Archive of Our Own

The smell of burnt espresso beans and heavy rain followed Till into the back room. He aggressively shoved his wet umbrella into a stand and ran a hand through his perpetually messy gray hair, muttering curses under his breath.

Running Anakt Grounds was supposed to be his dream. Instead, it was an endless cycle of inventory tracking, fixing a temperamental espresso machine that Luka probably cursed, and dealing with an understaffed morning rush.

"You're late," Sua said without looking up from the register. She was meticulously wiping down the counter, her dark hair tied back in a neat ribbon. "And, sheesh, you look like you got run over by a delivery truck."

"Shut it, Sua. The transit system is garbage today," Till grumbled, tying a black apron around his waist. "Where’s Hyuna? I thought she was helping with the opening shift."

"She had a 'rebel crisis,' which translated to her realizing a local corporate chain is trying to buy out the block, so she went to go argue with the city council," a smooth, airy voice drifted from the corner booth. Luka was draped across the cushions, an expensive-looking camera in his lap, looking entirely too glamorous for a Tuesday morning. "I offered to help, but Till, darling, your apron clashes with my aesthetic."

"Get out of my shop, Luka," Till snapped, though there was no real venom in it.

The bell above the door chimed, cutting off Luka’s dramatic sigh. Till shifted into automatic customer-service mode, turning around with a sharp, "Welcome to—"

The words died in his throat.

The guy standing in the doorway was tall. Too tall. He was dressed in a sleek, dark coat that looked entirely too expensive for the stormy weather, and his black hair was perfectly styled despite the downpour outside. But it was his face that made Till freeze. Heavy lidded, dark eyes fixed instantly onto Till, and a slow, completely unbothered smile spread across his lips.

"Hi," the stranger said. His voice was low, smooth, and infuriatingly calm. "I'm here about the part-time barista listing?"

Till just stared. For a second, the only sound in the café was the steady hum of the refrigerator and the rhythmic drip-drip of water falling from the stranger’s pristine umbrella onto the linoleum. The guy didn't look like a barista. He looked like he belonged on a billboard, or at the very least, in a coffee shop that didn't have punk rock flyers plastered all over the bathroom walls.

"The listing," Till finally repeated, his brain forcing its gears to turn. "Right. The... the job."

"If it's still available," Ivan grinned. He stepped further into the shop, letting the heavy glass door click shut behind him. He didn’t drop eye contact once. It felt less like a job seeker arriving for an interview and more like a predator mapping out a new territory.

"We're desperate, please save us," Luka called out from his booth, waving a slim hand in the air. "Our current boss has the temperament of a wet cat."

"Luka, shut up! You don’t work here!" Till hissed, shooting a lethal glare over his shoulder before turning back to the newcomer. He wiped his hands on his apron, suddenly feeling very conscious of the espresso stain on his sleeve and his completely unstyled hair. He cleared his throat, trying to summon whatever authority an indie coffee shop owner was supposed to have. "Yeah. It's available. Did you bring a copy of your resume?"

"Of course," the guy murmured. He reached into his coat and pulled out a crisp, perfectly uncreased piece of paper, offering it to Till with a slight tilt of his head.

Till took it, his fingers brushing against the stranger's cold skin for a split second. A weird, electric jolt shot up his arm, making him pull back a little too quickly. He looked down at the top of the page. Ivan. No last name, just a neat, bold header.

"Alright, Ivan," Till muttered, gesturing toward the empty booth across from Luka's territory. "Let's sit down before the morning rush completely destroys my sanity."

Till sat across from the guy—Ivan, according to his flawlessly written resume—in one of the booths. Luka had conveniently migrated closer, pretending to clean his camera lens but obviously eavesdropping.

"Your resume says you have a degree in business and you've worked high-end catering," Till said, tapping the paper. He glared at Ivan, trying to find the catch. "Why the hell do you want to work a part-time shift at a chaotic indie coffee shop?"

Ivan leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. His dark eyes didn't leave Till's face for a single second. It was intense, almost suffocating. "I like the atmosphere. And I've heard the owner is... very passionate."

Till’s cheeks flushed a faint, angry pink. "Right. Well. The pay is standard, the hours are grueling, and I don't tolerate slacking off."

"I'm a very fast learner," Ivan murmured, his smile widening just enough to show a hint of sharp teeth. "And I'm excellent under pressure."

From the counter, Sua cleared her throat loudly. "He's hired, Till. We have a line forming in five minutes and you still haven't calibrated the grinder."

Till groaned, throwing his hands up. "Fine. You're on trial for two weeks, Ivan. Don't make me regret this."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Ivan said softly.

Till let out a weak, irritated huff, aggressively sliding Ivan's pristine resume into his apron pocket as he slid out of the booth. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Your trial starts right now. Follow me."

If Till expected Ivan to stumble, complain about the apron, or look even remotely overwhelmed by the sudden shift into a chaotic morning rush, he was dead wrong. Ivan just stood up, smoothly shed his expensive dark coat, and hung it up in the backroom without a single word of protest. When he emerged rolling up his sleeves, Sua dropped a spare black apron into his hands. He tied it around his waist so perfectly it looked tailored.

The next three hours were a blur of steam, clinking ceramic, and a relentless line of caffeine-deprived customers stretching out the door. Till spent the first twenty minutes hovering, waiting for the perfect opportunity to yell 'I told you so!' when Ivan inevitably messed up an order.

Instead, Till just watched Ivan pull a single shot of espresso, listened to a two-minute crash course on the POS system from Sua, and immediately became an unstoppable force behind the counter. He moved through the cramped space with an infuriating, fluid grace, never bumping into Till once, always shifting perfectly out of the way before Till could even snap at him to move.

By noon, the rush finally died down. Till slumped against the back counter, wiping sweat from his forehead, completely exhausted. He glared over at Ivan, who looked like he hadn't even broken a sweat. His hair was still perfectly in place.

"You're late for your break, Till," Sua called out, counting the cash drawer. She gave Ivan a rare, approving nod. "And Ivan, you're officially keeping the schedule. You actually know how to talk to people without scaring them."

"Hey!" Till barked, but Ivan just chuckled—that low, rumbling sound that made the hairs on the back of Till's neck stand up.

"I told you, Boss," Ivan murmured, leaning against the espresso machine and fixing those heavy-lidded eyes right back onto Till. "I'm excellent under pressure."

Till groaned internally, realizing with a sinking feeling in his chest that he had just willingly let a wolf into his sanctuary.

The first three days of Ivan’s trial shift were, to put it mildly, a psychological torment for Till.

Anakt Grounds was supposed to be a sanctuary of chaotic, loud, DIY energy. It was a place where the floorboards creaked in a specific rhythm, the bathroom walls were a collage of local punk rock flyers, and the espresso machine had to be coaxed into working with a very specific, aggressive twist of the wrist. It was a messy ecosystem, and Till was the king of the mess.

Ivan did not fit the ecosystem. He looked like an apex predator that had mistakenly wandered into a greenhouse, yet he was navigating the tight space behind the bar with a fluid, terrifying grace.

"Order up. Large iced Americano, extra shot, oat milk," Ivan’s smooth voice cut through the hiss of the steam wand. He slid a perfectly wiped plastic cup onto the pick-up counter, his movements so precise it looked like choreography. He didn't spill a drop. He hadn't spilled a drop all morning.

Till slammed a metal portafilter into the knock-box with entirely too much force, the thud-thud echoing loudly over the indie rock blaring from the speakers. He wiped his sweat-damp gray hair from his forehead, glaring at the back of Ivan’s perfectly tailored apron.

"You're stamping the espresso pucks too hard," Till lied, crossing his arms and leaning against the back counter. He was actively hunting for a reason to yell 'I told you so!' and throw the guy out into the rain. "The extraction time is going to be off. You're going to burn the shots."

Ivan didn't flinch. He slowly turned around, holding a damp microfiber cloth in his long, pale fingers. He leaned his hip against the counter, tilting his head as those heavy-lidded, dark eyes locked instantly onto Till's irritated teal ones.

"Is it?" Ivan asked, his voice dripping with that infuriating, calm politeness. He reached over, picked up a freshly pulled shot of espresso in a small ceramic cup, and offered it to Till. "Taste it, Boss. If it's burned, I'll redo the whole batch."

Till snatched the cup from his hand, his knuckles brushing against Ivan’s cool skin. A weird, sudden spark of heat made Till pull back sharply, nearly spilling the liquid. He scowled, taking an aggressive gulp of the espresso, fully prepared to spit it out into the sink.

It was perfect.

It was rich, bold, perfectly balanced, and lacked even a hint of the bitter, scorched aftertaste that Till usually got when he was rushing. It was, unfortunately, the best espresso the Anakt Grounds machine had produced all month.

Till’s jaw tightened. His cheeks flushed a faint, angry pink. "It's... fine. A little under-extracted, but whatever. Just keep moving, the line is backing up."

"Whatever you say, Till," Ivan murmured. The slow, teasing smirk that Till was quickly learning to hate pulled at the corner of Ivan's lips. It was a look that said I know exactly what you're doing, and I think it's adorable.

"That's 'Boss' to you, rich boy," Till snapped, turning his back to hide the heat rising to his face.

By Thursday, the frustration had mutated into genuine paranoia. Till found himself hovering by the pastry case, supposedly checking the expiration dates on the croissants, but his eyes kept tracking Ivan.

Ivan was dealing with a notoriously difficult regular—a corporate suit who frequented the shop just to complain about the wait times and the volume of the music. Normally, Till would have barked at the guy to find another café, or Sua would have stared him down with terrifying, silent judgment until he left.

Ivan, however, just smiled. It wasn't a warm smile; it was a perfectly constructed, blindingly polite mask that somehow made his dark eyes look entirely empty.

"I completely understand your frustration, sir," Ivan said, his voice a low, soothing hum that somehow carried over the heavy bass of the speakers. "We appreciate your patience during our morning rush. Here is your macchiato, on the house today. Have a beautiful morning."

The corporate guy blinked, completely disarmed by the sheer elegance of the delivery. He mumbled a confused apology, took his cup, and practically scrambled out the door.

From the register, Sua let out a rare, approving hum. "He's terrifying," she whispered to Till, not looking up from her screen. "He just socially lobotomized our worst customer with a smile. Give him a raise."

"I'm not giving him a raise, he's on a trial shift," Till hissed, gripping plastic tongs so hard the metal groaned. "There's something wrong with him, Sua. Nobody is this good at making coffee. Nobody moves like that. He’s... he’s like a robot. Or a cult leader."

"He's competent, Till. Which is more than I can say for Hyuna when she tries to operate the blender," Sua replied flatly.

Till groaned, leaning his forehead against the cool glass of the pastry display. He was losing his mind. Ivan was a distraction—a massive, six-foot-something shadow that Till couldn't shake. Every time Till turned around in the narrow walkway behind the bar, Ivan was already shifting his weight out of the way, leaving just centimeters of space between them. Till could feel the literal warmth radiating off him, the faint scent of rain and expensive cologne that didn't belong in a grungy coffee shop.

It felt like Ivan was taking up all the oxygen in the room. And the worst part was, Till couldn't find a single valid reason to kick him out.

He didn’t just learn the menu; he memorized the exact temperatures preferred by the customers, made sure the prep station was close to sparkling, and he even handled rude customers with a terrifyingly polite smile—one that made these customers apologize and leave early.

But what drove Till entirely insane was the music and the way Ivan listened to it wholeheartedly. Every single day.

Anakt Grounds had a shared tablet for the sound system, docked right next to the register. Till’s playlists were a chaotic, bleeding mix of aggressive indie rock, heavy bass, and raw, emotional melodies. It was angsty, loud, and entirely uncommercial. It was the only part of the shop that felt completely, unadulteratedly him.

The heavy rain had eased into a miserable, gray drizzle, leaving the café dead and humid. Till was in the backroom, sitting cross-legged on a stack of unopened burlap coffee sacks, aggressively auditing the inventory spreadsheet on his phone. The heavy bass of an older, deeply personal indie track—one he’d written the guitar tabs for himself back in his high school band days—was thumping faintly through the closed door.

He paused, a line item about oat milk fading from his brain.

Underneath the muffled track playing from the ceiling speakers, there was another sound. A vocalization. Someone was humming the melody.

Till frowned, pushing himself up from the sacks. Sua didn’t hum; she listened to music with the clinical detachment of a surgeon. Hyuna wasn’t working today. And Luka only hummed runway pop.

Till cracked the back door open.

The bar area was cast in a dull, moody shadow. Ivan was alone by the espresso machine, pulling it apart for a mid-day deep clean. His black apron was slightly damp, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing the pale, sharp lines of his forearms.

He was humming.

It wasn't a distracted, mindless drone, either. Ivan was hitting the exact, specific pitch of the raw, bleeding bridge—the part of the song where the lead singer usually screamed until his vocal cords tore. Ivan’s version was low, smooth, and terrifyingly accurate. He carried the melody over the harsh hiss of the hot water outlet as he flushed the machine's group heads, perfectly in sync with the rhythm Till had spent months curating.

Till stepped out of the backroom, his sneakers squeaking loudly against the linoleum. "Who told you you could mess with the tablet?" he demanded, his voice a sharp defense mechanism.

Ivan didn't jump. He slowly set down the metallic blind filter basket he was holding and turned around. The overhead ambient light caught the sharp angle of his jaw, casting his dark eyes into deep shadow. A slow, entirely unbothered smile spread across his lips.

"I didn't touch it," Ivan murmured, his voice cutting through the heavy bass with infuriating ease. "It was already playing when I started my shift."

"Then how do you know the melody?" Till crossed his arms, stepping closer to the bar, his teal eyes narrowed in deep suspicion. "That’s an underground indie track from five years ago. The band split up after one album. It’s not on any public radio."

Ivan leaned his hip against the counter, picking up a microfiber cloth and casually wiping his hands. He didn’t break eye contact once.

"I didn't know the band," Ivan said softly, his voice dropping into a lower register that made the hair on Till's arms stand up. "But I know your taste now, Till. You play this track every time it rains before three o'clock. And you always turn the volume up two notches during the second chorus."

Till froze. His breath hitched in his throat, a sudden, hot wave of embarrassment flushing his cheeks a bright, angry pink.

Ivan had been tracking him. Not just his shift schedule, not just how he calibrated the grinder, but the literal rhythm of his moods. It felt incredibly invasive, like Ivan had found a copy of his diary left open on the counter and was casually reading the most embarrassing pages aloud.

"Stop doing that," Till barked, his voice cracking slightly before he forced it back down into a growl.

"Stop doing what?" Ivan asked, tilting his head, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners with pure, unadulterated amusement.

