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Marinette’s day started out perfectly, with a to-go cup of freshly brewed coffee from Sebastian’s café-bar and a croissant from her parents’ bakery. It was the first day of the rest of her life and she dressed for the occasion: dressed in all black, pairing high-waisted pants with a sleek blazer, dotted elegantly with plum blossoms. She was ready to roll—this was what she had dreamed about.
The gorgeous blonde with a spreading light brown stain smack-dab in the middle of his white shirt, however, had never been part of that dream.
Marinette’s breath hitched as their eyes met. She was afraid of his reaction—spilling coffee in a fashion house? professional suicide—and she opened her mouth to apologize, racking her brain for the proper words, but he was quicker.
“I feel like I got rejected from Starbucks… violently,” he commented, and a wide grin spread across his face.
“I—”
“You look new,” he held out his hand. “I’m Nathan.”
"I’m gonna get fired before I get hired!" squeaked Marinette, as heat grew on her face. “I’m so, so sorry!”
“First day, huh?” Nathan kept grinning. Seeing that she was not going to accept his hand, he stepped closer and wrapped an arm around her shoulders.“You’ll be fiiiine . Come on, whe’re you stationed? Logistics—nah, you’re too cute for that. Production? No, wait, let me guess: you’re in marketing, aren’t you?”
Marinette got herself together enough to sputter “Design!”
Nathan froze mid-step and stopped to look at her. He gave her a slow once-over, a glint of evaluation in his eyes, as though knowing something she didn’t. It unsettled her, nerves tangling into knots, and she felt saliva filling her mouth, a bitter warning of what was yet to come.
Then Nathan shrugged casually. “At least it’s not admin. Or events. Only killjoys there, you wouldn't fit.”
The statement stung Marinette—her friend (boyfriend?) Félix worked in both : in accounting for passion and in events for the familial duty, and if there was anything she had learned about him in the past weeks, it was that Félix was not a killjoy.
“Maybe I am a killjoy,” she muttered, shrugging Nathan’s arm off and stepping away from him. She checked the watch on her wrist. It was 08:57. She had exactly three minutes to get to the meeting room. “Shit. I definitely don’t have time for this.”
“Relax, it’s not like they’ll notice any interns missing,” Nathan was unbothered, in his lane, thriving. “And it’s not like Gabe himself’s going to be on time.” Still, he grabbed her hand to steer her in the right direction, as her inner compass was failing her.
Marinette didn’t bother to say that it wasn’t just about Gabe. Félix hated tardiness (though he had never said as much) and the whole House would be there at the meeting. She did not want to make a bad impression.
Nathan guided her and pushed her into the meeting room. It was crammed with people buzzing like worker bees, none of whom turned to see who entered. All eyes were on the elevated stage up front and when Marinette saw it, something akin to a stage, her eyes were glued there, too.
“Excuse us! Make way! Make way!” Nathan pushed her forward, leading her to the front, where, upon closer look, a tall man could be seen standing in front of a microphone. He cleared his throat and the sound reverberated in the room, drawing everyone’s attention to him.
Marinette didn’t need to know him to recognize the man immediately as Gabriel Agreste, and as soon as she realized where they were headed, she dug her heels into the ground, trying to put a stop to the imminent disaster. Nathan paid it no attention and he was stronger than her, so soon, they were right in front of the stage and she was sweating bullets.
Nathan raised his hand, as though a well-trained student, waiting to be called on. When Gabriel Agreste noticed, he lifted an eyebrow and continued on with the agenda. Marinette sighed inwardly and tuned in, relaxing just briefly.
“For those of you still romanticizing the last collection… let it go.” Gabriel Agreste’s voice was calm and calculated like his composure. “Elegance. Naiveté. Expulsion—that was then. We’ve done living beauty. We’ve done dead. This time, we show the break before the bones.”
Behind him, the projector screen came to life, lighting it up with moving images of hands shaking, coffee dripping, wine spilling; images of mascara smudging, phone buzzing, white knuckles on a steering wheel; images of lips, moving slowly to form the words “ I can’t do this ”, a packed bag left open on the bed, tears welling up in bright blue eyes.
Birds scattering all at once.
“This is Fractured: A study of control… and what happens when it slips.”
Nathan waved his hand, trying to get his attention. He paid him no heed.
