Chapter Text
Waking up somewhere new was its own kind of small thrill, like opening your eyes to a new reality, halfway between who you were and who you decided to be. Grian lay still for a while, breathing in the unfamiliar air. The blanket was tangled around his legs, held down by two small, purring weights.
Maui had managed to claim most of the duvet, his striped body curled protectively against Grian’s hip. Pearl, daintier and infinitely more territorial, had settled on the pillow right beside Grian’s head, her tail flicking his face with a silent complaint at having to share space.
“Morning,” Grian mumbled, voice rough from sleep. He brushed a hand over Pearl’s back, earning a soft purr. The room was filled with golden sunlight, casting a pretty glow across unopened boxes stacked near the window. New city, new street noise, new routines, new everything.
He pushed himself upright and sat for a while, watching dust drift lazily in the light. Perhaps it was the writer in him, but even after a hundred moves, mostly brief stays between drafts and deadlines, Grian always treated the first morning as a story’s prologue. A single clean page before the chaos of a new novel began.
By the time he dragged himself out of bed, the apartment had shifted from a quiet peace to a comfortable chaos. Coffee machine humming. Maui knocking over something breakable, probably a glass. Pearl meowing for breakfast like her life depended on it.
“Fine, fine,” Grian said, crouching to refill their bowls. “Just don’t gang up on me.”
The kettle whistled, startling him from his thoughts. He poured coffee into a ‘I Love NY’ mug and leaned against the counter, taking in his surroundings. It was modern enough, with wide windows, a faint smell of paint and some kind of wood, and a view of the skyline, but it was still unfinished, lacking his distinct style. His framed book covers leaned against the wall, some piled on the floor, waiting to be hung. A stack of documents sat by the couch, the spine of one labeled in messy marker ‘Draft: Confidential.’
He tried not to stare at it long. That script was half the reason he was here, wanting to find inspiration in the new environment. The other half being an invitation from one of the biggest production companies in the country, wanting to adapt his latest novel into a film. And, supposedly, to collaborate with a certain movie star everyone couldn’t stop talking about.
Scar Goodtimes.
The city had a whole mythology around him: the golden boy with an impossible smile, beloved by every director and journalist alike. Grian had done his research grudgingly, pretending the interest was professional and not personal curiosity. Every interview clip he watched left him unsure whether to admire or avoid the man altogether.
Avoiding him would be impossible though, as their first meeting would be at four that afternoon. And right now, Grian desperately needed caffeine brewed by someone other than himself.
The café he found sat on a corner, fairy lights hanging from the overhang, its outdoor tables decorated with lilacs and poppies. A chalkboard sign promised good coffee and “decent conversation,” which felt like a great invitation, and he intended to test if it was true.
Inside, warmth hit him and wrapped around him like a soft blanket, the hiss of the espresso machine, faint music from a severely scratched vinyl (which he sort of hoped they could fix), and the strong smell of coffee and fresh bread.
“First time here?” A voice came from behind the counter, drawing his attention to the man.
The barista, tall with dark curls, a rolled-up white shirt, and a brown apron, offered a welcoming smile. His name tag, Mumbo, was handwritten in neat, blue ink that was smudged at the edges.
“That obvious?” Grian asked, glancing around.
Mumbo shrugged. “You’ve got the kind of lost expression. Newcomers always do. But moving on, what’s your order for today?”
“Flat white. And a croissant please.”
“You got it.” Mumbo turned away, calling out orders with ease. The space filled with the kind of background noise Grian secretly loved, the hum of conversation, the rhythmic clatter of cutlery, the sound of car engines just outside.
He found a seat near the window, opening his laptop as if muscle memory alone could summon creativity. The document stared back, empty, impatient. His cursor blinked like a metronome, and he was severely off beat.
He typed one sentence, deleted it, typed another, deleted that too.
Mumbo returned a few minutes later, placing a coffee and a warm croissant on his table. “Refuge for the creative,” he said with a grin. “That’s what this place is. Writers, painters, lost souls with deadlines that move faster than rent prices.”
“That’s… actually quite accurate,” Grian admitted. “Moved here a few days ago for work.”
“Yeah? What do you do?”
“I’m somewhat of a writer.”
“Real writer or influencer kind of writer?”
Grian laughed. “The type with messy hands and too many drafts.”
“So, real writer,” Mumbo confirmed. “Welcome to Desert Street. You’ll like it here, it’s kind of nosy, but in a charming way.”
“I think I’ll like it here,” Grian replied. “If the people are as charming as you, I might not want to leave.”
“Maybe this city will give you a reason to stay,” Mumbo responded, “and you seem like a real nice guy, I think we’ll get along quite a bit.”
After several minutes, Mumbo left to return to his work, and Grian started writing dot points with a small smile on his face.
Grian sipped his coffee and watched through the window as the world passed by. The city had a pulse, different from any other place he’d lived. It carried a constant, electric hum, like every stranger on the street was headed toward the start of a story. Strangers that could perhaps be a part of his story.
Maybe that was why he’d said yes to the project. Beyond the contracts, the deadlines, the unnecessarily long emails from producers, maybe he needed to believe that starting over didn’t mean erasing, just rewriting.
Hours passed quietly. He switched between half-written notes and people-watching. A woman in a tailored blazer talking loudly into her phone. A man in a scarf scribbling something on a napkin.
At one point, Mumbo leaned toward him from behind the counter. “You know, funny thing. You just missed some big celebrity about half an hour ago. Sunglasses inside, trying not to be noticed.”
“Oh?” Grian asked without real interest, but his heartbeat ticked a little quicker.
“Yeah. Guy’s been around a lot lately. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he’s filming something nearby.”
Grian only smiled faintly. “Maybe he is.”
He closed his laptop soon after, tucking it under one arm, waving farewell to Mumbo, and walked out into the bustling street. Somewhere across the city, an actor and a producer were probably talking names and headlines. He wasn’t sure where he’d fit into that world yet, but he was starting to look forward to finding out.
Behind him, inside the café, the barista watched the door shut, silently hoping his newfound friend would come back regularly, then shrugged before returning to his coffee machines.