"Stop... listening so hard. It’s creepy," Till snapped, desperately looking for something to do with his hands. He grabbed a clean ceramic mug from the shelf and began wiping it down with a towel, even though it was already spotless. "Just do your job. Don't analyze my playlists."

"I'm not analyzing," Ivan murmured, stepping out from behind the bar. He moved into Till’s personal space, stopping just inches away from the pastry case where Till was standing. The faint scent of wet cedar and expensive cologne hit Till’s senses, thick and suffocating. Ivan leaned down slightly, bringing his face closer to Till’s level. "I just think the music is beautiful. It sounds... like you."

Till wanted to scream. He wanted to shove Ivan away, but his boots felt like they were glued to the floorboards. His stomach did a violent, unwelcome flip at the sheer intensity of the gaze locked onto him.

"Go... go prep the blender," Till managed to choke out, his voice dropping to a defensive hiss. "The afternoon rush is going to start soon."

"Whatever you say, Boss," Ivan whispered. He lingered for a fraction of a second, his dark gaze dropping to Till’s white-knuckled grip on the ceramic mug, before he smoothly stepped past him, his shoulder brushing against Till’s with an electric, lingering warmth.

Thankfully, the heavy glass door of the cafe swung open, shattering the suffocating atmosphere with a familiar, loud chime.

"Hey, grumpy," a bright voice called out.

Mizi burst into the shop like a ray of literal sunshine, completely ignoring the gloom outside. She practically bounced up to the counter, her pink hair damp from the rain.

Sua’s entire demeanor transformed instantly. The cool, detached barista melted away, replaced by a soft, adoring expression that she only ever reserved for one person.

"The usual?" Sua asked, her voice dropping an octave into something incredibly tender.

"Yes, please! With extra strawberries today, the studio was brutal," Mizi leaned over the counter, completely unbothered by the public space, and gave Sua a quick, sweet kiss on the cheek.

The contrast was staggering.

Till stood by the espresso machine, his hands gripping the edge of the counter so tightly his knuckles ached. He watched Sua and Mizi. It was like looking into a completely different universe—one that operated on warmth, soft edges, and absolute certainty.

Sua, who usually carried herself with a razor-sharp, detached efficiency that kept customers at a distance, had completely melted. Her movements as she prepared Mizi's strawberry smoothie were deliberate, almost reverent. And Mizi just leaned over the counter, laughing at something Sua said, her pink hair catching the dim amber light of the shop like a neon sign in the gray afternoon.

Their love was simple. It was a textbook definition of harmony. They fit together like two perfectly calibrated gears. It made sense.

Till felt a familiar, bitter twist in his chest. He didn't envy them—he loved them both too much for that—but it made his own internal chaos feel twice as loud. He didn't know how to exist in a space that wasn't full of friction. He was loud, messy, defensive, and perpetually stressed. He was an exposed wire.

And then there was Ivan.

Till’s gaze drifted across the bar to where Ivan was restocking the pastry display. Ivan was a puzzle Till couldn't solve. He was rich, composed, and possessed a quiet, terrifying grace that belonged in a high-rise corporate boardroom, not wiping down sticky linoleum counters in a punk-rock coffee shop. They made absolutely no sense together.

As if sensing the heavy weight of Till's thoughts, Ivan paused. He set down a tray of croissants and slowly turned his head.

Ivan didn't look at Mizi and Sua with jealousy, or judgment, or even much interest. He only looked at Till. His dark, heavy-lidded eyes tracked the tense line of Till's shoulders, the tight set of his jaw, and the way his teal eyes were darting nervously around the room.

Ivan let out a short, quiet laugh—that little, soft huff of air he always made when he found Till's inner turmoil amusing. It wasn't mean; it was intimately knowing. It was a sound that said I see you spinning out, and I'm right here.

Till looked away sharply, a hot prickle of defensive anger flaring up his neck. He grabbed a portafilter and slammed it into the group head with entirely too much force. The metallic clatter echoed loudly, a sharp, ugly exclamation point that completely failed to disrupt the effortless, quiet murmur of Mizi and Sua’s conversation at the register.

"You're going to break the equipment if you keep treating it like an enemy, Boss," Ivan murmured, his voice suddenly appearing right beside him.

Till flinched, not realizing Ivan had moved. Ivan was standing a little too close, a quiet, observant shadow wrapped in a black apron. His long fingers rested lightly on the edge of the espresso machine's steel grate, just inches away from Till’s hand.

"Mind your own business," Till muttered, his voice dropping to a gravelly hiss, desperately keeping his eyes trained down so the girls wouldn't hear him. "Just finish the display. We have inventory tonight."

"I am minding my business," Ivan whispered. He leaned in a fraction of an inch, his voice dropping to a pitch so low it vibrated right through Till's chest. "You're the boss, aren't you?"

Till's breath caught. He wanted to snap back, wanted to deliver some biting insult that would finally wipe that calm, infuriating look off Ivan's face. But as he looked up, he found himself trapped in the sheer intensity of Ivan's gaze. Ivan wasn't moving away. He was lingering, his shoulders subtly shifting to block Till from the rest of the room, isolating them in a tiny, high-voltage pocket of space behind the steam wands.

Sua and Mizi were a safe harbor. Easy, predictable, and calm.

But Ivan... Ivan felt like running headfirst into a thunderstorm. It was dangerous, it was suffocating, and as Till stared back into those dark eyes, he realized with a terrifying jolt that he didn't actually want to step out of the rain.

Ivan let out another faint, amused breath, but he complied, turning back to the rows of croissants with the neat, methodical precision that Till was slowly realizing was just a part of who Ivan was.

As the afternoon dragged on, the initial burst of warmth Mizi brought into the shop began to wane, overtaken by the relentless, gray monotony of the storm outside. The easy romance of the counter shifted back into the grueling reality of a Tuesday rush. Customers filed in with dripping coats and sour expressions, demanding quick fixes for their rainy-day slumps.

Through it all, the contrast between the two men behind the bar only sharpened. Till was a whirlwind of frantic energy—banging milk pitchers, scowling at orders, his gray hair sticking up in messy spikes from the steam. Ivan, conversely, moved through the cramped space like a phantom, fluid and entirely unbothered. Every accidental brush of their shoulders felt like an electric shock to Till's frayed nerves, forcing him to retreat further into his shell of defensive anger.

By 6:00 PM, the neon 'Open' sign buzzed with a low, rhythmic hum that competed with the heavy bass vibrating from the overhead speakers. The playlist had shifted to something more melancholic, a slow, guitar-heavy track that felt far too raw for a public space. Till kept his head down, retreating to the safety of the back room under the pretense of checking the espresso bean shipment, desperately needing to escape the suffocating awareness of Ivan's presence.

He let the heavy back door click shut behind him, cutting off the immediate glare of the amber café lights and the low murmur of customer voices.

The backroom was small, smelling strongly of unroasted coffee, cardboard, and damp concrete. Till didn’t turn on the overhead fluorescent light. Instead, he dropped onto a stack of unopened burlap sacks, pulling his knees up to his chest and burying his face in his hands.

His heart was hammering against his ribs as if he’d just sprinted a mile.

Through the thick wood of the door, the café sounds were muffled, reduced to a low-frequency hum. He could hear the faint, metallic clink of ceramic cups being stacked. He could hear the rhythmic hiss-shhh of the steam wand. Every single sound was a reminder that Ivan was out there, running Till’s world flawlessly without him.

I'm hiding, Till thought, a sudden, bitter wave of self-loathing hitting him. I'm the owner of this place, and I'm cowering in the dark because a guy looked at me.

He pulled his phone out, blindly staring at the inventory spreadsheet, but the numbers blurred together. His mind kept charting the coordinates of Ivan’s proximity. He remembered the exact distance between their shoulders in the narrow bar lane. He remembered the cool, electric jolt of Ivan's fingers brushing his hand. It was infuriating how easily Ivan had bypassed every single one of his defenses without even trying.

Anakt Grounds was supposed to be Till's armor. He had built this place out of noise, sweat, and aggressive music specifically so nobody could get close enough to see how fragile he actually was. But Ivan hadn't tried to break the armor. He had just walked right through it, humming the exact melody of Till's internal chaos.

Till let his head thud back against the concrete wall, staring up at the dark ceiling. He stayed there as the minutes ticked by, caught between the desperate urge to fire Ivan on the spot and the terrifying realization that he didn't want him to leave.

When he finally emerged an hour later, the dynamic of the shop had shifted again. The dinner rush had come and gone, leaving behind an eerie, quiet stillness. Hyuna had stumbled in around 7:30 PM, looking completely drained from her shouting match at city council, her usual boisterous energy replaced by a heavy, exhausted slouch. She had barely managed to order a black coffee before collapsing into the furthest corner booth.

Shortly after, Mizi returned to whisk Sua away. Till had watched from the kitchen doorway as Sua tied her scarf around Mizi's neck, their fingers lingering, sharing a quiet world that belonged entirely to them. With a final, cheerful wave from Mizi and a lingering, stern look from Sua telling Till not to burn the shop down, the door clicked shut, leaving the remaining occupants to the mercy of the night.

The transition from a bustling cafe to a hollow, shadowed sanctuary was always distinct, but tonight, the silence carried a domestic weight that made Till’s chest tighten. The storm outside had escalated into a steady, rhythmic drumming against the glass, isolating them from the rest of the city.

The rain didn't stop. By 9:00 PM, the shop was empty, save for Hyuna, who had crashed in a corner booth after her city council protest, snoring softly with a jacket pulled over her face. Luka had long since departed, claiming the humidity was ruining his hair.

Sua and Mizi had left an hour ago on an official date night. Which left Till and Ivan to close.

The transition from a bustling café to a hollow, shadowed sanctuary was always distinct, but tonight, the silence carried a heavy, domestic weight that made Till’s chest tighten. The storm outside had escalated into a steady, rhythmic drumming against the glass, completely isolating them from the rest of the city.

The main overhead music track had finally timed out, leaving the shop entirely devoid of melody for the first time all day. The sudden absence of the heavy bass left a vacuum in the room, making every tiny ambient noise feel magnified, deliberate, and exposed.

Till stood at the sink, his head down, but his senses were entirely dialed into the dark reflections in the window over the stainless steel basin.

Through the glass, he watched Ivan’s shadow. Ivan had begun the closing routine without a single word of instruction. He moved through the dim amber glow of the under-counter LED strips, systematically flipping the heavy wooden chairs upside down onto the empty tables. He moved like a ghost—no scuffing boots, no clattering wood. Just a quiet, inevitable presence closing in on the bar, circling closer and closer.

The only sounds left in the world were the low, rhythmic hum of the refrigerators, the steady drumming of the storm, and the wet, frantic scratch of Till’s scouring pad against a plastic blender pitcher.

Till’s mind was racing. He had tried to convince himself it was just annoyance. That he hated Ivan because Ivan was annoying. But it was a lie. He was terrified of how much he looked forward to Ivan’s shifts. He was terrified of how Ivan seemed to look right through all of his angry defenses, dismantling them piece by piece until there was nowhere left for Till to hide.

The shadow in the glass stopped moving.

Till felt the sudden shift in the air pressure behind him before he even heard the footsteps. The cool scent of wet cedar and rain pressed into his space, thick and suffocating, completely overtaking the bitter smell of coffee grounds.

"You're going to scrub the metal right off that pitcher, Till."

Ivan was suddenly standing right next to him. He had taken off his apron, wearing just his dark dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

"I'm cleaning," Till snapped, refusing to look at him. "Go sweep the front."

"I already did." Ivan reached out, his long fingers gently but firmly wrapping around Till's wrists, stopping his frantic scrubbing. His hands were warm. Too warm. "Look at me."

Till froze. He slowly turned his head. Ivan was staring down at him, his usual playful smirk completely gone. Instead, his expression was heavy, intense, and deeply conflicted.

"Why are you here, Ivan?" Till asked, his voice cracking slightly, raw and defensive. "Seriously. You don't need this job. You don't need to be dealing with my attitude every day. Just tell me what you actually want."

Ivan didn't let go of Till's wrists. Instead, his grip shifted slightly, his thumbs brushing over the sensitive skin of Till’s inner wrists, right over his racing pulse. He leaned down, bringing his face close enough that Till could see the dark, unsettling depth in his eyes.

The slow, infuriating smirk crept back onto Ivan's lips, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"I told you, Boss," Ivan murmured, his voice a low, teasing purr that vibrated right through the quiet space. "I like the atmosphere. And I find the management... fascinating."

Till’s breath hitched. He wanted to yank his hands away, to yell at him, to tell him to stop playing whatever sick psychological game he was playing. But his body refused to cooperate.

"You're crazy," Till whispered, a defensive growl failing to mask the tremor in his voice.

"Perhaps," Ivan replied softly. He lingered for one more torturous second, his gaze dropping to Till's mouth before tracking back up to his eyes. Then, with a fluid, infuriating grace, he released Till’s wrists and stepped back, creating a sudden, freezing vacuum of space between them.

He reached for his expensive dark coat hanging by the door, sliding it on smoothly. "The front is locked, the espresso machine is back-flushed, and the till is balanced. I'll see you tomorrow morning for the opening shift, Till."

Before Till could even find his voice, the heavy glass door clicked open and shut, the little bell chiming a mocking farewell.

Till stood frozen at the sink, the cold water still running over his hands. His wrists still burned where Ivan had touched them, his heart hammering violently against his ribs.

From the corner booth, Hyuna shifted under her jacket, snoring softly, completely oblivious to the fact that Till’s sanctuary had just officially become a psychological war zone.

Till stared out the fogged-up window into the pouring rain, watching Ivan’s tall silhouette disappear into the streetlights. He let out a shaky, frustrated curse, gripping the edge of the sink until his knuckles turned white.

His two-week trial shift was going to kill him.

The alarm went off at 4:45 AM, sounding like a death toll.

Till dragged himself out of bed, his limbs heavy and his mind still clouded by the phantom scent of cedar and wet rain. He hadn’t slept. Every time he closed his eyes, he felt the terrifying, warm weight of Ivan’s fingers locking around his wrists, trapping him against the stainless steel sink.

By 5:30 AM, Till was unlocking the front door of Anakt Grounds. The sun hadn't even begun to rise, leaving the street cast in a dismal, foggy blue. The storm from yesterday had slowed to a miserable, biting mist that clung to his clothes as he pushed the heavy glass door open.

He expected to be alone. He wanted to be alone to mentally prepare his defenses.

Instead, the smell of freshly brewed drip coffee already hung thick in the air.

Till blinked, stepping past the counter. The ambient under-counter lights were already glowing, and the espresso machine was humming softly, perfectly heated up and ready for calibration. Standing behind the bar, holding a pristine white ceramic mug, was Ivan.