“This collection lives in the cracks, the spills, the held breaths. Your keyword is tension. A dress should look like it’s seconds from unraveling. Or worse: designed to unravel, but never quite does.”
Marinette held her breath, electrified. She was eating with her eyes and ears, absorbing every piece of information, as though it were her last and only chance.
“What's the anchor?” Nathan called impudently from next to her, shattering the mesmerizing stillness. Gabriel glanced at him and for a millisecond, his disdain was clear. He graced his audience with an answer nevertheless.
He stepped aside so that no part of the design would be obscured by his presence. “Look One: Avoidance.” He paused just long enough for the weight of the words to settle. “To avoid is to control. It is chaos wearing gloves—clean, deliberate, lethal.”
Marinette frowned: the black dress on the sketch seemed too flat and vaguely asymmetrical and even with added mini-sketches of layers, it looked boringly conservative. Long sleeves and high collars, especially when they were stiff and formal like that, were already passé. So why would the famous designer choose a dress like that as the anchor piece?
She got the answer as soon as the question had crossed her mind.
“For the first time, this house has partnered with Anish Kapoor and Vantablack to consume space, to erase line, light, and shape until all that's left is pressure, made possible by what's been called the blackest black, I expect your designs by Friday. Dismissed. Nathan, a word.”
Marinette exhaled in relief, thinking she was safe—she had survived the meeting after all—and tensed up again when Nathan's arm wrapped around her shoulders. He was going to drag her along as if his life depended on it (and knowing how ruthless Gabriel Agreste could be, maybe it did).
“Finally! Hey, dad! This is Marinette. She's new. Super sharp. Thought you should meet her before someone takes credit for her work.”
“Miss…Cheng, isn't it?” Calm and dry. “Your application was late.” Marinette froze, unsure what to make of his smooth, unbothered tone. “And yet it appeared on my desk, reviewed, annotated and prioritized.”
“A miracle, some would say,” he continued without letting her confirm or deny. There was no need to if he already knew everything. “Very few things appear on my desk by accident.”
“Sir, it's an honor to be here…”
“You were with Aubrey,” he noted, shuffling the papers in his hand. “She dismissed you quite publicly if I recall.”
“Wait—seriously?” Nathan could not contain himself. Suddenly, he was looking at Marinette with something else in his eyes, a silent judgment perhaps or respectful kindness, Marinette couldn't tell.
“She was consolidating credit,” Marinette interrupted, rushing to defend her previous employer, cheeks aflame with both embarrassment from the attention and from anger at herself for defending the bitch. “I was just an intern, so it was only natural that—”
Gabriel's scrutinizing look shut her up—he wasn't done yet—, making her feel like a child so her cheeks burned even harder.
“A high-structured bustier. Pale blue. Boning beneath sheer netting. Critics called it the only thing worth remembering.” Marinette felt her grip on her pen tighten and she forced herself to let go of it to avoid another fashion disaster. He was talking about her design! “Aubrey claimed it as hers, of course.” He paused for a moment. “But I've seen your portfolio.” Her portfolio from which she had excluded all lingerie designs out of shame of her dismissal. “And I find it… difficult to believe the overlap is coincidence.”
The heart in Marinette's chest tightened, as her eyes met his steely gaze. Her breath hitched. Marinette could not look away.
“I hope you understand the kind of attention that invites. Now, if you'll excuse me,” Gabriel broke the gaze to look at his older son. “There's something I need to talk about with my son.”
In Sebastian’s café-bar, Marinette sat at the counter, her sketchbook open in front of her. She was flipping through the pages, amber light casting shadows of her hunched figure all around her, trying to see what he had seen.
“How did he know?” she exclaimed frustratedly. “Sebastian, how? Sebastian~”
His name came out as a whine, a desperate plea for attention. So absorbed in decoding the secret, Marinette barely noticed how Félix slid into the seat next to her.
“Why don't you ask the miracle kid here?” Sebastian nodded towards the boy and began preparing his coffee: still black, no sugar, if he wanted a frappuccino…
“Who knows what goes through the madman's head?” Félix mused indifferently, carefully reaching out for Marinette's sketchbook. He leafed through it until he reached the first blank page, then slid it slowly towards her, still avoiding eye contact. He kept his eyes strictly on the paper, as he tapped it twice. “This is what you should be focusing on. What are you going to submit?”
