The bell above the café door gave a cheerful little chime, the kind of sound that usually made Mia’s heart lift. She loved that noise. It meant customers, it meant warmth, it meant she wasn’t running this tiny place just for herself.

Balancing a tray of pastel-colored cupcakes in her sweater-sleeved arms, she spun around toward the entrance. “Welcome to Sugarbean Café! Today’s special is—”

Her voice caught mid-sentence.

The woman who had just stepped inside was unlike any customer Mia had ever seen.

She had long, ink-dark hair that fell sleekly down her back, so straight and flawless it looked like it had been cut from moonlight. Her navy dress hugged her figure with elegant precision, and the faint click of her heels against the wooden floorboards echoed like judgment itself. The entire café seemed to pause for her entrance. Even the ceiling fan, which had been making a low rattling sound for weeks, suddenly felt too loud.

Mia blinked once. Twice.

“Oh… wow, you’re—uh—tall.”

The words slipped out before she could stop them, and she immediately winced. Smooth, Mia. Real smooth.

The woman’s eyes, dark as midnight glass, swept over the café with chilling calm. When they landed on Mia, the effect was so sharp it made her throat tighten.

“Messy,” the woman said at last, her tone precise, each syllable deliberate.

Mia blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Your counter,” the woman explained, gaze flicking briefly at the trays of pastries and the colorful scatter of napkins. “And… your sleeves. Very unhygienic.”

It wasn’t just the words—it was the casual certainty behind them, like she was delivering a fact, not an opinion.

Heat rushed to Mia’s cheeks. “My sleeves are cozy. Cozy is important. Some of us like being human instead of… I dunno… a corporate ice statue.”

The woman’s expression remained unreadable, though the faintest twitch of an eyebrow betrayed irritation.

“I didn’t come here for childish banter. I came to see if this café has anything worth tasting. But if presentation reflects the quality of the food…”

“Oh, it does,” Mia cut in quickly, lifting her chin. “Which means you’re about to get the sweetest surprise of your entire life. Who knows, you might even… smile.”

Silence fell between them like a curtain. The café’s background chatter blurred, the clink of mugs and chatter of regulars fading under the weight of the moment.

Then the woman shifted, one manicured hand brushing back her midnight hair. The faintest curve tugged at her lips—not quite a smile, more of a provocation.

“I don’t smile for amateurs.”

Mia’s tray nearly tilted as her grip faltered.

This woman. She was infuriating. Absolutely unbearable. And yet—her presence pulled at Mia like gravity. Her words stung, but her voice lingered in her ears longer than it should have.

She wanted to throw frosting straight at that perfect hair. She wanted to wipe that smug look off her face.

But more than anything, she wanted to prove her wrong.

Enemies, Mia told herself. Definitely enemies.

And yet, as their eyes locked again—hers stubborn and fiery, Yuri’s cool and composed—something unspoken simmered in the air. A spark, dangerous and inevitable.

This battle had only just begun.

———

To be continued…

The cupcake sat between them like a duel waiting to happen.

Mia set it down on the polished counter with exaggerated care, her sleeves almost dipping into the frosting. She quickly yanked them back, pretending she had planned the motion all along. “Ta-da! My newest creation: strawberry cream swirl. Sweet, fluffy, and guaranteed to melt even the iciest of hearts.”

The tall woman—who still hadn’t offered her name—studied the cupcake with the kind of scrutiny Mia usually reserved for overdue bills. Her dark eyes flicked over the pink frosting, the delicate sugar flowers, the precise swirl.

Mia leaned in across the counter. “What’s the matter? Afraid it’ll taste too good and ruin your whole sophisticated, cold-blooded image?”

Those midnight eyes narrowed just slightly. Then, with calm precision, the woman lifted the fork provided and cut into the cupcake. She didn’t rush. She didn’t fumble. Every movement was as smooth as if she were performing on stage.

Mia’s stomach twisted. She hated that she cared. She hated even more that she was holding her breath.

The forkful disappeared behind perfect lips. Silence. A pause so long Mia nearly screamed.

Finally, the woman set the fork down.

“Too sweet.”

Mia slapped the counter with her palm. “What?! No way. That’s perfectly balanced! People love it!”

A faint smirk tugged at the woman’s mouth. “People, perhaps. But not everyone has a childish palate.”

Heat flushed through Mia’s cheeks, half from anger and half from something she didn’t want to name. She leaned closer, voice lowering dangerously. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“And you,” the woman replied coolly, “are unpolished.”

The tension between them crackled like sugar hitting a hot pan. The other customers shifted awkwardly, whispering. A couple of teenagers giggled near the window, clearly enjoying the spectacle of a café showdown.

Mia dragged a hand through her pink-blond waves, trying not to scream. This wasn’t just any customer—it was clear now. This woman was a critic. And not just any critic, either. She carried herself with too much authority, too much weight.

“Who are you, anyway?” Mia demanded. “You walk in here, insult my café, insult my cupcakes—don’t I at least deserve a name before I call you a frost queen to your face?”

The woman finally relented, her gaze steady and unflinching.

“Yuri Solberg. Food columnist. I write for The Culinary Standard.”

Mia’s heart dropped straight into her sneakers. She knew that publication—everyone in the business did. A single bad review from them could bury a small café like Sugarbean.

And right now, the woman with her fate in her elegant, manicured hands was calling her cupcakes “too sweet.”

Mia forced a grin, though her chest ached. “Great. Just great. You’re one of those people. Comes in, trashes everything, and leaves a trail of broken bakers behind.”