He looked completely unaffected by the ungodly hour. His black hair was perfectly combed, his dark dress shirt crisp, and his black apron tied in that same tailored, infuriatingly neat knot.

"Good morning, Boss," Ivan murmured, raising his mug in a silent toast. "You're three minutes late."

Till’s jaw tightened. The exhaustion in his bones instantly flared into a defensive spark of heat. "How the hell did you get in here? I have the only set of keys."

Ivan reached into his apron pocket and casually jingled a silver ring of keys. "Sua gave me a spare set yesterday before she left for her date. She said you have a habit of oversleeping when it rains, and someone needed to make sure the grinders were calibrated on time."

"Sua is dead to me," Till muttered, slamming his backpack onto the counter. He aggressively snatched a clean apron from the hook, tying it around his waist with jerking, irritated movements. "And give those back. You're a trainee. You don't get key privileges."

"Are you going to take them from me?" Ivan asked.

He didn't move. He just stood there, leaning his hip against the espresso machine, tilting his head with that slow, heavy-lidded gaze. The space behind the bar felt even smaller in the dim morning light than it had last night. Ivan was taking up all the air again, his presence a massive shadow that Till couldn't outrun.

Till marched up to him, his teal eyes narrowed into a lethal glare. He reached out to snatch the keys from Ivan's long fingers, but the moment his hand closed around the metal, Ivan didn't let go.

Instead, Ivan subtly shifted his grip, his cool fingers wrapping over the back of Till's hand, trapping the keys between their palms.

"You're cold," Ivan whispered, his voice low and raspy from the early morning. He stepped a fraction of an inch closer, his chest nearly brushing Till's shoulder. "Did you skip breakfast again, Till?"

"Let go," Till hissed, his cheeks flushing a violent, traitorous pink. He tugged at his hand, but Ivan's grip was firm, a steady, unyielding anchor. "I don't need you managing my diet, rich boy. Give me the damn keys."

"I'll keep them safe for now," Ivan murmured. He gave a soft, amused huff of air—that intimate, knowing laugh that made the hair on Till's neck stand up—before slowly releasing his grip.

Till stumbled back half a step, his knuckles white as he shoved his hands into his apron pockets to hide the trembling. He wanted to fire him. He wanted to yell at him to leave and never come back. But as he looked at the perfectly calibrated machine, the pristine counters, and the quiet, intense devotion in Ivan's eyes, the words caught in his throat.

"Fine," Till growled, turning his back to hide his face. "Just... weigh the beans. The doors open in twenty minutes."

"Whatever you say, Boss," Ivan replied, his voice dripping with a satisfaction that made Till want to put his fist through a wall.

The morning rush hit them like a tidal wave at 6:30 AM.

It was a brutal, relentless blur of commuters, corporate suits, and exhausted students demanding caffeine. The café filled with the deafening roar of the steam wand, the clinking of ceramic, and the sharp thud-thud of the portafilter against the knock-box.

But today, the dynamic had shifted.

Yesterday, Till had spent his time hovering, trying to catch Ivan failing. Today, he was actively trying to avoid him—which proved to be a mathematical impossibility in the narrow walkway behind the bar.

"Behind you," Ivan’s smooth voice would murmur, a low vibration against Till’s spine as Ivan slid past to grab a gallon of oat milk.

Every single time they crossed paths, it felt like high-voltage friction. Ivan didn't just move out of the way; he moved with Till, his movements perfectly synchronized to the chaotic rhythm of Till's panic. If Till reached for a cup, Ivan’s hand was already there, offering it to him. If Till needed a clean pitcher, Ivan had already rinsed one.

It was a flawless, terrifying dance, and Till was losing his mind.

During a brief two-minute lull, Till stood by the cash register, aggressively wiping down the counter just to give his hands something to do. He felt a sudden, heavy warmth press into his side.

Ivan had stepped up right next to him, reaching over Till's shoulder to restock the pastry sleeves. Because of the angle, Ivan’s chest was practically pressed against Till’s back, his arm completely framing Till's head.

Till froze, his breath hitching. He could smell the crisp, suffocating scent of rain and wet cedar radiating off Ivan’s skin, mixing with the bitter aroma of espresso.

"You're in my way," Till managed to choke out, his voice dropping to a sharp, defensive whisper.

Ivan didn't move. He slowly placed the pastry sleeves into the dispenser, his face close enough to Till's ear that his breath stirred the messy strands of Till’s gray hair.

"Am I?" Ivan murmured, his dark eyes sliding down to track the erratic, fast pulse jumping in Till’s throat. "You could always tell me to move, Till. But you haven't."

Till’s fingers gripped the microfiber cloth so hard his knuckles popped. He turned his head sharply to snap at him, but it was a mistake—Ivan hadn't pulled back. Their faces were suddenly inches apart, their breaths mingling in the humid air behind the counter.

Ivan’s gaze dropped to Till’s lips, heavy and lingering, before tracking back up to his teal eyes with a quiet, devastating intensity. There was no smirk on his face now. Just that raw, conflicted depth that made Till feel like he was standing on the edge of a cliff.

Ding.

The heavy glass door swung open, the cheerful chime breaking the heavy spell like a sudden gunshot.

"Move it, Luka, you're tracking mud all over the floorboards," a loud, boisterous voice boomed through the shop.

Hyuna marched in, a scuffed motorcycle helmet tucked under her arm and a leather jacket dripping with mist. Trailing right behind her was Luka, holding a stark white designer umbrella over his head inside the doorway, looking entirely horrified by the weather.

"The humidity out there is a literal crime against fashion, Hyuna," Luka sighed dramatically, shaking out his umbrella before leaning it carefully against a corner table. "I only agreed to walk with you because I thought Till would have the heater on."

Ivan smoothly stepped back, his expression instantly morphing back into that polite, unbothered mask before Till could even process the movement. The suffocating warmth vanished, leaving Till shivering in the sudden vacuum of cold morning air.

Ivan watched the newcomers with a quiet, analytical gaze. He knew Luka from Tuesday, but this woman—the one with the messy black hair and the chaotic, commanding energy—was still a wildcard to him.

"Welcome back, Luka," Ivan said smoothly, his voice completely calm as he glided toward the register. He turned his heavy-lidded eyes to Hyuna, giving her a polite, professional nod. "And welcome. Can I get you two started with something warm?"

"God, yes. Give me a quad shot of espresso, black. I’m gonna need my caffeine before my shift, thanks newbie" Hyuna groaned, tossing her heavy motorcycle helmet onto the counter with a loud, metallic thunk. She leaned her elbows on the counter, squinting past Ivan to look at Till, who was currently frozen by the pastry case, aggressively staring at a tray of blueberry muffins like they held the secrets to the universe.

Hyuna paused, her sharp eyes narrowing. "Whoa. Till. Why is your face the exact color of a vintage fire truck? Are you having a stroke?"

"I'm fine!" Till barked, his voice cracking spectacularly. He whipped around, nearly knocking over a stack of plastic lids in his panic. He aggressively grabbed a rag and began scrubbing a spot on the counter that was already perfectly clean. "The steam wand hissed in my face. It's hot back here."

Luka glided over, dropping into a booth near the counter and resting his chin in his hand, a knowing, cat-like grin spreading across his face as he looked at Till's frantic scrubbing. "Oh, darling, please. The steam wand doesn't give you bedroom eyes. You look like a wet cat that just got cornered."

"Luka, shut your mouth!" Till hissed, his cheeks burning a violent, traitorous pink.

Hyuna let out a loud, barking laugh, looking between Till’s frantic movements and Ivan’s serene, unbothered posture. Ivan didn't say a word, but the very corner of his mouth was twitched upward in a private, infuriating smirk. He carefully picked up Hyuna's motorcycle helmet, moving it to a shelf behind the counter to clear the space with an effortless air of chivalry.

"Right... the steam wand," Hyuna muttered, a dangerous, amused grin matching Luka's. She didn't know Ivan well yet, but she could smell the absolute chaos radiating off Till from a mile away. "Well, whatever it is, make sure you don't faint into the ice bin, Boss. Sua will kill you if she has to come back and handle the mid-day rush alone."

"I'm not going to faint!" Till growled, keeping his eyes trained strictly on the counter.

"If he does, I'll be sure to catch him," Ivan murmured softly, sliding the black coffee across the counter to Hyuna before starting on Luka’s usual delicate tea. His dark eyes flicked over to Till, holding his gaze for a fraction of a second. "I'm very good under pressure, remember?"

Hyuna took a long sip, letting out an appreciative hum. "Oh, I like this one. Till, definitely keep him past the trial shift. He knows how to wind you up perfectly."

"He's a menace," Luka added with a sigh, though his eyes were sparkling with pure entertainment.

The two of them migrated toward a corner booth, their voices fading into a low murmur, completely oblivious to the fact that they had just walked right through an emotional minefield.

Till stood paralyzed behind the espresso machine, his heart hammering a frantic, agonizing rhythm against his ribs. He looked down at his hands, watching them shake against the stainless steel counter.

He was trapped. Ivan wasn't just a part-time barista anymore; he was a slow, inevitable storm that was systematically dismantling every single piece of Till's sanctuary, and Till was starting to realize he didn't have a single piece of armor left to fight the weather.

The morning rush didn’t save him. If anything, the arrival of regular customers only forced Till into a state of hyper-vigilant, mechanical autopilot. He moved like a malfunctioning robot, steaming milk with aggressive precision, slamming portafilters into the group heads, and studiously keeping his gaze fixed exactly three inches above Ivan’s shoulders.

Ivan, infuriatingly, remained a ghost of perfect efficiency. He glided around Till’s frantic movements like water flowing around an angry rock, taking orders, handling the register, and occasionally handing Till a freshly wiped pitcher with a lingering touch that felt like an electric shock through the stainless steel.

By 11:00 AM, Hyuna and Luka had long since drifted out, and the mid-day lull finally crashed over the cafe like a heavy blanket. The silence that settled into the shop was thick, broken only by the low, ambient hum of the refrigerator and the steady drip of the rain outside.

Till gripped the edge of the sink, staring down at the swirling soapy water. His skin still felt hyper-sensitive, his throat tight. He needed to say something. He needed to establish boundaries, to draw a hard, uncrossable line in the sand before Ivan completely colonized his brain.

"Ivan."

Till’s voice was too quiet, muffled by the sound of the running faucet. He shut the tap off with a sharp jerk of his wrist and tried again, turning around to face the beast. "Ivan. Look at me."

Ivan was near the grinder, meticulously sweeping stray coffee grounds into a dustpan. At the sound of his name, he paused. He didn't just look up; he turned his entire body toward Till, setting the brush down with a deliberate, agonizing slowness. Those dark, heavy-lidded eyes locked onto Till’s face, entirely stripped of the polite barista mask he wore for customers.

"I'm looking," Ivan murmured.

Till swallowed hard, his throat dry despite the humidity. He crossed his arms over his chest, a desperate attempt to shield himself. "This... whatever the hell you're doing. It stops. Now."

Ivan tilted his head, a single strand of black hair falling across his forehead. "What am I doing, Till?"

"Don't play stupid!" Till snapped, his voice rising, raw and defensive. He pointed an accusing finger at Ivan’s chest. "You’re crowding me. You're hovering. You’re doing this... this weird, creepy mind game thing where you act like you own the place. And what you said earlier? In front of Hyuna and Luka? You're crossing a line."

Ivan didn't flinch. He didn't step back. Instead, he took a slow, measured step forward, closing the distance Till had tried so hard to maintain. The scent of rain and wet cedar instantly invaded Till’s space again, heavy and grounding.

"I was just offering to help," Ivan said softly. His voice lacked any trace of mockery; it was quiet, almost entirely earnest, which made it infinitely more dangerous. "You looked like you were drowning, Till. You always look like you're drowning when I'm near you."

"Because you're suffocating!" Till hissed, his back hitting the edge of the sink. He had nowhere left to retreat.

"Am I?" Ivan stopped right in front of him. He was taller, casting a shadow that seemed to swallow Till whole. He reached out, his long fingers hovering just inches away from Till’s arm, testing the boundary before slowly lowering his hand to rest on the counter, effectively pinning Till against the basin. "Or are you just terrified because, for the first time, someone is actually paying attention to you?"

Till’s breath hitched. "I don't need your attention."

"Liar," Ivan whispered.

The word was a soft, devastating blow. Ivan’s gaze dropped, tracking the furious, trembling breath that escaped Till’s parted lips. The tension in the narrow walkway rushed back with a vengeance, thick enough to choke on. The air felt charged, a live wire waiting for a spark. Till’s heart hammered so loudly against his ribs he was certain Ivan could hear it. He wanted to push Ivan away, to punch him, to scream—but his hands remained frozen, gripping his own elbows.

Ivan leaned in, just a fraction of an inch, his dark eyes searching Till's teal ones with an intensity that felt entirely too exposing. "If you really wanted me to stop, Till... you would have fired me already. You're the boss."

Till opened his mouth to retort, to find some vitriolic, cutting insult that would shatter Ivan's unbearable composure, but the words died in his throat. Because Ivan was right. Till could have kicked him out. He could have told Sua that Ivan wasn't working out.

But he hadn't.

Till managed to effectively exile himself. He counted oat milk cartons, verified espresso bean weights, and organized pastry boxes with the intensity of a man trying to defuse a bomb.

Every time he heard the faint sound of Ivan’s voice out front greeting a customer, Till’s stomach did a complicated, unwelcome flip. He was losing control of his own space, and worse, he was losing control of himself.

Before the silence could stretch into something irreversible, the bell above the door chimed again.

"I'm here! Sorry I'm late, the traffic on the bridge was atrocious," Sua announced, shaking out a sleek black umbrella before hanging it by the door. She paused, looking at Till, who was currently sitting on an upturned milk crate in the corner of the breakroom, staring intensely at a clipboard. "Why are you hiding in the dark? Did Ivan scare you off?"

"I am not hiding," Till snapped, jumping up so fast the clipboard rattled. "I’m working. Unlike some people."

Sua raised an eyebrow, entirely unfazed by his hostility. "Right. Well, I'm taking over the register. Go take your break, Till. You look like you’ve been run over by a truck."

When Till walked back out into the main cafe, Ivan was at the sink, washing down the steam wands with the same flawless, serene precision he had maintained all morning.

"Ivan," Sua called out, her voice crisp and managerial. "You're done with your floor training for today. Go ahead and clock out. Excellent job with the morning rush, by the way. The register balance is perfect."

"Thank you, Sua," Ivan said smoothly. He untied his apron, hanging it on the designated hook with practiced neatness. He grabbed his dark coat from the staff rack, sliding it over his broad shoulders.

Till stood frozen by the pastry display, desperately hoping he could blend in with the background. He just needed Ivan to leave. If Ivan left, Till could breathe. He could reassemble his shattered defenses.