Marinette tore at her hair. “I don't know! But Félix, a void dress! Can you imagine?” Her eyes lit up at the memory of the morning meeting. “That’s Gabriel for you! Always one step ahead.”
Félix drowned the unsavoury comment in a sip of coffee that arrived at the perfect time.
“By the way, thank you. Again.” Suddenly, she turned solemn all over again and she reached out to take Félix's hand in hers. “I don't know how you did it. But today was absolutely mi-ra-cu-lous!”
Her touch sent sparks running through him, which he endured for as long as politely possible before retrieving his hand and resting it on his lap. He hid his expression behind burning cheeks and an embarrassed smile, as she declared she owed him a life debt. This roused Félix and any ounce of softness suddenly drifted away.
“Speaking of debts—” he started but was cut off by the door opening with a loud bang. Both Marinette and Félix jolted in their seats.
Sebastian took one look at the newcomer before turning away with a grimace.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” he said, shoulders tensing. After a moment’s hesitation, he took a bottle of expensive whiskey from the top shelf and grabbed a glass, filling it halfway. He downed it in one go, unfazed by the disbelieving looks his frequent customers were giving him.
Nathan stared at him, dumbstruck. “You…” He took a deep breath before turning to Félix instead: “I know him!”
Félix winced. This was not how it was meant to go—he’d agreed to arrange a meeting between Nathan and Marinette but not without her consent (which he secretly hoped she would not give). Nathan showing up at their coffee shop was outrageous.
“How did you know to come here?” he muttered, his mood souring faster than milk left out on a hot summer day.
Nathan smiled smugly before nodding towards Marinette. “I looked up the logo on her coffee cup. Aren't you going to introduce us, brother dearest?”
The look in Félix's eyes darkened. He hid it well behind forced indifference. He sighed before relenting wearily: “Fine. Marinette, this is Nathan. Nate, this is…”
Sebastian's dirty rag hitting Nathan smack dab in his face was unexpected but not undeserved.
“Get out.” He huffed, cheeks reddening either from alcohol or anger. “You're not welcome here.”
“But—” Nathan ducked out of the way of another wet rag, a confused look on his face. Sebastian didn't wait to hear his objections. He escaped to the back room before Nathan got past the first word.
“What did I do?”
Two nights later, Marinette still hadn't come up with a satisfactory design for the new collection. In fact, she had begun to tell herself it wasn't likely she'd get in anyway—interns almost never did.
But a girl could dream.
She dropped her head against the counter and sighed. She'd gone through dozens of shades of black and nearly half her sketchbook.
Félix's voice had turned into a constant in her brain, an ever-present ghost in her mind.
Too boring.
He hates ruffles, remember?
If you're going for sharpness, you should cut away at these corners. But then it would unbalance the composition. Sorry, I’m not helping, am I?
You won’t win with mosaics, half the designers are using them.
He had reason, of course, but the way his voice was affecting her lately was still maddening.
Marinette ran her fingers through her hair, tugging at the roots, before her lips parted to let out a twisted, strangled cry.
Sebastian froze, a hand hovering over the espresso machine, unsure whether to continue or intervene. Marinette had never been particularly quiet when it came to expressing her emotions but desperate shrieks were something new.
“You okay?”
Sebastian froze all over at the sound of the familiar voice. He turned around to tell the boy to leave—to remind him yet again he was not welcome there, but seeing him check in on Marinette politely, he waited. It wasn't like he himself could offer her any advice or consolation.
Nathan leaned in curiously to look at Marinette's sketchbook. “Want to step outside for a breather?”
Marinette shook her head. She curled her fingers on paper, digging her nails into it with voracity. She wrinkled her nose.
“I’m just struggling with ideas,” she admitted reluctantly. “Everything’s either been already done or everyone is already doing it.”
Nathan hummed in response. “I think you need to ask yourself: who are you trying to impress?”
Marinette snorted as though the answer was the most obvious thing ever, then bit her lip as different names started popping up in her head. She didn't voice any of them.
Instead, she huffed and slammed her sketchbook shut. “I think it’s time for me to go home. And sleep,” she added with a yawn.
