Chapter Text
Zandvoort Grand Prix — D-6
Amsterdam
The sky over Amsterdam is the color of unpolished steel, thick with clouds that press low against the crooked rooftops. Canal water moves sluggishly, dark and glassy. The city hasn’t quite woken up yet—just the gentle hum of trams, the soft splash of bikes over wet stone, and the muffled hiss of early deliveries slipping through the narrow streets.
Evan turns the corner toward the café, shoulders hunched in the damp. His scarf is pulled up high against the wind, his gloves thin and useless. The brass handle of the café door sticks as it always does, resisting the turn with a quiet groan, like it doesn’t want to let the morning in. He mutters a soft curse in French under his breath, a leftover habit from his Belgian parents, and gives it a firm shove. The lock clicks. The door gives.
He’s halfway through flipping the sign to OPEN when he notices someone standing under the café’s awning.
Not moving. Just… waiting.
A man—hood pulled low, sunglasses still on despite the absence of sun, black joggers and an expensive-looking hoodie zipped up to his neck. His sneakers are clean. Too clean. The kind of white that says they were either just bought or never worn outside of private gyms and penthouses.
He’s not shivering, though he should be. Just leaning back against the brick like he belongs there.
Evan eyes him for a moment, hand still on the sign. “We’re not open for five more minutes.”
The man gives a small, almost apologetic shrug. “Jet lag,” he says, voice warm and smooth, the consonants soft. Italian, definitely. Tuscan, if Evan had to guess.
Evan glances at the clock inside. The espresso machine’s still cold. The register not even powered on.
Still.
He steps back, holding the door. “Come in. It’s warmer inside.”
The man ducks in without another word, moving like someone used to sliding into rooms without being noticed. Evan closes the door behind him, flipping the lock to keep others out until the actual open.
The café feels different in these quiet moments. The air still smells like wood and old books, mingled with the ghost of yesterday’s roast. The lights are dim, just the soft morning grey filtering in through the front windows and the gentle glow from the back kitchen. Ferns hang motionless in their baskets, droplets clinging to the leaves from the last time Evan watered them.
The man stands just inside the threshold, still wearing his sunglasses, hood still up. He doesn’t sit. Doesn’t browse the pastry case. Just watches Evan quietly, hands tucked into the pocket of his hoodie.
“You want coffee?” Evan asks, moving behind the bar and flipping switches on the espresso machine.
“Macchiato,” the man says. “Please.”
Evan nods, already grabbing the portafilter and reaching for the grinder. The silence between them settles like fog.
He works efficiently—grinding, tamping, adjusting the pressure. The steam wand hisses to life with a low snarl, the first hiss of warmth in the cold kitchen. He moves without thinking, muscle memory taking over. He prefers it that way. No talking, no thinking, just the quiet rhythm of coffee and heat and motion.
The man doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t check his phone. He just watches. Not in a creepy way—more like he’s cataloguing the moment. Memorizing it.
“Here,” Evan says, setting the finished cup gently on the counter. A small, perfect macchiato. Dark crema with a crown of pale foam.
The man steps forward and takes it carefully, both hands around the cup. He exhales, slow. Then:
“Dank je,” he says, the words foreign on his tongue, but not uncomfortable.
Evan smirks. “You’re not from around here.”
The man smiles behind the cup. “Florence.”
“Figured.” Evan leans a hip against the counter. “Not many people rock designer sneakers and sunglasses before sunrise in the Jordaan.”
That earns a soft laugh. The man doesn’t deny it.
He sips the macchiato and closes his eyes, just for a second. A quiet kind of approval. When he opens them again, Evan’s still watching him.
“You’re not a morning person,” Evan says.
The man tilts his head. “How can you tell?”
“You look like you haven’t slept. And you tipped ten euros for a coffee. Either you’re too rich to care, or too tired to notice.”
“Both,” the man says, dryly. Then catches himself. “Sorry. That sounded… arrogant.”
“Mm. Bit,” Evan says, but he’s smiling now. “Not the worst I’ve heard.”
There’s a pause. The man sets the empty cup down gently. His fingers tap the rim once. Twice. Then he steps back.
“I’ll come earlier tomorrow,” he says.
“You’re already early.”
“Earlier,” he repeats, with a small grin.
He’s gone a moment later. Just slips out with a quiet nod and vanishes into the fog like a secret.
Evan stands alone in the café, the warm hum of the espresso machine still filling the air. He glances at the ten euro note in the tip jar, then back at the door.
He doesn’t know the guy’s name. Doesn’t really want to know. People drift in and out of this city all the time, especially during race week. Men with sunglasses and expensive shoes. Women with camera crews and fake laughs. Hangers-on. Tourists. Influencers. Athletes. Tech millionaires.
Most of them want to be seen.
This one didn’t.
Strange, Evan thinks, wiping down the counter. Not unpleasant. Just strange.
He forgets about it quickly. There are pastries to prep and milk jugs to clean. A full shift ahead. The first customers trickle in around seven, a mix of locals and lost tourists, the usual blend of languages and confused orders.
Evan doesn’t think of the man again until hours later, when he’s mopping near the front door and notices a smudge of foam still on the edge of the first cup.
Not enough to mean anything.
Just enough to remember.