Ivan walked toward the exit, but as he drew parallel to Till, he slowed his pace. He didn't stop completely, but he tilted his head, his dark, heavy-lidded eyes finding Till’s teal ones through the dim afternoon light of the cafe.

He didn't smirk. He didn't say a word. He simply offered a small, terrifyingly polite nod of farewell, his gaze lingering just long enough on Till’s mouth to make Till’s breath catch all over again.

Then, the bell chimed, and Ivan vanished into the gray, rainy afternoon.

The cool, damp air of the street hit Ivan’s face, but it did nothing to quiet the humming warmth beneath his skin. He pulled his collar up against the mist, stepping into the steady rhythm of the sidewalk.

He knew exactly what he was doing. He knew the precise, mathematical weight of his presence in that narrow walkway behind the bar. He had spent the last forty-eight hours calculating Till’s boundaries just to see how easily they fractured under a little heat.

When he had pinned Till against the sink earlier, feeling the frantic, jagged stutter of the older boy's pulse beneath his gaze, Ivan's own hands had been steady—but his mind had been a violent, beautiful mess. It was the same thrilling, terrifying sensation he had carried with him for years, a lingering intoxication he couldn't shake.

Ivan walked past the dripping awnings of the arts district, his mind drifting away from the quiet monotony of Anakt Grounds, pulling him backward through the fog of memory to the very first time he had managed to make Till look at him like that.

The tailored wool of Ivan’s school blazer had always felt like a second skin—stiff, expensive, and entirely restrictive. At seventeen, his life was a series of meticulously mapped-out trajectories dictated by a family that measured worth in academic achievement and social standing. He was a boy bred for high-society success, taught to keep his hands clean and his expressions entirely unreadable.

Then, he found the flyer.

It was a poorly photocopied, hand-cut scrap of neon green paper, left wedged between the pages of a music theory textbook in the academy’s library. It advertised a local underground showcase at The Hideout—a subterranean basement bar in the crumbling arts district across the river. It wasn’t the venue that caught Ivan’s eye; it was the messy, hand-drawn logo of a garage band, and the memory of a fierce, chronically stressed gray-haired boy he had seen arguing furiously with a music teacher about the cultural impact of late-70s punk rock.

Till wasn't a delinquent; he was a total punk music geek. He was the kind of guy who lived in oversized hoodies covered in safety pins, wore out his headphones listening to obscure vinyl pressings, and spent his lunch breaks aggressively analyzing bass lines and drafting frantic lyric sheets in the back of study hall. Ivan had told himself it was just curiosity. He told himself he wanted to see what a creature like Till did when he wasn't overthinking chord structures and glaring at anyone who didn't appreciate the raw, unpolished history of the genre.

He crossed the river that Friday night, stepping into a world he had no right belonging to.

The Hideout was a suffocating labyrinth of cheap soda, stale cigarette smoke from the patio, and intense, humid heat. It was cramped and dark, illuminated only by the erratic, blinding flash of cheap red and blue stage lights cutting through a heavy fog machine. Ivan stood near the back exit, his pristine leather shoes sticking slightly to the concrete floor, looking entirely out of place among the sea of local art students and indie music nerds.

Then, the feedback from a guitar amplifier shrieked through the house speakers, a sharp, violent sound that made the crowd surge forward, and Ivan’s breath stalled.

There, standing dead center under a bleeding crimson spotlight, was Till.

Away from the sterile classrooms of the academy district, Till looked entirely different. The skittish, hyper-focused music nerd from the library was gone, replaced by a raw, unrefined force of nature. He wore a frayed black tank top that exposed the sharp, pale lines of his collarbones. His messy gray hair was already damp with sweat, clinging to his forehead, and his eyes—usually buried in a notebook—were wide, wild, and blazing with a terrifying intensity. He had a battered electric guitar slung low over his hip, his hands gripping the neck with a practiced precision born from years of stubborn, obsessive devotion to his craft.

"This next one," Till barked into the microphone, his voice cutting through the ambient roar of the bar with a gravelly, breathless edge that made a tight knot form in Ivan's chest, "is called 'The Weather'."

The drummer slammed into a heavy, driving beat. The bass line vibrated straight through the concrete floorboards, thumping hard against the soles of Ivan’s shoes.

Then, Till struck the first chord.

It was a melody Ivan had heard Till absentmindedly humming under his breath just days before while sketching song structures in a tattered notebook. But hearing it muffled in a quiet study hall was nothing compared to the violent, beautiful assault of the live performance.

This was the golden era of Till's youth, two full years before the band would inevitably collapse under the weight of creative differences and financial ruin. This was before the harsh realities of adulthood would force Till to trade his musical dreams for the lease on a quiet, struggling café called Anakt Grounds. Up on that stage, Till wasn't just playing music; he was living it. His fingers moved with a frantic, desperate speed over the fretboard, executing flawless, complex punk progressions that spoke to his hours of meticulous practice. When he stepped up to the microphone, his voice was a weapon—raw, bleeding, and violently emotional, filled with an angsty passion too big for his teenage frame.

Ivan stood frozen, completely paralyzed as the crowd around him began to sway and cheer. He didn't care about the noise, the sticky floor, or the sweat-damp air. His entire universe had narrowed down to a single point under a red spotlight.

He watched the way Till’s throat moved as he hit the high notes, the vein in his neck straining. Till was entirely exposed up there, pouring out every single ounce of his internal chaos, his perfectionism, and his fragility for a room full of strangers who didn't even know his name.

He’s an exposed wire, Ivan thought, his own heart beginning to hammer a frantic, unfamiliar rhythm against his ribs. He's a thunderstorm.

Then came the bridge. Till stepped back from the microphone, tearing into a guitar solo that sounded like a scream, built on a heavy, beautifully structured melodic progression that only a true punk historian could compose. His eyes closed, his jaw clenching as he threw his entire weight into the instrument. The red light caught the sharp angle of his face, and for a split second, Till looked almost angelic amidst the grungy, chaotic filth of the basement bar.

Ivan felt something inside him snap.

It wasn't a gradual realization. It was a sudden, violent impact—a lightning strike that systematically dismantled every single piece of logic Ivan had ever been taught. He didn't just find the boy interesting anymore. He didn't just want to watch him from afar.

He wanted to drown in him. He wanted to be the one who caught the storm. In the middle of a filthy, loud underground gig bar, a seventeen-year-old Ivan fell entirely, helplessly, and irrevocably in love with the punk music geek under the lights.

As the final, screaming note of the bridge echoed through the speakers, Till aggressively opened his eyes, panting heavily as he stepped back up to the microphone for the final chorus. He whipped his head back, throwing his damp gray hair out of his eyes, and his gaze blindly swept across the crowded room.

For a fraction of a second, through the thick fog machine haze, Till’s fierce teal eyes locked directly onto Ivan.

Till’s fingers stuttered on the guitar strings for a microscopic beat, his chest heaving as his eyes widened in pure shock. He hadn't expected the rich, tailored boy from the academy honor society to be standing in the dark filth of his sanctuary.

Ivan didn't blink. He didn't hide. Instead, he just stood his ground in the shadows, his dark, heavy-lidded eyes fixing onto Till with a quiet, devastating intensity that carried a terrifying promise. A slow, genuine, and completely helpless smile pulled at the corner of Ivan's lips—a look of absolute, unconditional surrender.

I see you, Ivan’s gaze screamed across the room. And I'm never letting you go.

Till looked away sharply, his face instantly flushing a violent, traitorous pink under the stage lights as he forced himself to finish the song, his hands shaking against the guitar frets.

The cold rain of the present day hit Ivan’s face, pulling him sharply out of the memory.

He stood under the leaking green awning of a closed bookstore across the street from Anakt Grounds, hands deep in his coat pockets, watching the warm, golden glow of the cafe windows. Inside, he could just barely make out the shape of Till’s messy gray hair through the glass, hunched over the pastry case.

Ivan allowed himself a rare, private smile.

Five years had passed since that night at The Hideout. Five years of watching the fire in Till’s eyes dim under the crushing weight of bills, leases, and the suffocating reality of trying to survive. When Till had given up his music and poured his last remaining savings into opening this quiet cafe, Ivan had done what he always did: he calculated, he waited, and then he moved.

He hadn't applied for the barista job because he needed the money. He had applied because he couldn't stand the thought of Till drowning in the silence of his own life.

The rain on the bookstore awning picked up, a steady, rhythmic drumming that sounded entirely too much like the opening bars of Till’s old songs.

Ivan shifted his weight, his fingers brushing against a stiff piece of plastic deep inside his coat pocket. It was a card. Specifically, a high-limit corporate credit card linked to an account his family assumed he was using for post-graduate textbooks and networking dinners. They had no idea he was currently standing in the mud of the arts district, tracking the exact financial deficit of a failing indie cafe.

He pulled his hand out, his gaze still fixed on the warm glass across the street. He could see Till now, aggressively readjusting a stack of ceramic mugs on the top shelf of the espresso machine. Even from this distance, Till’s movements were jerky, radiating the specific, defensive anger that Ivan had spent the last two days intentionally provoking.

Ivan’s phone buzzed in his inner pocket. He didn't need to look at it to know it was a reminder from his father's secretary about a dinner he had already decided to skip. He turned the device on silent, stepped out from under the green awning, and let the cold afternoon mist swallow him as he walked toward the subway.

He had established the rhythm. Now, he just had to wait for Till to break it.

The cafe closed at ten, but at nearly midnight, the neon sign of Anakt Grounds was still buzzing a faint, pale blue in the dark street.

Till was slumped at the small desk in the back office, the glaring white light of a spreadsheet reflecting in his bloodshot eyes. His hands were wrapped around a mug of cold, bitter espresso that he had poured three hours ago.

He wasn't looking at the numbers anymore. He couldn't. Every time he tried to add up the cost of the dairy delivery, his mind kept sliding back to the narrow walkway behind the bar. To the weight of Ivan’s chest against his shoulder blades. To the low, vibrating precision of that single word: Liar.

"Dammit," Till muttered, slamming the ledger shut. The sound was loud in the empty building.

He rubbed his face with his hands, his skin still feeling strangely hot, as if the humidity from the morning hadn't left his clothes. He stood up, intending to lock the back door and finally walk home, when his foot caught on his canvas jacket, which had slipped off the back of his chair onto the floor.

As he picked it up, a small, crisp slip of paper drifted out of the right pocket, landing face-up on the scuffed linoleum.

Till froze.

It was a standard receipt from the Anakt Grounds register. On the front, it showed a transaction from 9:15 AM—a single black coffee, rung up under Ivan’s employee ID. But it was the back that made Till’s breath catch. Written in an elegant, sharp cursive that looked entirely too refined for a cheap thermal slip was a ten-digit phone number, followed by a single line:

You haven't told me to move yet.

Till’s knuckles turned white as he grabbed the paper. His initial instinct was a familiar, hot wave of fury. The nerve of this guy. The absolute, unadulterated arrogance. He marched toward the trash can by the door, his arm raised to hurl the crumpled slip into the bin.

He stopped three inches from the rim.

The silence of the cafe pressed in on him—the heavy, suffocating reality of five years of running on empty, of watching his music gear get sold piece by piece just to keep the lights on, of being entirely alone in a city that didn't care if he stayed afloat or went under.

Or are you just terrified because, for the first time, someone is actually paying attention to you?

Till let out a ragged, trembling breath. Slowly, his hand dropped. He didn't smooth out the paper, but he didn't throw it away either. He shoved it into the front pocket of his jeans, grabbed his keys, and killed the lights.

The door clicked locked, sealing the dark interior of Anakt Grounds behind him. Till stepped out into the biting midnight air, his collar turned up against the residual dampness of the street. The paper slip in his front pocket felt heavy, like an active charge pressing directly into his thigh. Every step he took toward the transit station felt like a slow, inevitable slide toward an edge he couldn't see.

He didn't check his phone. He didn't save the number. He just kept his hand shoved deep into his pocket, his thumb brushing over the rough edges of the crumpled receipt, silently daring himself to destroy it before morning.

Across the river, the sleek, glass-faced high-rises of the academy district stood in stark contrast to the crumbling brick of the arts side. Ivan sat on the edge of a minimalist leather sofa in an apartment that felt entirely too large, too quiet, and too clean.

The corporate card sat on the glass coffee table, resting next to a sleek tablet displaying a digital copy of Anakt Grounds’ public business registration.

Ivan’s phone rested face-up in his palm. It hadn't lit up once.

He didn't expect it to. Till was stubborn—stubborn enough to break his own fingers before admitting he wanted help, stubborn enough to starve before accepting a handout from someone who looked like they belonged on the other side of the river.

Ivan tilted his head back against the cushion, his gaze fixing on the dark ceiling. He didn't mind the silence. He had spent five years navigating the sterile, quiet expectations of his family, waiting for the right moment to pull the thread. The fact that Till had kept the note—and Ivan knew Till had kept it, because Till hadn't thrown a single thing away at the register before closing—was more than enough.

"Five years," Ivan murmured to the empty room, a low, faint sound that barely carried.

He closed his eyes, and instead of the spotless apartment, he could still smell the bitter espresso, the ozone of the rain, and the sharp, electric heat of Till’s skin when they had been pressed together behind the counter. The rhythm was set. Tomorrow, he will push just a fraction harder.

By the next afternoon, the unresolved tension from that midnight receipt had stretched Till’s nerves to a breaking point. Every time Ivan passed him a rag or took an order, Till's pocket burned with the weight of the hidden paper. He had spent the entire morning trying to find an excuse to confront the rich boy, but the presence of their friends transformed his private agony into a public spectacle.

The amber light inside Anakt Grounds felt heavy and insulated against the blackening sky outside. The 6:00 PM rush had finally cleared, leaving behind the comforting, metallic hum of the espresso machine and the steady, rhythmic drumming of the rain against the storefront glass.

Till stood by the pastry display, aggressively wiping down the glass with a microfiber cloth for the third time in ten minutes. His gray hair was sticking up in messy spikes from a long shift of steaming milk, and his chest felt tight. He was entirely tuned into the back corner booth, where the rest of his universe had apparently decided to hold a convention at his expense.

"I’m just saying," Luka’s airy voice drifted across the linoleum, dripping with theatrical amusement, "the sheer theatrics of it. The dramatic sighs. The violent slamming of the portafilter. It’s like watching a tragic opera starring a very disgruntled hedgehog."

"Oh, lay off him, Luka," Hyuna laughed, slouching back against the cushions with her feet propped up on the edge of the table. She looked completely spent from her city council protest, but she still had enough energy to grin widely. "Our little boss is just a perfectionist. He’s always been high-strung. Remember his high school band days? He used to pace the backstage area until he literally wore holes in his socks."

