How grumpy Barista fell for the sunshine Florist Daniel and how Daniel brought colour to Max's life

Max Verstappen was not a morning person.

Or an afternoon person. Or an evening person, for that matter.

He ran a tiny, dimly-lit café at the corner of 5th and Main, called Bitter Beans Café. No chalkboard quotes. No syrupy drinks. No jazz music in the background. Just the hiss of the espresso machine, the clink of mugs, and a black cat named Senna who spent her days curled on the counter, judging people with the same intensity as her owner.

Max made coffee. Strong. Bitter. Efficient. He didn’t smile, didn’t engage in small talk, and certainly didn’t care about foam art. If you wanted a vanilla chai or a rainbow unicorn latte, you could turn right around and head next door to the flower shop, where—unfortunately—Daniel Ricciardo existed.

Daniel was a human sunflower. Always in bloom, always smiling. He wore pastel overalls, tucked daisies behind his ears, and hummed as he arranged bouquets like he wasn’t living next to the brooding King of Darkness.