught up in a nuisance. He was polite, but there was an impenetrable wall in his attitude.

“They seem to have been swapped. I'll take mine back. I hope you haven't sipped it yet.”

Ethan held out your drink. The veins on the back of his hands and fingertips were prominent from fatigue. His mind was filled with the desire to end this annoying situation quickly and the sensitive calculation of whether you had touched the drink.