"Wait, really?" Mizi leaned forward, her bright pink hair catching the low ambient light. She had returned to the shop to wait for Sua’s shift to end, and her eyes were wide with pure, unadulterated delight. "Till used to pace? That is so cute!"

"It wasn't cute, it was terrifying," Sua chimed in from the register, her tone flat but her eyes gleaming with rare mischief. "He looked like he was plotting a homicide. If you touched his lyric notebook before a show, he’d hiss at you."

"I am standing right here!" Till barked, turning around and pointing his spray bottle at them defensively. His cheeks were flushed a sharp, angry pink. "Do none of you have homes? Do you not have lives? The shop is closed to sit-ins. Get out."

"Technically, we're off the clock, Boss," Sua replied smoothly, leaning her chin on her hand. "And Mizi brought strawberries. We're staying."

"You're all exhausting," Till grumbled, turning back to the pastry case to hide the heat rising to his face.

Behind the bar, Ivan was quietly cleaning the espresso group heads. He had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his movements fluid and entirely unbothered by the loud banter. He hadn't spoken a word during the entire teasing session, but Till could feel the weight of his dark, heavy-lidded eyes tracking every single line of tension in his shoulders. It was a silent, suffocating presence that Till had been trying to ignore all afternoon.

"Seriously though, Till," Hyuna called out, tossing a stray sugar packet across the room, hitting Till squarely in the shoulder. "You've been extra jumpy today. Did the rain ruin your mood, or are you still stressed about that old track you keep looping on the playlist?"

Till flinched, his grip tightening on the spray bottle. "It's just a good song, Hyuna. Drop it."

"It's an angsty song," Luka corrected, adjusting the camera lens in his lap with a sigh. "Very raw. Very loud. It lacks a certain... elegance. Who even writes a bridge with a time signature that chaotic? It sounds like someone desperately screaming into a void."

"It’s not screaming into a void," Till muttered through his teeth, his defensive walls immediately slamming up. His throat felt dry. That song—that specific, defunct indie track from five years ago—was the only piece of his youth he had left. He had written the guitar tabs in a dark, cramped bedroom when he felt like the world was entirely suffocating him. To hear Luka dismiss it as an elegant-lacking tantrum pricked at a very old, very raw nerve. "You don't know anything about it, Luka. It was meant to sound like that. It was supposed to be a fracture."

"A fracture?" Luka chuckled softly. "Darling, it just sounds like a teenager who needed a nap."

The booth erupted into light, affectionate laughter. Even Sua let out a small huff of amusement. They didn't mean anything by it—they knew Till was dramatic, knew he lived in his own head—but to Till, it felt like they were casually trampling over a graveyard of dreams he had forced himself to bury.

Then, a low, smooth voice cut through the laughter, entirely altering the barometric pressure in the room.

"It wasn't a tantrum," Ivan said softly.

The laughter in the corner booth died down instantly. Everyone turned to look at the new part-time barista, who was casually wiping down the stainless steel steam wand with a damp cloth. Ivan didn't look up at the booth. His focus remained entirely on his task, his expression perfectly composed, a gentle, unbothered mask.

Till froze, his heart skipping a violent beat as he stared at Ivan’s profile.

"The bridge isn't chaotic because it's messy," Ivan continued, his voice dropping into a lower, darker register that seemed to vibrate directly through the floorboards. He finally set the cloth down, turning his head slowly until his dark eyes locked straight onto Till’s stunned, teal ones. "The time signature shifts because it's mimicking a panic attack. It’s the sound of someone running out of air in a room full of people who aren't listening. It's a confession hidden in a scream."

The café went completely, utterly silent.

The only sound left was the heavy drumming of the rain against the glass. Hyuna’s grin slowly faded into a look of confusion. Luka blinked, his camera forgotten in his lap. Mizi looked between Ivan and Till with wide, startled eyes, sensing the sudden, high-voltage static that had just filled the air.

Till felt like he had been struck by lightning. The breath left his lungs in a sharp, invisible gasp.

Ivan shouldn't have known that. Nobody knew that. Till had never explained the theory behind the bridge to his old bandmates; he had never written it down in his lyrics notebook; he had never told a single living soul that the erratic, driving rhythm of the guitar solo was a literal, metronomy-mapped translation of his own panic attacks from his high school days. It was a secret he had taken to the grave of his music career.

Yet here was this rich, tailored stranger, standing behind a sticky espresso machine, casually dissecting the deepest, most agonizing corner of Till's soul like it was common knowledge.

"How..." Till’s voice was barely a whisper, a raw, defensive tremor escaping before he could stop it. He stepped away from the pastry case, his boots squeaking loudly against the linoleum. "How the hell do you know that?"

Ivan didn't blink. The corner of his mouth pulled up into that slow, infuriatingly calm smirk—but it didn't reach his eyes. His gaze remained heavy, intense, and deeply loaded with a terrifying promise.

"I just listen very carefully, Boss," Ivan murmured, his tone dripping with a polite, mocking deference that made Till's blood run scalding hot. "You'd be surprised what people give away when they think no one is paying attention."

"That's... actually a really deep analysis for a guy who's only been here a few weeks," Hyuna said slowly, breaking the silence as she looked at Ivan with a newfound, suspicious curiosity.

"Ivan’s a freak, I told you," Till snapped, his voice cracking slightly as his defense mechanisms fired on all cylinders. He desperately needed to break the suffocating eye contact before he completely spun out in front of his friends. He aggressively snatched his jacket from the hook behind the counter, his hands shaking. "Sua, close up the register. I’m going to the backroom to check the inventory shipment. Nobody disturb me." 

He didn't wait for a response. Till turned on his heel and practically fled, slamming the heavy wooden door of the backroom behind him, leaving the suffocating weight of Ivan's dark gaze echoing in the silence of the café.

But fleeing to the backroom didn’t make the air any easier to breathe. The small, cramped employee break room smelled of cardboard box lining and stale coffee grounds, offering none of the sanctuary Till desperately needed. He leaned heavily against the edge of the deep, stainless-steel utility sink, his knuckles gripping the metal rim until they turned white. His heart was hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against his ribs—shifting time signatures, just like the damn song.

How did he know? How could he possibly know?

The door clicked.

Till flinched, pulling himself upright as the door swung open, revealing Ivan’s tall, dark silhouette framed by the amber light of the main floor. The others were gone; the faint chime of the front door's bell lingering in the quiet house indicated Hyuna, Luka, Mizi, and Sua had finally left.

"I told you not to disturb me," Till snarled, backing up until his spine hit the edge of the sink again.

Ivan didn't answer right away. He stepped into the room, pulling the door closed behind him to shut out the rest of the world. He walked over to the sink under the pretense of washing his hands, turning the faucet on. The rushing water filled the small space, mirroring the downpour outside.

"You're shaking, Boss," Ivan murmured, not looking up as the warm water ran over his long, pale fingers.

"I'm fine," Till spat, his teeth literally chattering from the sheer volume of adrenaline spiking through his blood. "Just leave it alone, Ivan. Get your coat and get out. We're closed."

Ivan turned the faucet off. The sudden silence in the room was deafening. Without a word, he turned, bridging the gap between them in a single stride. Before Till could bring his hands up to defend himself, Ivan reached out and caught Till by the wrists, his grip firm, unyielding, and deceptively warm against Till’s freezing skin.

"Let go of me!" Till hissed, pulling back with everything he had, but Ivan’s fingers were like iron manacles pinning him to the spot.

"Look at me," Ivan demanded softly.

"Fuck you! Let go—"

For a breathless, agonizing ten seconds, they struggled in the dim light of the backroom, the friction of their skin and the harsh, ragged sound of Till’s breathing filling the space. Ivan didn't push further, didn't try to hurt him; he just held him there, anchoring Till's frantic panic to his own absolute stillness. Slowly, the sheer intensity of Ivan's proximity forced Till to stop fighting, his teal eyes locking onto Ivan's in a mixture of fury and absolute terror.

Satisfied that he finally had Till's undivided attention, Ivan’s gaze softened into something dark and unreadable. He slowly relaxed his fingers, letting go of Till's wrists at the sink, the skin where he had touched leaving a lingering, burning sensation.

Without another word, Ivan turned on his heel, grabbed his heavy black coat from the employee rack, and walked out the back exit into the storm.

Till stood frozen by the sink for three seconds, his chest heaving, before a raw wave of furious indignation washed over him. He wasn't going to let this freak have the last word. He wasn't going to let Ivan walk out into the night after completely dismantling his life.

Snatched by a sudden, reckless impulse, Till threw his hood up, shoved open the back exit door, and stormed out into the dark.

Ivan stepped out into the alley, the collar of his black coat already turned up against the deluge. The rain wasn't a drizzle anymore; it was a torrential, blinding wall of water that slammed into the asphalt, turning the gutters into rushing rivers.

Till marched out right behind him, aggressively pulling his hood over his gray hair. He didn’t look at Ivan. He was practically vibrating with a frantic, desperate need to escape the suffocating weight of the silence that had settled between them after Ivan let go of his wrists at the sink.

"Lock the back door, Ivan," Till barked over the roar of the downpour, his voice tight, his knuckles white as he jammed his hands into his pockets. "I'm heading to the transit station. Don't be late tomorrow."

He didn't wait for an answer. Till spun on his heel, his heavy boots splashing violently through a deep puddle as he took three blind steps out into the open alley, letting the freezing rain immediately drench his clothes.

"Till."

Ivan’s voice didn't carry across the alley—it cut right through it.

Till stopped. He didn't want to turn around, but his body betrayed him, his shoulders shifting until he was looking back through the sheet of falling water.

Ivan hadn't moved from the shelter of the café's rusted awning. He stood perfectly still, his hands resting casually in his coat pockets. The dark, heavy-lidded eyes were fixed entirely on Till, tracking the way the water ran down the pale angles of Till's face, soaking through the frayed edges of his collar. He looked entirely unbothered by the cold, yet his expression was devoid of the teasing smirk he’d worn all week. It was stripped bare, heavy with a quiet, terrifying patience.

"Go home, Ivan," Till yelled, the rain stinging his eyes, his breath hitching as a sudden shiver wrecked his chest. "The joke's over. Just go."

"It's not a joke," Ivan said softly, stepping out from beneath the awning.

He didn't rush. He walked out into the downpour with a fluid, terrifying certainty, his black hair instantly flattening against his forehead, the expensive fabric of his coat absorbing the dark water. He closed the distance between them until he was standing less than a foot away, towering over Till, completely blocking out the dim light of the streetlamp at the end of the alley.

"What do you want from me?!" Till finally snapped, the dam breaking. He shoved his hands against Ivan’s chest, trying to push the massive shadow away, but Ivan didn't even budge. Till’s chest heavied, his teal eyes wild, panicked, and entirely exposed under the dark sky. "You walk into my shop, you hum my songs, you look at me like you fucking know me! You're a rich boy from the academy district! You don't belong here! You don't belong in my life!"

"I heard you play 'The Weather' five years ago," Ivan murmured, his voice incredibly low, yet it vibrated straight through the static of the storm. "At The Hideout. In the basement."

Till’s entire universe ground to a screaming halt. His hands froze against the damp wool of Ivan’s coat. His jaw went slack, his mind violently ripping backward to a smoky, red-lit basement, a stuttered guitar chord, and a pair of dark eyes staring at him from the shadows of a mosh pit.

"You..." Till whispered, his voice cracking, completely defenseless. "That was... you?"

"I've been looking at you for five years, Till," Ivan confessed. There was no polite mask left. His voice was raw, heavy, and dripping with an obsessive, unconditional devotion that had been rotting under his skin since he was seventeen. He reached up, his long, pale fingers wrapping firmly around the nape of Till’s neck, his thumb pressing hard against the racing pulse at his jaw. "You think I want a job? You think I care about this city? I don't care about anything. Just you. It's always been you. I didn't walk into your greenhouse by mistake—I tracked the storm."

Till couldn't breathe. The sheer, suffocating weight of Ivan’s gaze was worse than the drowning rain. "You're crazy," Till choked out, his lips trembling from the cold, or the panic, or the sudden, terrifying realization that he didn't want to run away. "You're out of your fucking mind—"

"Then break me," Ivan whispered.

Ivan didn't wait for permission. He closed the remaining inches with a violent, predatory hunger, slamming his mouth down onto Till's.

The impact was a collision of teeth and freezing rain. It wasn't gentle; it was an aggressive, desperate assault that had been building for half a decade. Ivan’s hands tangled fiercely into Till’s wet gray hair, pulling his head back, forcing Till’s mouth open as he drank him in like a dying man.

Till let out a sharp, strangled gasp against Ivan’s lips, his hands instinctively coming up to tear at Ivan’s shoulders to push him off—but the moment his fingers gripped the damp fabric, his wires short-circuited.

The defensive anger mutated instantly into a wild, unadulterated desperation. Till fought back. He hooked his arm around Ivan’s neck, pulling him down harder, matching Ivan’s aggression with a frantic, breathless fury of his own. He bit down on Ivan's lower lip, tasting the metallic hint of blood and freezing rain, his entire body catching fire despite the storm.

Ivan let out a low, rough growl into Till's throat, his grip tightening until it was nearly bruising. He drove Till backward, his heavy boots skidding on the wet asphalt until Till’s back slammed hard against the cold brick wall of the café alley. The impact knocked the wind out of Till's lungs, but Ivan didn't let him breathe. He pressed his entire weight against Till, pinning him to the bricks, his mouth shifting over Till's with a terrifying, suffocating intensity.

The rain poured over them, gluing their clothes to their skin, but neither of them cared. The alleyway was dead, loud with the roar of the water, completely isolated from the rest of the world.

Till’s fingers dug into the back of Ivan’s neck, his head spinning out completely. He was drowning. He had spent years building Anakt Grounds as an armor to keep the world away, but Ivan had just pinned him to his own walls and ripped the armor off with his bare teeth. It was dangerous, and it was the most alive Till had felt since his band broke up.

Ivan pulled back just a fraction of an inch, his lips wet and swollen, his breath coming in ragged, white plumes in the cold air. His dark, heavy-lidded eyes were wide, wild, and completely consumed by the gray-haired boy pinning him back.

"Tell me to go," Ivan panted, his forehead resting against Till's, his fingers still tightly tangled in Till’s wet hair. "Fire me, Till. Tell me to leave, and I’ll walk out of the alley right now."

Till stared up at him, his teal eyes blazing through the dark, his chest heaving violently as the rain washed the blood from his lip. He looked at the apex predator he had willingly let into his sanctuary, the wolf that had been waiting in the rain for five years just for a chance to bite.