“Want me to give you a ride home?” Nathan offered with a soft smile a fraction after the door opened and closed. Marinette pursed her lips, briefly considering accepting, when all of a sudden, an all-too-familiar familiar voice declared evenly: “I’ll take you.”
Félix kept his face neutral as ever, keeping his eyes on Nathan and not Marinette, whose heart gave a violent jerk at the sound of his voice. Nathan met Félix’s gaze and the temperature in the room dropped by a few degrees before a knowing smirk spread across the older boy’s face.
Félix never offered rides.
“Thanks!” Marinette jumped off her seat and hurried towards the blonde, whose eyes finally moved onto the girl. Something in his expression softened momentarily before he masked up again, the moment she had passed her.
Nathan waited until the door had closed them before ambushing Sebastian like a fangirl, who had discovered a brand new fact about their idol.
“He likes her!” he exclaimed, slamming his hands on the counter, earning a disdainful glance from the barman. “Scratch that! He loves her! How long has this been going on?”
“None of your business.”
“ Sebastiaaaan! Come on!”
“I told you I didn’t want you around here,” said the barman, shooting daggers at him. He was acutely aware how close the other man was leaning over the counter, muscles tensing underneath his sweatshirt, but as nervous as it made him, he pretended to be unbothered.
Sebastian’s words had an unexpected effect on the blonde.
Nathan pulled back, suddenly awkward and embarrassed. His shoulders hunched, as if shrinking away from the moment. His cheeks took on the color of dull crimson and when the words spilled from his lips, Sebastian had a hard time believing they came from him .
“I was young and dumb,” he muttered, his voice thick, regret lingering in the air.
Sebastian listened, waiting for him to continue, to apologize properly for the hurt he had caused back in their youth. When he didn’t, the barman sighed almost disappointedly.
“And now you’re just dumb.”
Fourth visit that week. Same table. Same chairs. Same ridiculous grin on Nathan’s face as he flirted with his brother’s soon-to-be girlfriend like he wasn’t covered in post-lift sweat.
Sebastian had to give him credit though: Nathan had perfected the art of looking effortlessly charming, a warm smile on his face, tone easy, biceps annoyingly visible, even though he must have sprinted to beat her there.
The barman slid her usual across the table without a word. Extra hot, served like an apology for being unable to make the blonde leave. Despite having kicked him out twice, Nathan always got back in, easily overpowering him at the door, even as he refrained from hurting him.
Sebastian noticed. He always did.
As though feeling his eyes on him, Nathan suddenly directed his smile at Sebastian. “Hey, Seb. Think I could have what she’s having?“
“No.” While Sebastian begrudgingly accepted his presence, he still refused to serve him. Especially when he called him Seb.
Nathan opened his mouth to vomit protests, desperate for a drink, and that’s precisely when the door opened. Félix entered quietly as usual, no greeting, no show. Sebastian’s eyes lit up at the opportunity to escape the conversation and he turned cheerfully to the newcomer.
“Félix! How lovely to see you! What can I get you?”
Félix didn’t answer right away. His gaze flicked from the untouched coffee in front of Marinette to Nathan’s smirk. Then to the way her hand was still resting on the table, too close to Nathan’s, too still.
“Just my usual,” he said softly before sliding into the empty seat beside Marinette. It felt odd to take it—that chair was never meant to be a stage—and he felt himself turn invisible.
Nathan took Marinette’s cup of coffee and lifted it in his direction before taking a quick sip of sweet perfection. “You’re late.”
Félix remained silent, choosing to focus on Sebastian and the way he moved to the espresso machine. Nathan followed his gaze, out of curiosity and boredom, freezing when he saw the barman reach for a bag of coffee beans on the shelf above the espresso machine. The man’s shirt slid up slightly, revealing an old scar, faint and pale, its curve disappearing beneath the fabric like a snake into grass.
Nathan knew it immediately: after all, it was his fault. His stomach tightened, as he recalled the blood soaking his shirt and the feeling of his fingers gripping the exquisite dagger that had caused the wound. How it had happened faster than the weight of everything reached his mind.
The blonde stared wordlessly, as Sebastian busied himself with the coffee. He was going through motions, oblivious to the turmoil in Nathan's eyes, the quiet rhythm of the routine settling back in.
Not far from him, Félix laid out his hand on the table and Marinette placed hers on it, as though accepting a silent invitation. Something was definitely happening between them.