Yuri’s expression didn’t waver. “If they break, they weren’t strong enough to begin with.”

The words cut sharper than any knife. But Mia refused to let her see it. She straightened her sweater, her grin turning defiant. “Well, guess what, Ms. Ice Queen Critic. This café isn’t breaking. Not for you. Not for anyone. You’ll come back. And when you do, I’ll make something so good it’ll knock that poker face right off your perfect cheekbones.”

For the first time, Yuri’s calm cracked—just barely. The faintest flicker of surprise, quickly buried beneath her usual composure. She gathered her bag, her heels clicking against the floor as she turned to leave.

At the door, she paused.

“Then I’ll give you one week,” she said softly, almost like a challenge. “Impress me—or I’ll write exactly what I tasted today.”

The bell chimed again as she left, and Mia stood frozen, heart hammering in her chest.

Enemies. Definitely enemies.

And yet, her lips curved into a reckless smile.

Challenge accepted.

———

To be continued…

The sharp click of Yuri’s heels echoed down the street, steady, precise, unflinching—just as she was. The café’s door had shut behind her, and with it the saccharine chaos of its owner. The afternoon air was brisk, carrying hints of roasted coffee and something sweeter—strawberry, maybe—that clung to her senses like stubborn perfume.

It irritated her. Or so she told herself.

The café had been… unpolished. Disorderly. A far cry from the standards she had built her career upon. She had seen countless bakeries like it—dreamers with ovens, chasing some sentimental notion of sweetness and warmth, always crumbling the moment reality pressed too hard.

And yet…

Her gaze flicked down the street’s reflection, caught faintly in a boutique window as she passed. Her face, of course, betrayed nothing. Calm. Composed. Icy. The perfect critic, untouchable and unreadable.

Inside, though, her thoughts stirred like sugar dissolving in hot tea.

The girl—Mia. She had learned the name from whispers between customers, and it suited her far too well. A soft, almost childish sound, like the girl herself: pink-blond waves, wide eyes sparkling with defiance, an oversized sweater hanging off her frame like she’d been swallowed whole by comfort. She had been ridiculous. Unprofessional. She had challenged Yuri outright.

And—adorable.

Yuri’s steps faltered for only half a second before she regained her rhythm. No. That wasn’t the right word. Adorable was careless, sentimental. Adorable was dangerous.

She quickened her pace, the familiar rhythm of her heels against pavement grounding her. She had no business thinking of a café girl in oversized sleeves. She was Yuri Solberg—the Yuri Solberg. A columnist for The Culinary Standard. Her words could crown or condemn restaurants in a single paragraph. Entire kitchens trembled when she walked through their doors.

So why had this one unsettled her?

Her mind replayed the moment against her will: the way Mia had slammed her palm on the counter, cheeks flushed pink, declaring with laughable bravado, “You’ll come back. And when you do, I’ll make something so good it’ll knock that poker face right off your perfect cheekbones.”

A reckless statement. Utterly foolish.

And yet… Yuri’s lips twitched. A smirk threatened, though she crushed it before it fully bloomed.

Cheekbones, hm? Most people quivered under her critiques, their smiles faltering, their voices trembling. Few dared even meet her eyes, let alone taunt her. But Mia—Mia had stood tall, fire sparking behind her childish sweetness.

That fire… Yuri hadn’t expected it.

She should have dismissed the girl entirely. Written her review and been done with it. The cupcake had been too sweet, the environment amateurish. It would have been an easy critique. And yet… she had given Mia one week. Seven days to impress her.

Why?

Yuri frowned, irritation prickling at her chest. She didn’t grant mercy. Not in her line of work. She judged honestly, coldly, without favoritism. If a baker couldn’t handle it, they didn’t belong in the business. That was the truth, the standard she had built her reputation upon.

But instead of an ending, she had given Mia a challenge.

Cute, a traitorous thought whispered.

Yuri’s fingers tightened around the strap of her bag. No. It wasn’t cuteness. It was… curiosity. Yes, that was all. Curiosity in how someone so unprofessional, so chaotic, so laughably soft, thought she could stand against her. It was like watching a kitten arch its back at a wolf—useless, foolish, but undeniably… fascinating.

The street opened into a quieter square, the hum of traffic fading behind her. She slowed, her eyes half-lidded, recalling the flicker of heat in Mia’s gaze when their eyes had locked. That stubborn spark… it had unsettled her in ways she didn’t like to admit.

No one challenged Yuri Solberg. No one dared to meet her on equal ground.

And yet Mia had, sleeves too long, frosting smudge near her wrist, grinning like she could topple empires with sugar and cream.

Yuri exhaled, steady, controlled. Her face was the same as ever—calm, unreadable—but her pulse betrayed her. A touch too fast. An echo of something she hadn’t felt in years.

She told herself it was annoyance. Irritation. A critic’s righteous fury at being disrespected.

But deep down, in the quiet place she never let anyone see, Yuri admitted something else: Mia’s ridiculous grin had been charming. The way her voice shook with anger but didn’t break—it had been… endearing.

She hated the thought. She hated that it lingered, that the taste of strawberry cream still clung faintly to her tongue, softer than she wanted to admit.

“Cute,” she whispered under her breath, so quietly that even the wind couldn’t carry it.

Her steps resumed, brisk and sharp. One week. She would return in one week, as promised. And when she did, she would taste, she would judge, and she would write.

That was all.

Nothing more.

…And yet, as the city unfolded around her, Yuri found herself wondering—just once, against her better judgment—what kind of smile Mia would wear when she tried again.

———

To be continued…