When Till was finally able to shove him away, the space between them felt thin and charged, the freezing rain instantly rushing in to fill the gap. Till’s breath hitched, a ragged white plume vanishing into the dark alley. He looked completely wrecked—hair plastered to his forehead, teal eyes wide and dark with a dangerous mix of adrenaline and hatred—but he didn't run.

"Get the hell away from me," Till rasped, his voice raw. He wiped the back of his sleeve aggressively across his mouth.

Ivan didn't move. He stood perfectly still in the downpour, his hands out of his pockets now, dangling loosely at his sides. The polite, mocking mask of the "perfect barista" hadn't returned. He just watched Till with that terrifying, unblinking focus, his chest rising and falling in a heavy, quiet rhythm. He looked entirely content, like a man who had successfully walked into a burning building and decided he liked the heat.

"Tomorrow," Till snarled, pointing a trembling, wet finger at Ivan’s chest. "Five a.m. If the espresso machine isn't calibrated by the time the open sign turns on, you're done. Do you hear me? You're fucking done."

"Five a.m.," Ivan repeated softly. The corners of his lips twitched upward into a small, devastatingly calm smile that made Till’s stomach do a violent flip. "I'll be early, Boss."

Till let out a harsh, strangled sound of frustration, turned on his heel, and violently marched out of the alley toward the transit station. He didn't look back. He kept his head down, his boots splashing blindly through the rising puddles, his hands jammed so deep into his pockets his nails bit into his palms. His skin was freezing, but his veins felt like they were pumping liquid fire.

Behind him, Ivan remained standing under the rusted awning of the back exit. He watched Till's silhouette disappear into the curtain of grey rain, his thumb slowly rising to touch his own lower lip, tracing the ghost of Till's teeth.

The next morning, the storm had passed, leaving behind a crisp, biting fog that clung to the neon sign of Anakt Grounds.

At exactly 4:52 a.m., Till pulled up the heavy metal security grate. His entire body ached from a sleepless night spent staring at his bedroom ceiling, the melody of "The Weather" and the taste of rain looping in his head like a taunt. He unlocked the front glass door, his hand shaking slightly as the key turned in the lock.

He was operating on less than three hours of sleep and a dangerous amount of caffeine. He slammed the pastry trays into the display case, his mind braced for impact. He had told the freak 5:00 AM. He had set the trap, fully intending to fire him the split second he walked through the door at 5:01 AM.

But 5:00 AM came and went. The walkway behind the bar remained entirely, agonizingly empty.

By 6:55 AM, the coffee was brewing, the grinders were dialed in, and there was still no sign of black hair or the scent of cedar. By 7:15 AM, the first regular—an old man who lived in the apartments above the bakery—came in for a drip coffee. Ivan wasn't there.

By 7:45 AM, the morning rush was beginning to trickle in, their wet umbrellas dripping all over the floorboards Till had spent an hour mopping. Till handled the register and the bar alone, his movements growing increasingly frantic, his eyes constantly darting to the glass door every time the chime rang.

"Looking for your shadow?" Sua asked, slipping behind the counter with a fresh box of napkins. She had her hair tied up, her eyes scanning the small line forming near the door. "Ivan’s late. That's a first. He’s usually twenty minutes early just to clean the grinders."

"He probably quit," Till said, his voice coming out sharper than he intended as he slammed a portafilter into the group head. "Good. Saved me the trouble of kicking him out."

"Did you say something to him yesterday?" Sua asked, her sharp eyes narrowing as she watched Till aggressively steam a pitcher of oat milk. "Because if you drove off the only competent part-timer we’ve had in six months because of your temper, Till, I’m going to make you do the deep-clean on the grease trap."

"I didn't say anything!" Till lied, his cheeks instantly flaring a traitorous, violent pink. "He's just unreliable. Like every other rich kid from across the river."

But as the clock ticked past 8:30 AM and the rush began to clear, the anger in Till’s chest started to curdle into something cold and heavy. The narrow walkway didn't feel spacious anymore; it felt hollow. There was no crisp scent of cedar mixing with the espresso. Nobody was stepping in to hand him a clean towel before he even realized he needed one.

He had wanted his sanctuary back. He had wanted the hovering to stop. But now that the air was clear, it just felt... empty. Like the basement bars after the amplifiers were turned off.

The bell above the door chimed.

Till didn't look up immediately, fixing his eyes on the drip tray as he wiped it down. "Welcome to Anakt, we'll be right with—"

"Till."

The voice wasn't smooth this time. It was breathless, slightly rough, and accompanied by the heavy, rhythmic dripping of water onto the floor mat.

Till whipped his head around.

Ivan was standing in the doorway. His expensive wool coat was completely soaked, clinging to his shoulders, and his dark hair was plastered to his forehead, water running down the sharp line of his jaw. He didn't have an umbrella. He looked like he had just run through a waterfall.

But it wasn't the rain that made Till’s breath hitch. It was what Ivan was holding against his chest, wrapped tightly in a thick, black plastic heavy-duty garbage bag to keep the moisture out.

Ivan took three long, deliberate steps into the cafe, entirely ignoring Sua, who was watching from the register with wide eyes. He stopped at the edge of the counter, his dark, heavy-lidded eyes locking onto Till’s teal ones with an intensity that made the entire room disappear.

With a slow, careful movement, as if he were handling something holy, Ivan set the heavy, plastic-wrapped bundle onto the counter. The shape was unmistakable.

"What is that?" Till whispered, his voice cracking slightly as he stepped forward, his fingers gripping the edge of the espresso machine.

Ivan didn't answer with words. He reached out, his long, damp fingers pulling back the layers of plastic.

The dark, polished wood of a vintage 1978 Fender Precision Bass gleamed under the warm cafe lights. It was scuffed near the bridge, a familiar sticker of a local punk band from five years ago still half-peeled near the volume knob.

Till felt the floor drop out from beneath his feet.

It was his bass. The one he had sold to a pawn shop three months ago to pay the back rent on the cafe lease. The one he had sworn he’d never look at again because the memory of his failed dreams hurt too much.

"The shop across the river didn't want to sell it back," Ivan murmured, his voice low, cutting through the hum of the refrigerator. He took a step closer, his shadow falling over Till once again, bringing the suffocating, beautiful scent of wet cedar and raw rain with him. He reached across the counter, his thumb gently brushing the back of Till’s trembling hand. "But I told them I wasn't leaving without it."

Till stared at the instrument, then up at Ivan’s soaked, unreadable face. His heart was hammering so violently against his ribs it felt like a physical pain. "Why?" he choked out, his throat tight, his vision blurring slightly at the edges. "Why the hell would you do this?"

Ivan’s heavy-lidded eyes dropped to Till’s lips, lingering there for a long, devastating second before pulling back up to meet his gaze. The polite barista mask was completely gone, replaced by the same terrifying, unconditional surrender from the floor of the underground bar five years ago.

"I know you don't need my attention, Till," Ivan whispered, his thumb smoothing over Till’s knuckles, warm and unyielding against the cold stainless steel. "But you need this. And I told you... I’m never letting the storm go out."

The silence that followed Ivan’s words didn't just fill the cafe; it suffocated it.

Across the counter, Sua stopped mid-motion, a stack of paper napkins hovering inches above the dispenser. Her gaze darted from the dripping, expensive wool coat of the part-timer to the violent, trembling posture of her boss. She was smart enough to know when the air in a room had turned into pure kerosene, and right now, Ivan had just struck a match.

Till couldn't look away from the bass. The scuffed wood, the peeling adhesive of the sticker—it was a ghost he had buried, exhumed and placed directly between them on the countertop.

"Take it back," Till whispered. His voice was too quiet, a low, dangerous vibration that usually preceded a total meltdown.

"No," Ivan replied smoothly. He didn't drop his gaze, nor did he remove his hand from Till's knuckles. The water from his dark hair dripped onto the stainless steel counter, tap, tap, tap, marking the seconds.

"I said take it back!" Till roared, violently ripping his hand away from Ivan’s touch. He slammed his palms onto the counter, leaning over it until he was inches from Ivan's face. The flush from earlier had gone entirely white, leaving his teal eyes looking massive, wild, and dangerously close to tears he would rather die than shed. "Who the hell do you think you are? You think you can just buy my life back for me? You think a piece of wood changes anything?"

"It changes the fact that you haven't written a line of lyric since you pawned it," Ivan said. His tone wasn't angry; it was clinical, entirely devoid of the teasing lilt he used in front of the others. He reached out, his damp hand anchoring firmly onto the edge of the plastic-wrapped case. "You want to punish me for being late, Till? Fine. Fire me. Throw the coffee in my face. But the bass stays. It belongs to the person who wrote the fracture, not some predatory collector in the upper district."

"Hey," Sua cut in, her voice sharp as she stepped between them, her eyes darting toward the glass door where a pair of college students were currently looking in, hesitating at the threshold. "If you two are going to have a domestic dispute over asset management, do it in the back. We have customers."

Till didn't look at her. He couldn't breathe. The weight of Ivan’s obsession was a physical force, pressing him back against the espresso machine until the metal dials bit into his lower back.

"Sua, watch the register," Till managed to choke out, his knuckles turning skeletal as he grabbed the neck of the Fender bass. He didn't look at Ivan as he hauled the heavy instrument off the counter. "Ivan. In the back. Now."

The wooden door of the backroom slammed shut, cutting off the low hum of the cafe filter and the chime of the front door bell.

Till threw the bass onto the small employee sofa, the old springs groaning under the weight. He turned around, his chest heaving under his apron, his teeth literally chattering from a combination of adrenaline and the sheer absurdity of the situation.

"You ran across the river," Till stated, the realization finally settling into his brain. He looked at Ivan’s soaked clothes—the way the heavy fabric of his designer trousers was dark with river-mist and mud at the cuffs. "The bridge district doesn't even open its gates to pedestrian transit until six a.m. You walked it."

"The trains were delayed because of the storm damage," Ivan said simply, peeling off his drenched coat and hanging it over the utility sink. Beneath it, his white button-down shirt was damp, clinging to the broad lines of his shoulders. He looked entirely unbothered by the fact that he had likely contracted hypothermia just to retrieve a piece of musical gear.

"You're a psycho," Till breathed, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes until he saw stars. "You're a literal, actual psycho. Why are you doing this to me? I was fine. I had a budget. I had a plan."

"Your plan was slow suicide, Till," Ivan said.

The bluntness of the words made Till drop his hands, his eyes widening.

Ivan took a step forward, the small distance of the breakroom dissolving instantly. He didn't try to grab Till’s wrists this time; he just stood there, towering, smelling of rain and the expensive leather of the pawn shop's interior.

"You think you’re hiding behind this counter," Ivan continued, his voice dropping into that dark, rhythmic register that made Till's skin prickle. "You think if you steam enough milk and wipe enough tables, people will forget what you sounded like when you were loud. But every time that track plays on the house loop, you look like you're drowning. I didn't spend five years waiting for you to surface just to watch you go under in a coffee shop."

"I don't want to be loud anymore!" Till yelled, his voice cracking, the raw truth ripping out of his throat before he could stop it. He grabbed the front of Ivan’s damp shirt, his fingers bunching the expensive cotton into tight, angry fists. "It hurts, Ivan! It fucking hurts to care about it! When the band split, when the money ran out... I had nothing. This shop is the only thing keeping me from jumping into that damn river you just walked across!"

Ivan didn't flinch at the grip on his shirt. He looked down at Till's white knuckles, then up into the fierce, agonizing beautiful mess of Till’s face. Slowly, carefully, Ivan raised his hands, his large palms coming to rest against the sides of Till’s neck, his thumbs catching the tears that had finally slipped past Till's defenses.

"Then don't care about the music," Ivan whispered, his forehead dropping until it rested against Till’s, their breaths mingling in the cramped, warm space. "Care about me."

Till let out a small, broken sound—half a laugh, half a sob—his forehead grinding against Ivan’s as he tried to find purchase in a world that had suddenly gone completely off its axis.

"I hate you," Till muttered into the space between their lips. "I legally, explicitly hate you."

"I know," Ivan murmured, the corner of his mouth twitching into that small, devastating smile. "But you're still holding onto my shirt."

Outside, the rain began to start up again, a low, familiar prelude against the brick walls, but inside the backroom, the time signature had finally shifted.

The heat of Ivan’s skin was a direct contradiction to the damp chill clinging to his clothes. Till’s fingers remained knotted in the fabric of Ivan’s shirt, his knuckles aching from the sheer force of his grip. He wanted to push him away. He wanted to haul off and punch that perfectly calm, aristocratic face until the smugness fractured.

Instead, he just leaned his forehead harder against Ivan’s, his breath coming in ragged, uneven hitches.

"You don't get to do this," Till growled, though the venom was entirely gone, replaced by a hollow, bleeding exhaustion. "You don't get to show up out of nowhere and play the savior. I didn't ask for you."

"I’m not a savior, Till," Ivan murmured. His thumbs continued their slow, deliberate track along Till’s jawline, his pulse drumming frantically beneath Ivan's touch. "I’m selfish. I told you. If the cafe burns down tomorrow, I won't shed a tear. If your friends never come back through that door, I wouldn't care. I brought that bass back because I want to hear the sound you make when you play it. I want it for myself."

"You're sick," Till whispered, his eyes fluttering shut as the sheer weight of Ivan’s proximity threatened to pull him under again.

"Probably," Ivan admitted without a shred of shame.

Slowly, the tension in Till's fingers began to give way. His grip on Ivan’s shirt loosened, his hands sliding down to rest uselessly against Ivan’s chest. The fabric beneath his palms was warm, the steady, unbothered thud of Ivan’s heartbeat acting as a terrifyingly solid anchor in the middle of Till's internal chaos.

For months, Till had felt like a ghost haunting his own life, moving through the motions of inventory, payroll, and maintenance. But right here, pinned between the utility sink and a boy who had walked across a river in a rainstorm for him, he felt painfully, agonizingly real.

"Till?"

Sua’s voice cut through the heavy silence of the breakroom, accompanied by two sharp knocks on the wooden door. "The morning rush is backing up. I need change for a fifty, and the oat milk is running low."

Till flinched, reality slamming back into him like a bucket of ice water. He pushed himself back, breaking the contact entirely. Ivan let his hands drop smoothly, though his dark eyes never left Till's face, tracking the sudden defensive posture, the way Till immediately wiped his face with the back of his sleeve and adjusted his stained apron.

"I'll be right out!" Till called back, his voice remarkably steady despite the storm raging in his chest.

He didn't look at Ivan. He couldn't. Instead, he marched over to the small sofa, grabbed the heavy, plastic-wrapped bass, and shoved it deep into the narrow gap between the supply locker and the wall—hiding it away from sight, if not from his mind.