Nathan blinked, the hiss of steam rousing him from memories. His eyes focused on the man pouring the dark liquid into a white cup with precision. Then Sebastian turned, placed the drink on the counter and slid it across, the soft scrape of ceramic against wood cutting through the silence like a sharp knife.
Frows burrowing, Nathan glanced at Félix whose drink he assumed it to be and found him whispering to Marinette, an identical cup in his hand. Which left only him.
His eyes lifted from the cup and found Sebastian, searching for answers, but Sebastian had already turned away, moving to wipe down the espresso machine. Nathan’s throat went dry.
He didn’t drink his coffee black, never had, but he sensed that somehow, refusing it would be worse than just taking it. He took a sip of the bitter liquid, grimacing at the taste, and swallowed hard. Hands shaking, he placed the cup back on the table more harshly than he had intended to.
Marinette glanced sideways at Nathan, as if to ask whether he was alright—but thought better of it and turned instead to Félix.
“Can I show you my latest?” she asked, fingers gripping the edge of her sketchbook. “I think I might finally have it.”
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, all eyes turned to her. She bit her lip, quivering in anticipation before Félix gave a small nod—in his eyes, she didn't even need to ask. Anything she was willing to share, he was eager for.
Marinette flipped to the page.
The sketch showed an almost minimal suit. The jacket’s structure was severe at first glance, but softened into something looser around the off-center seams. The trousers fell in a clean column, the hem barely skimming the ankle, fluid but frozen.
Marinette tapped the inner lining she had shaded in faint tones. Though barely visible in the sketch, it was shaded in soft, dull umber, almost like old paper or coffee grounds.
“I wanted the inside to echo something burnt,” she explained. “Not scorched. Just… something that once held heat.”
Félix traced a finger over the drawing.
“You’ve sealed it completely,” he said, tone unreadable. “Every seam, every fold.”
Marinette bit her lip. “It’s about voluntary containment. Self-restraint,” she added, sensing the confusion in the room. “Every seam is deliberate, every pocket a boundary.” Upon closer look, one could see them designed into the inside of the suit: hidden in plain sight.
“Elegant,” Nathan commented, peering at her sketchbook. “Dad would love it.”
Félix shook his head, disagreeing. He could tell Nathan was trying to encourage Marinette, who was close to missing another deadline—one no amount of connections would make up for missing it.
Félix tapped a spot at the inside collar with one finger. “It’s too composed.”
“That was the idea.” Marinette frowned.
“I know.” Now it was Félix’s turn to bite his lip. He hated himself for criticising her work yet again when he wanted to see her succeed perhaps even more than she did. “Let it crack a little.”
Marinette thought for a moment before picking up her pencil. She added a single visible stitch along the underside of the collar, drawing the curve of his fingernail. It was enough to disrupt the perfection.
She stared at the change, evaluating it. Not a flaw. A decision.
Then she nodded. “Now the silence feels earned.”
Félix smiled softly, his heartbeat calming. She didn’t hate him just yet.
Marinette smiled back.
Nathan leaned back. “Okay, you two are way too good at this in the middle of the night.”
Sebastian chuckled quietly as he rinsed out a glass. “It’s the only time people say what they mean.”
Ignoring the other two, Félix allowed himself to drown in Marinette’s eyes. He was so proud of her. Before realizing what he was saying, he blurted: “You know... it could close the collection.”
Marinette blinked, processing, the way she always did when the words she heard meant more than they sounded like. “What?”
The boy looked away, blushing. “I mean—if it were built right.”
Nathan raised an eyebrow over the rim of his drink, but didn’t say anything.
Félix, flustered by Marinette’s silence, leaned back and blubbered, now red to the roots of his hair, “Not that you need my opinion. You clearly— I mean, you know what you’re doing.”
Sebastian looked up from behind the bar, smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t interrupt.
And still, Marinette said nothing. Which Félix misread as doubt.
He tried again, more awkward now, words coming in the wrong order: “You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t—if they didn’t think you were good enough.”
Marinette’s eyes lit up and she leaned closer, pressing a quick kiss on his flaming right cheek. “Thank you.”
Nathan leaned back further in his chair, arms crossed. “God, watching this is like eating glass,” he muttered. Sebastian grabbed a bottle of vodka and poured him a shot, taking pity on him for the second time that day.
Not long later, Marinette and Félix left, together like a couple despite denying it when probed about it. Feeling like a third wheel, Nathan stayed behind. He ignored the questioning looks and wallowed in self-pity, letting the hours pass by.
“You don't have to stay until closing,” Sebastian pointed out, unable to bear the silence any longer.
Nathan shrugged, feigning indifference.
“Don’t feel like going home yet.”
Sebastian sighed, as he leaned on the mop: “Would the Nathan I knew in school ever sit alone in a café instead of being out at some party?”
“Would the Sebastian I knew in school ever let me sit here?” Nathan shot back just as edgily.
The barman's grip on the mop tightened and he looked away, deciding to focus on the work that needed to be done, as he contemplated the question. The answer was clear; but when had it changed?
When had they changed?
Neither of them said anything else, but when Nathan finally deigned to leave, Sebastian lingered at the door, watching after him, before locking it and calling it a night.
Days passed without the final verdict on the pieces chosen for the collection and with reassuring texts from Félix to Marinette. This was normal. These decisions weren’t made overnight.
But even Nathan had to admit that his father was taking exceptionally long this time. Having snuck away from his work duties, he claimed his usual seat and was soon half-asleep with a hot drink in hand and his gym bag slumped at his feet.
Sebastian stared at him in wonder. “Do you even like coffee?”
Nathan didn’t bother to lift his head. “Of course I do. Why else would I be here?”
“For the past week, you've ordered a drink, taken one sip, made a face, and left. I'm starting to think it's a cry for help.”
“I like the vibe.” It wasn’t exactly a lie.
“Uh-huh. Sure. If the vibe includes constantly watching Marinette.”
Nathan snorted, as though Sebastian had delivered a pathetic attempt of a joke.
“I’m just trying to be a good brother,” he muttered, keeping his eyes closed. “You know what Fé’s like. I don’t want him to get his heart broken.”
Sebastian shook his head in disbelief and continued drying the glass in his hand.
“He’s in deep. Like, really deep,” Nathan continued. “Mind you, she’s not doing anything wrong. She’s brilliant. Kind. Talented. And Gabe will snatch her up as soon as he realizes.”
“You love him. I get that. But don’t talk about her like she’s dangerous just because she didn’t arrive in his life with a warning label,” Sebastian slammed the glass down, the action so sudden and out of character that Nathan immediately sat up straight. “Marinette’s not that easily swayed.”
“Isn’t she?” The blonde shot back, more bark than bite, jaw tight.
“You fancy yourself the main character, but this is his story,” Sebastian’s voice softened slightly. “So stop trying to shield him.”
Nathan turned his gaze away, face aflame with embarrassment, and said nothing. He continued to ignore the man even as the bell chimed announcing the arrival of another customer. Recently, the place had started to get more traction, especially from young girls who seemed to follow him everywhere. Usually, Nathan toyed with them through pleasant smiles and small talk, but today, his thoughts rested heavy with the conversation they had just shared.
If he had looked up, he would have seen the trouble walking in: high heels sharp against the tile, phone pressed to her ear, designer sunglasses still on, red hair flowing behind her.
“No, I’m literally at some tiny indie café. It’s kind of charming if you’re into the whole tragic low-budget aesthetic.” Already from her grating voice Sebastian knew to prepare himself. The young woman walked to the counter, lowering the phone and lifting the sunglasses from her eyes, as though making the room a favour. “Hi. I need a matcha oat milk latte with lavender syrup and a double shot of espresso. I’m allergic to mediocrity, so make it strong.” Throwing him a flashy smile, she added. “I got used to those in Milan.”
It took all of Sebastian to keep his face neutral and polite. “We don’t have lavender syrup. Or oat milk.” One he never had and the other was fresh out.
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
“Okay. So you don’t carry the basics or alternatives? Wow. Do you guys do actual coffee, or just… pour vibes into a cup?” She wrinkled her nose in disgust.
Sebastian forced a smile on his face. “You’re welcome to order from the menu.” Or leave.
The customer threw a judgmental glance at the menu hanging above the counter. She was ready to pass, when one of the names intrigued her.
“Fine. I guess I can be... adventurous, ” she drawled. “The Sicilian Kiss, please. Iced.”