"Get changed into a dry shirt," Till snapped over his shoulder as he reached for the doorknob. His voice had returned to its usual defensive, prickly bite, but his cheeks were still dangerously flushed. "There's a spare uniform in the locker. If I see a single drop of river water on the front counter, I'm deducting it from your pay."

"Yes, Boss," Ivan replied.

The tone was polite, mocking, and entirely compliant. When Till finally risked a glance back, Ivan was already pulling a dry, black Anakt Grounds t-shirt from the locker, the corner of his mouth tucked into that faint, knowing smirk.

Till let out a harsh breath, shoved the door open, and stepped back into the bright, noisy reality of the cafe.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of steam, clinking ceramic, and the mundane demands of a city waking up. To anyone looking from the outside, nothing had changed. Till aggressively banged the portafilter against the knock-box, Sua rang up transactions with mechanical efficiency, and Ivan moved through the bar like a shadow, handling the milk pitchers and the syrup bottles with a fluid, infuriating grace.

But everything had changed.

Every time Ivan passed behind Till in the narrow workspace, the hair on the back of Till’s neck stood on end. Every time their hands brushed over a shared towel or a clean mug, an electric charge shot straight up Till’s arm.

By 2:00 PM, the fog outside had cleared, replaced by a pale, watery sunlight that cut through the front windows of Anakt Grounds. The shop was empty save for a lone student typing away in the corner.

Sua was in the back taking her lunch break, leaving Till alone at the espresso machine, wiping down the steam wand for what felt like the hundredth time.

Ivan walked up to the counter, carrying a fresh tray of clean demitasse cups. Instead of putting them away, he set the tray down and leaned against the counter, his dark, heavy-lidded eyes fixing on Till’s profile.

"You haven't looked at it yet," Ivan said softly.

Till didn't stop wiping the metal wand. "I'm working."

"The shop is empty, Till."

"I have things to do."

Ivan reached out, his long fingers gently catching the edge of the microfiber cloth Till was holding, stopping his repetitive movements. "The neck isn't warped," Ivan murmured, his voice dropping into that private, low register meant only for Till. "I made the shopkeeper check the truss rod before I took it. The strings are old, but the pickups are intact."

Till stared at the cloth trapped beneath Ivan’s fingers. His throat felt dry. "Why did you care about the time signature?" he asked suddenly, the question slipping out before his filters could stop it. He finally looked up, his teal eyes searching Ivan’s face with a raw, desperate curiosity. "Five years ago. In the basement. Everyone else was drunk or screaming. Why were you paying attention to the bridge?"

Ivan’s expression softened, the smirk vanishing entirely, leaving behind a quiet, terrifying sincerity.

"Because I was suffocating too," Ivan said, his gaze locking onto Till's with absolute, unyielding intensity. "The upper district... my family... it's a room full of people who aren't listening. I spent seventeen years looking for a door. And then I walked down into that basement, and I heard you screaming."

Ivan leaned an inch closer, his thumb brushing the edge of the counter.

"You weren't just making noise, Till. You were building an exit. I've been following that exit ever since."

Till’s chest tightened, a strange, breathless sensation blooming behind his ribs. For five years, he had thought of his music as a failure—a embarrassing, loud tantrum that had left him broke and broken. But to Ivan, it was a map. A lifeline.

Before Till could formulate a reply, the bell above the front door chimed loudly, shattering the quiet. Hyuna burst into the shop, her leather jacket dripping with a sudden afternoon shower, her loud, booming laughter instantly filling the space.

"Tell me you guys have left-over cinnamon rolls!" she yelled, marching toward the counter. "The city council meeting ran three hours long and I am ready to bite someone's head off!"

Till instantly pulled his hand back, his face exploding into a bright crimson as he turned toward the pastry case. "We... we have two left, Hyuna. I'll heat them up."

"Perfect!" Hyuna crashed onto a stool, completely oblivious to the high-voltage static she had just interrupted. She looked at Ivan, who had already smoothly transitioned back into his polite barista persona, picking up the tray of cups. "Hey, Ivan. You look dry today. No running through waterfalls this afternoon?"

"Not yet," Ivan replied smoothly, offering her a flawless, charming smile. "But the day is still young."

Till slammed the pastry tongs against the tray, silently cursing Ivan, the cafe, and the entire universe as he shoved the rolls into the oven. But as he looked down at his own hands, he realized they weren't shaking anymore. The frantic, erratic rhythm in his chest had finally settled into something steady, driving, and entirely alive.

Hyuna tore into the warm cinnamon roll with the lawless energy of a politician who had just survived a three-hour filibuster. "I swear to god, if old man Henderson brings up the zoning permits for the arts district one more time, I’m going to personally spray-paint his pristine sedan," she muttered around a mouthful of icing.

"Don't do that, Hyuna. You're trying to get elected, not arrested," Till grumbled, leaning his elbows on the back-bar counter, his eyes fixed firmly on the espresso machine's pressure gauge to avoid looking anywhere near Ivan.

"Pfft. A little street cred never hurt a campaign," Hyuna scoffed. She paused, her sharp eyes suddenly tracking the faint trail of water droplets leading from the front door directly behind the bar, terminating right where Ivan was currently stacking saucers. She looked up, her gaze bouncing between Till’s lingering flush and Ivan’s damp hair. "Wait a minute. Ivan, did you actually walk across the river this morning? Sua texted me earlier saying you were late because you were playing a high-stakes game of frogger on the transit bridge."

Ivan didn't miss a beat. He lowered a stack of ceramic saucers onto the shelf with a soft, perfectly controlled clink. "The transit bridge was closed to vehicles, yes. But the pedestrian walkway offers an excellent view of the gray skyline. It was quite therapeutic."

"You're insane," Hyuna declared, pointing her fork at him. "That walkway is practically a wind tunnel during a storm. You upper-district kids have the weirdest ideas of a morning stroll."

"It wasn't a stroll," Till muttered under his breath, the words slipping out before he could catch them.

Hyuna’s eyebrows shot up. "Oh? Then what was it?"

Till froze, his fingers tightening around the handle of a steam pitcher. He could feel Ivan’s gaze immediately locking onto the side of his face—heavy, expectant, and entirely thrilled by the trap Till had just walked into.

"It was a disciplinary matter," Ivan supplied smoothly, saving Till from his own stuttering silence. He stepped up beside Till, his shoulder brushing against Till’s jacket with a casual, devastating friction that made Till’s stomach violently drop. "The Boss has very strict standards for opening shifts. I had to ensure I arrived with the necessary... materials to keep my employment."

"Right. Materials," Hyuna said slowly, her eyes narrowing as she looked at the two of them. She wasn't stupid. She had known Till since they were teenagers sharing cheap cigarettes in a garage, and she had never seen him this wound up by a part-timer. There was a specific brand of high-voltage static humming between the two boys that was completely different from Till’s usual defensive grumpiness. It felt heavy. It felt old.

Before she could dig any deeper, her phone began to blare a loud, obnoxious punk ringtone from her pocket. She groaned, pulling it out and looking at the caller ID. "Duty calls. The campaign manager found out about the spray-paint joke." She crammed the last bite of the roll into her mouth, grabbed her wet jacket, and slid off the stool. "Till, don't kill the new guy. Good baristas are hard to find. Ivan, keep surviving."

With a dramatic wave, she burst back out into the pale afternoon light, the cafe door chime ringing out a cheerful ding that felt entirely unearned in the wake of her departure.

The silence returned, thick and suffocating.

Sua was still in the backroom. The lone student in the corner had their noise-canceling headphones securely over their ears. It was just the two of them, the pale sunlight cutting across the linoleum, exposing every dust mote and every shared breath.

"You're an idiot," Till said to the espresso machine.

"You've told me that three times today, Boss," Ivan’s voice was a low, velvet purr right next to his ear. Ivan had leaned in, his hands resting on the edge of the counter, effectively pinning Till against the back bar without ever actually touching him. "Are you going to expand your vocabulary, or should we go back to the way we communicated in the alley?"

Till whipped his head around, his eyes blazing a fierce, defensive teal. "Don't tempt me. I will literally fire you right now. I don't care if Sua makes me clean the grease trap for a month."

"You won't fire me," Ivan murmured. His eyes dropped to Till's lips, tracking the tiny, faint mark where Till had bitten him the night before—a small, dark seal of ownership that neither of them had mentioned. "Because if you fire me, I'll just come back as a customer. I'll sit in that corner booth every day from five a.m. until closing. I'll buy one black coffee, and I will watch you loop that track until you finally remember how to play the bridge."

"I know how to play the bridge," Till snapped, his voice dropping into a fierce, ragged whisper. His hands were shaking again, but this time, it wasn't from panic. It was from the terrifyingly intoxicating realization that Ivan wasn't going to let him go. The wolf wasn't just waiting in the rain anymore; it was inside the house.

"Prove it," Ivan whispered. He reached out, his long, damp fingers catching the tie of Till's apron, pulling just enough to force Till to step an inch closer, bridging the gap between the upper district and the gutter. "Tonight. After the open sign turns off. Show me you're still in there, Till."

Till stared at him, his chest heaving, his mind violently reconstructing the dark, polished wood of the Fender bass hidden in the backroom. The guitar strings were old. The wood was scuffed. But the fracture was still there, humming under his skin, waiting for a time signature chaotic enough to let him breathe.

"Five-thirty," Till conditionalized, his voice raw, his fingers coming up to violently rip Ivan's hand away from his apron tie. He didn't push him away, though. He kept his grip tight around Ivan’s wrist, his thumb pressing hard into the steady, unbothered pulse. "Sua leaves at five. If you're one second late setting up the closing locks, I'm smashing that bass over your head."

Ivan’s smile this time wasn't a smirk. It was wide, sharp, and genuinely beautiful—the look of a man who had successfully tracked the storm to its center and decided to let the lightning strike him.

"I'll be early, Boss," Ivan said.

The clock above the pastry case clicked to 5:00 PM.

With mechanical precision, Sua threw her apron into the canvas laundry bin, grabbed her keys, and gave Till a long, evaluating look. She didn’t say anything about the bass poking out from behind the supply locker, or the fact that Ivan had spent the last hour cleaning the same three stainless steel syrup pumps until they practically reflected the fluorescent lights.

"I'm out," Sua said, her voice dropping down to its usual flat, unbothered drone. "Don't forget to lock the deadbolt on the front door."

"Yeah, yeah. Get out of here, Sua," Till grumbled, waving a hand dismissively as he kept his back to her, meticulously wiping down the espresso machine's drip tray for the tenth time.

The front door chimed. The deadbolt slid into place from the outside.

Then, the heavy click of the internal lock turning echoed through the empty cafe. Ivan had moved from the syrup station to the front entrance, sealing them inside. He systematically flipped the neon Open sign from a vibrant, buzzing blue to a hollow, lifeless grey. The pale afternoon sunlight was rapidly dying, leaving the shop submerged in a heavy, twilight amber.

Till froze behind the counter. The familiar hum of the refrigerator felt suddenly deafening.

"The front is secure," Ivan’s voice drifted across the empty floorboards. He wasn't rushing. His footsteps were slow, deliberate, and entirely rhythmic as he walked toward the back bar.

"Fine," Till snapped, his throat tight. He unknotted his apron with jerky, aggressive movements and flung it onto the counter. "Sit down. Don't look at me. Just... shut up and let me tune the damn thing."

He didn't wait for Ivan’s reply. Till marched into the backroom, his heart hammering against his ribs in that erratic, familiar panic-attack time signature. He reached into the narrow gap behind the supply locker, his fingers wrapping around the neck of the 1978 Fender Precision Bass. The wood felt heavy, cold, and terrifyingly real.

When he walked back out into the main cafe area, Ivan was sitting on the edge of the corner booth—the very same table where Luka had mocked the song only twenty-four hours earlier. Ivan’s heavy coat was off, his black t-shirt accentuating the broad, relaxed lines of his shoulders. He had his long legs crossed, his dark, heavy-lidded eyes tracking Till’s every movement like a hawk watching a target.

Till dragged a wooden stool to the center of the floorboards, directly under the amber pendant light. He sat down, settling the heavy body of the bass against his thigh. He didn't plug it into an amplifier; the cafe was quiet enough that the acoustic ring of the thick steel strings would carry perfectly well.

He plucked the low E string. A dull, flaccid thud echoed in the room.

"It’s completely out," Till muttered, his defensive irritation flaring up to hide how badly his fingers were shaking. He gripped the heavy tuning peg, twisting it until the string tightened, crying out in a sharp, metallic whine.

"Take your time," Ivan murmured from the shadows of the booth.

"I didn't ask for your permission," Till shot back, but his focus was already drifting.

As he tuned the remaining strings—A, D, G—the muscle memory of five years ago began to leak into his fingertips. The calluses on his hands had faded into the soft skin of a barista, and the steel bit into his skin with a sharp, stinging pain. It hurt. It felt like opening an old wound with a dull knife.

When the last string vibrated in a perfect, resonant chord, Till stopped. He stared down at the scuffed wood, his hand hovering over the pickups. The silence in the cafe pressed down on him, thick and expectant.

A confession hidden in a scream. Ivan’s words from yesterday echoed in his ears.

"Play it," Ivan whispered.

Till bit his lower lip, the small cut from Ivan's teeth stinging in protest. He took a ragged breath, closed his eyes, and let his index finger hook violently under the low string.

The opening riff of "The Weather" filled the room. Without an amp, it sounded raw, skeletal, and metallic—stripped of its studio polish and reduced to the pure, driving aggression of Till's youth. He played through the verse, his rhythm frantic, his jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. He was running too fast, his fingers stumbling slightly over the old frets, but he didn't care. He was running out of air.

Then came the bridge.

The time signature fractured. Till’s thumb slammed against the wood as his fingers ripped up the neck, skipping beats, intentionally breaking the melody into a jagged, chaotic sequence of notes that felt like a chest collapsing. It was messy. It was loud. It was the exact sound of a seventeen-year-old boy screaming into a void because nobody in his life was looking at him.

Till’s eyes flew open as he hit the final, agonizingly discordant note of the solo, his breath rattling in his throat, his chest heaving as if he had just run a marathon.

He expected Ivan to say something smart. He expected the smirk.

Instead, when Till looked up, Ivan was standing right in front of him. He hadn't even heard him move. Ivan’s dark eyes were wild, completely unhinged from their usual polite restraint, staring down at Till with a terrifying, breathless reverence.

Before Till could pull the bass away, Ivan dropped to his knees between Till’s thighs, his large hands coming up to grip the wooden edges of the stool, effectively trapping Till in place.

"Again," Ivan choked out, his voice completely stripped of its velvet composure. It was rough, demanding, and dripping with an obsessive hunger. He leaned up, his face inches from Till's, his dark hair falling into his eyes. "Play it again, Till. Let me hear it break."