Sebastian nodded before reaching for a tall glass and placing it on the counter. He filled it quietly with ice, then took out the dark chocolate syrup from the cold drawer beneath the counter, all made in house. Pouring it into the base of the glass, he let it swirl like ink before it settled. Satisfied, he took a spoon and poured cold milk over the back of it, stopping the liquid from disturbing the base. Then espresso, drifting through the milk in a dark cascade. Finishing with a twist of orange peel, tucked against the glass like a signature.
He slid it across the counter, a hint of pride in the corner of his smile.
The woman took a sip, then scrunched up her nose. “Oh, that’s bitter . Where’s the sweet part?”
Sebastian didn’t answer. He could tell there was no winning. For whatever reason, she seemed determined to dislike the place.
“I mean, I guess it’s edgy. If your idea of self-care is brooding in a library in Milan.”
That’s when Nathan had enough. He stood up and casually walked around the counter.
“Milan this, Milan that,” he threw an arm around Sebastian’s shoulders. “Don’t you know? Sebastian here is an artist. He doesn’t waste time on people with no taste.”
The customer flushed, scoffed, and grabbed her bag—but not before sipping one last time, fast and annoyed.She left in a huff, heels tapping like applause she didn’t deserve.
The café exhaled.
Sebastian calmly reached for the drink she’d left behind. He lifted it, studied the liquid layers, still beautifully intact despite her disdain.
Nathan grinned, “You’re welcome.”
“I don’t need you to defend me,” Sebastian remarked drily.
“No? Then where’s my thank-you?”
Sebastian returned the drink on the counter and slid it over to him with practiced ease. “Here. Enjoy.”
Nathan raised an eyebrow but still reached for the glass.
“Nothing like lukewarm bitterness with a twist of citrus. Just how I like it,” he joked without having taken a single sip. Just as he was about to, the familiar chime of the bell above the door startled them both.
Marinette stepped inside, windswept with a happy smile on her face. Sensing the tension still hanging faintly in the air, she blinked at the room. She looked from Sebastian, quiet behind the bar, to Nathan with a drink in his hand that he clearly hadn’t paid for, also behind the bar. “What did I miss?”
“A performance,” said Sebastian the same moment Nathan blurted, “An exorcism.”
The girl tilted her head, amused at the way the boys exchanged a glance.
“Some fashion-influencer type tried to insult the menu. Ordered The Sicilian Kiss, hated it immediately, said—” Nathan vented in a single breath. Sebastian took over the moment he ran out of oxygen, “It’s like brooding in a library in Milan. As if Sicily has anything to do with Milan.”
“He told her it wasn’t made for people without taste. And I may have… backed that up.” Nathan grinned.
Marinette eyed the glass between them. “Can I try it?”
Nathan made a vague noise of protest as she took it, already having accepted it as his .
She sipped, paused, then smiled slowly. “It does taste like brooding in Milan.”
Sebastian blinked and Nathan made a face, not believing what she was saying. Marinette, on the other hand, smiled even wider.
“I kinda love it.”
“Why does it sound poetic when you say it?” Nathan whined.
Marinette took another sip, clearly enjoying it. “Maybe I have taste.”
Sebastian’s expression softened at her words. He reached out a hand and patted her gently on the head. “You do.”
“Maybe you should rename the drink,” Nathan suggested, thrown off by the sudden affection the barman was showing the girl, making him a little jealous. “Brooding in Milan.”
Sebastian looked at him, really looked at him, before grabbing a stool and dragging it to the menu board. He grabbed a piece of chalk and climbed up, crossing out the words The Sicilian Kiss and replacing it with Brooding in Milan.
“That’s the cleverest thing you’ve said so far,” he said, admiring the handiwork.
Then the bell chimed again.
Félix stepped in, cheeks slightly flushed as though he’d walked faster than usual, his coat neatly folded over his left arm. His expression gave him away: anticipation in his slightly widened eyes, lips pressed into a tight, almost-smiling line, twitching at the corners with the effort not to grin.
He paused for a moment, scanning the room until he found Marinette. Their eyes met and her heart picked up speed.
“Hey,” she breathed.
“Hi. I—uh—I’ve been looking for you.” Félix tried to play it cool but failed.
“I got out early,” she whispered. “I couldn’t take the tension any longer.”
Félix crossed the room, stopping a little too close before taking a half-step back to give her space. He pulled out a brown envelope, the kind they used internally at the fashion house, and handed it to her. “This came from Gabriel’s office.”
Marinette accepted it with shaking hands. “Is it something bad?”
“What? No!” He snapped his head in a sharp no. “No! It’s…” He exhaled. “Just read it!”
Marinette unsealed the envelope and slid out the single sheet of paper. She scanned it, trying to understand the meaning of the words, but blanking.
“You made the initial cut,” Félix explained, too eager to hold himself back. “Gabriel signed off this morning.”
“I… Really?” Marinette was trembling. She blinked at the sheet of paper, still struggling to believe it. She looked as though she were about to cry.
Sebastian slid a clean glass of water toward her without a comment.
“It’s marked as anchor potential,” Marinette choked, ignoring the glass. Sebastian added a straw to it. “This doesn’t feel real.”
“Fun fact: this is the first time Félix has voluntarily delivered a message from Gabriel since he punched him in the face at a product launch.”
Nathan’s words snapped Marinette out of her reverie. “What?”
Félix didn’t bother denying it. It had been all over papers. “He said something appalling.”
“He said, ‘romantic illusions are like espresso macchiatos — sweet on top, bitter beneath, and gone too fast to matter’ when confronted about the rumours of someone having a girlfriend.”
“Anyway, this man once gave our father a black eye in front of a Vogue editor, but today? Today he brings you a letter like he’s delivering a glass slipper.” Nathan took the fancy drink from Marinette and raised it like a toast.
Sebastian smacked him on the back of his head. “Let the man romance her with office memos in peace.”
Marinette stared at Félix with stars in her eyes.
“You didn’t punch anyone this time,” she teased.
“Small victories…”
“Memos over mayhem.” She glanced at him through her eyelashes, a smile dancing on her lips on which Félix’s gaze lingered and whatever was in his eyes made her pause. She tilted her head. “What?”
Félix tore his eyes away. Softly, he admitted, “I didn’t think I’d see you smile like that again.”
“Like what?”
“Like I mean the world to you… and I’d give anything if that were true.” He looked down, almost ashamed of himself for admitting it.
Marinette didn’t answer right away. Just reached out and brushed her fingertips lightly against his cheek, wanting him to look at her.
Félix swallowed. He raised his hand to where hers was and took it, pressing it flat against his cheek.
“It is true,” she breathed, slowly shifting her palm to cup his face. Their eyes found each other, his studying her intentions, hers reassuring him of her feelings. Their foreheads touched.
He leaned in and she met him halfway, lips brushing against each other first tentatively, then again with a deeper pull, more certain. Her hand, already cradling his face, slid upward, fingers threading into his hair, pulling him closer. His hand hovered for a moment before finding her waist, thumb sweeping gently across her lower back, grounding them both in the quiet urgency of the moment.
And just as the kiss deepened, as Marinette relaxed into his touch and Félix let go…
“Oh, come on! ”
The voice rang out behind them, followed by the unmistakable scuffle of someone pulling free of a grip.
Marinette and Félix jolted apart, lips parted, eyes dazed.
Nathan stood a few feet away, wild-eyed, looking personally betrayed. Sebastian, behind him, let out a long sigh and rubbed a hand over his face. “I told you to let them have their moment.”
“I was letting them have their moment,” Nathan protested. “Until his hand—”
Sebastian slapped a hand over his mouth and offered the couple a crooked smile. “How about a celebratory drink?”
He dropped his hand and without waiting for answers, pulled out four small cups and readied the espresso machine.
The café had quieted into softness, like the world was dimming its lights and smoothing its edges. Even the shadows seemed to tidy themselves, folding into corners like closing time routines. Three sets of eyes followed Sebastian’s smooth movements.
Steam whispered from the machine. Espresso ran dark and deliberate, crowned by a tender spoonful of foam—drama in a demitasse, layered and fleeting.
Sebastian slid the drinks across the counter. Nathan picked his up first and proposed a toast, unexpectedly genuine, “To romantic illusions.”
Sebastian followed, then Marinette. Félix last, his fingers barely trembling now. The porcelain clinked, as the cups came together.
“To romantic illusions!”