"Ivan—" Till gasped, his hands freezing on the strings. The proximity was blinding; he could smell the rain clinging to Ivan's skin, could feel the intense, electric heat radiating from the boy on the floor.

"Five years," Ivan whispered, his forehead slamming gently against Till’s knee, his knuckles turning white against the wood of the stool. "I've lived in that sterile, quiet house for five years with that sound in my head. You think you're the only one who was suffocating? I was dead until I heard you play that. Don't stop. Never stop."

Till stared down at the dark head rested against his knee, the sheer, terrifying vulnerability of this upper-district prince completely shattering whatever defensive walls he had left. Ivan wasn't trying to buy him. He wasn't trying to fix him. He was completely, utterly at Till's mercy, begging for the very destruction Till carried in his hands.

Slowly, the anger in Till’s chest dissolved, leaving behind a wild, terrifying spark of inspiration. He didn't push Ivan away. Instead, he repositioned his fingers on the fretboard, his thumb pressing firmly against the heavy wood.

"Listen closely then, freak," Till whispered, his voice dropping into a low, fierce promise.

He struck the low string again, the chaotic rhythm exploding back into the quiet cafe, and this time, Ivan didn't look away for a single second.

The skeletal, unamplified resonance of the bass notes vibrated through the wooden stool, humming directly into Ivan’s hands where they gripped the frame.

This time, Till didn't rush. The frantic, defensive panic that usually muddied his execution gave way to a sharper, more deliberate malice. He stared straight down into Ivan’s upturned face, his fingers ripping across the steel strings with a calculated violence. If Ivan wanted to hear him break, Till was going to make sure the shards cut him.

The bridge arrived like a head-on collision. Till’s index finger hooked under the G-string, snapping it against the fretboard with a sharp, metallic clack that sounded like a bone snapping. The time signature fractured, skipping a beat, then another, dragging the rhythm out into an agonizing, breathless suspension before slamming back into the driving, chaotic tempo.

Ivan didn't move. He stayed on his knees, his dark, heavy-lidded eyes wide and entirely consumed, tracking the frantic movement of Till’s bleeding fingers, the sweat starting to bead at Till’s temples, and the fierce, beautiful line of his jaw. A low, ragged breath escaped Ivan’s lips, his chest rising and falling in tandem with the erratic meter of the music. He was letting the fracture dictate his pulse.

With a final, brutal down-strung chord that rang out and slowly decayed into the empty cafe, Till stopped.

The silence that returned was thick, heavy with the smell of ozone and the heat of their bodies. Till was panting, his shoulders shaking as he rested his forearm across the body of the bass. His fingers were throbbing, a thin line of crimson swelling where the old steel had split the fresh skin of his index finger.

He didn't pull back. He just stared down at Ivan, his teal eyes dark and defiant. "There. You heard it. Are you satisfied, you psycho?"

Ivan didn't answer with words. Slowly, with an almost religious reverence, he reached up. His long, pale fingers brushed past the strings of the bass, his hand closing gently around Till's bleeding finger. He pulled Till’s hand away from the instrument, lifting it between their faces.

Ivan’s gaze dropped to the small, welling cut on Till's finger. Without a shred of hesitation, he tilted his head and pressed his lips to the wound, his tongue catching the metallic taste of Till’s blood mixed with the bitter residue of espresso grounds.

A violent shiver shot straight down Till’s spine. "Ivan—" he gasped, trying to yank his hand back, but Ivan’s grip on his wrist tightened, unyielding as iron.

Ivan pulled his mouth away, a tiny smear of red staining his lower lip, making his pale face look terrifyingly predatory in the amber twilight. "I told you," Ivan whispered, his voice a rough, unhinged murmur that vibrated against Till’s knuckles. "I'm never satisfied. Five years wasn't enough. One song isn't enough. I want the whole storm, Till."

"You're going to get us both killed," Till breathed, his voice cracking. He was completely trapped, pinned by the heavy weight of Ivan’s thighs framing his own, paralyzed by the sheer, suffocating certainty in Ivan’s eyes. He had spent so long trying to keep his head above water, but looking down at Ivan, he realized he didn't care about drowning anymore.

"Then let it happen," Ivan murmured.

He rose from his knees in one fluid, imposing motion, crowding Till back onto the stool. Before Till could adjust his grip on the bass, Ivan reached down, grabbed the neck of the Fender, and carefully set it aside on the floorboards. In the same breath, he caught Till by the waist and lifted him off the stool, slamming him back against the heavy mahogany counter of the espresso bar.

The impact rattled the clean ceramic cups on the shelves above them, a bright, fragile chorus of clinks that died instantly as Ivan pressed his entire weight into Till's chest.

Ivan’s mouth found Till’s with a desperate, crushing ferocity. This wasn't the alley—there was no freezing rain to numb the heat, no darkness to hide the raw, terrifying teeth of Ivan's obsession. It was hot, possessive, and entirely consuming. Ivan’s hands tangled into the spikes of Till's gray hair, tilting his head back until Till’s throat was exposed to the warm, amber light of the pendant lamp.

Till let out a choked, desperate sound into Ivan’s mouth, his hands coming up to grip the collar of Ivan’s damp black t-shirt. He didn't push. He pulled. He dug his short nails into Ivan’s shoulders, matching the frantic, chaotic rhythm of the bridge they had just left behind. He bit Ivan’s lip again, harder this time, drawing a sharp, ragged groan from the taller boy that vibrated directly into Till's chest.

Ivan’s hands slid down from Till’s hair, tearing at the front of Till’s denim jacket, his large palms mapping the frantic, terrified racing of Till’s heart beneath his shirt. He pressed closer, his hips anchoring Till firmly against the edge of the counter, completely erasing the five years of silence, the debt, the high-rises across the river, and the sterile expectations of a world that didn't care about either of them.

When Ivan finally pulled back, his forehead rested against Till’s, his breath coming in hot, shallow gasps. His dark eyes were dilated, glittering with a quiet, triumphant madness.

"You're staying," Ivan panted, his thumb pressing hard against the pulse at Till's throat. "Tomorrow. The day after. You're not selling this place, and you're not quitting."

Till stared up at him, his teal eyes wide, his lips swollen and smeared with a chaotic mix of their blood. He looked completely ruined, completely conquered, and more vibrant than he had been in half a decade.

"You have an opening shift at five a.m., Ivan," Till whispered, his voice raw, a ghost of a defiant smirk finally touching his lips. "If you're late... I'll make you play the bridge."

Ivan’s chest heaved, a low, genuine laugh escaping his throat as he buried his face into the crook of Till's neck, his teeth gently nipping the sensitive skin over his collarbone.

The bite against Till’s collarbone was a sharp, electric shock that made him arch off the mahogany counter, his fingers digging desperately into the fabric of Ivan’s black t-shirt. A strangled gasp escaped his throat, muffled against the damp strands of Ivan’s dark hair.

"Stop—fucker, stop," Till rasped, though his hands weren't pushing Ivan away; they were anchoring him closer, his knuckles white.

Ivan slowly pulled back, his teeth trailing lightly over the reddening mark he’d left on Till's skin before his gaze rose to lock back onto Till’s face. He looked entirely unraveled, a dangerous, dark satisfaction bleeding through his heavy-lidded eyes. He reached down, his large, calloused palm sliding over the scuffed wood of the counter to press firmly against Till's thigh, pinning him right at the edge of the bar.

The ambient amber light of Anakt Grounds seemed to shrink around them, reducing the entire world to the heat of the counter, the smell of roasted coffee beans, and the heavy static of their breathing.

"You're bleeding again," Ivan murmured, his voice incredibly low as his eyes tracked a fresh bead of crimson forming on Till's split index finger, a remnant of the brutal strings.

"Whose fault is that?" Till fired back, his breath rattling in his chest. He was trying to summon his usual defensive vitriol, but his voice was too breathless, too ruined by the weight of Ivan’s body crowding him into the woodwork. "You’re out of your mind. If Sua sees this mark tomorrow, I’m telling her you attacked me with a milk pitcher."

"Go ahead," Ivan said, a faint, genuine smile tracing his lips—the kind of smile that made Till’s chest tighten with a terrifying, unfamiliar ache. "She already thinks I'm a freak. It won't change the schedule."

Ivan lifted Till's hand again, but instead of pressing his lips to the cut, he simply held it against his own chest, right over the heavy, rhythmic thud of his heart. The steady beat was a stark contrast to the chaotic time signature Till had just ripped out of the Fender bass, yet it felt just as permanent. Just as definitive.

Till stared at his own hand pressed against Ivan's shirt. The anger that had sustained him for five years—the bitter, defensive walls he had built to protect himself from the failure of his youth—felt suddenly flimsy. Like paper doors caught in a flood. He had spent so long running from the ghost of his music, but Ivan hadn't just brought the instrument back; he had brought the fire back.

"Why me?" Till whispered, the question breaking out of him, raw and unguarded under the dim pendant light. He looked up, his teal eyes searching Ivan's dark, bottomless ones. "There were better bands. Better singers. People across the river who actually have a future. Why did you look at me?"

Ivan’s expression softened into something intensely solemn, the predatory edge fading into an absolute, terrifying devotion. He leaned down, his cheek brushing against the damp spikes of Till’s gray hair as he whispered directly into his ear.

"Because everyone else was singing for the crowd, Till," Ivan said, his hand sliding up to cradle the back of Till’s neck, his fingers warm and steady. "You were singing like you wanted to tear the roof down just to see the sky. I didn't want a performance. I wanted the person who was brave enough to burn."

Till’s breath hitched. He closed his eyes, letting his head drop forward until his forehead rested against Ivan’s shoulder. He felt completely defeated, completely exposed, and yet, for the first time in five years, the suffocating weight in his lungs was gone. He could breathe.

They stayed like that for a long time, suspended in the amber twilight of the closed cafe, while the rain outside slowly tapered off into a quiet, steady mist.

Eventually, Till let out a long, ragged sigh and shoved weakly at Ivan’s chest. "Get off me. My back is breaking against this counter."

Ivan chuckled, a low, vibrating sound that rumbled against Till's palms, but he complied, stepping back just enough to let Till slide off the mahogany surface. Till’s boots hit the linoleum with a soft thud. His legs felt slightly unsteady, a liquid heat still humming through his veins.

He looked down at the floorboards, where his bass rested safely against the stool. Without a word, Till bent down and picked it up, his fingers tracing the scuffed wood with a new, quiet familiarity. He didn't hide it behind the supply locker this time. Instead, he carried it into the backroom and placed it gently on top of the breakroom sofa, right in the center of the room.

When he walked back out, Ivan was standing by the front door, his damp wool coat slung over his shoulder, waiting.

Till grabbed his keys from the counter, killing the main amber lights and plunging the cafe into the cool, dark blue of the city evening. He walked over to the door, unlocked it, and stepped out into the crisp night air, Ivan following a step behind him.

As Till turned the deadbolt from the outside, securing Anakt Grounds for the night, he didn't look at the street or the transit station across the river. He looked straight at Ivan, his teal eyes sharp and clear in the neon reflection of the streetlamp.

"Five a.m., Ivan," Till said, his voice a firm, quiet vow. "Don't make me wait."

Ivan adjusted his coat, the corners of his mouth tucking into a small, unbreakable smile. "I'll be early, Till."

The transit station was quiet, washed in the sterile, white-blue glow of the overhead fluorescent lights. Till kept his hands deep in his pockets, his thumb tracing the ragged, healing skin of his index finger. The train wouldn't arrive for another ten minutes, leaving him stranded on the platform with nothing but the distant hum of the city and the heavy, electric aftershock still buzzing under his skin.

He looked across the tracks, toward the massive, glowing high-rises of the academy district rising like glass monoliths against the night sky. For five years, those towers had felt like a different world—a clean, untouchable place that looked down on the crumbling brick of the arts district.

But tonight, the distance felt smaller. The boundary had been breached, dragged across the river by a boy who didn't care about the height of the towers or the mud in the gutters.

A sudden vibration in his right pocket broke the silence.

Till pulled his hand out, expecting a message from Hyuna or a reminder from the dairy distributor. Instead, his screen lit up with an unknown ten-digit number. He hadn't saved it, but he didn't need to. He recognized the digital footprint immediately.

Unknown: The strings on the bass are 45-105 gauge. I already ordered a replacement set. They'll be at the shop by noon.

Till stared at the text, a sharp, helpless breath escaping his lips. He leaned his head back against the cold tile of the station wall, staring up at the ceiling. The absolute, unadulterated arrogance of it should have made him furious. It should have made him change his number.

Instead, his fingers moved across the keyboard with a rapid, fluid certainty he hadn't felt in years.

Till: I use 50-110. Heavy gauge. If you buy the wrong ones, I'm throwing them into the river.

He hit send, his heart doing a strange, violent flip in his chest as the message delivered.

The screen went dark, but Till didn't put the phone away. He held it tightly in his palm, his eyes tracking the dark, open mouth of the subway tunnel where the tracks vanished into the concrete.

A mile away, in an apartment that suddenly didn't feel quite as large or as quiet anymore, Ivan sat on the edge of his bed, the sleek glass tablet on his desk displaying a confirmed express-shipping receipt for a set of heavy-gauge bass strings.

His phone lit up in his hand, displaying Till’s aggressive, prickly reply.

Ivan didn't smirk. He didn't text back. He just slowly leaned back against the pillows, his dark, heavy-lidded eyes fixing on the ceiling as a profound, unbreakable quiet settled over him. For the first time in five years, the air in his lungs didn't feel sterile. It smelled of coffee grounds, damp wool, and the sharp, metallic tang of an old song that was finally being played in the right key.

The next morning at 4:51 AM, the fog was so thick it swallowed the streetlamps whole. Till’s boots crunched against the damp pavement as he approached Anakt Grounds, his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. He was fully prepared to find Ivan waiting on the doorstep. He was fully prepared to spend the morning shift maintaining a fragile, high-voltage barrier between them.

Instead, when he pushed the front door open, the cafe was already ablaze with harsh, fluorescent light.

And it was loud.

"—if we don't fix the bass tracking on the bridge, the entire second verse sounds like a muddy garage demo," Hyuna’s booming voice carried straight over the counter. She was sitting backwards on a barstool, a half-eaten pastry in one hand and a pen in the other, gesturing wildly with a crumpled piece of lyric paper.

"The mud is the point, Hyuna," Sua replied flatly, not looking up from the espresso machine where she was aggressively steaming a pitcher of milk. "If you clean it up too much, it sounds like an upper-district pop track. It loses the weight."

Sitting in the corner booth, entirely unbothered by the noise, Luka was casually turning the page of a book, a pristine cup of black coffee steaming in front of him. He looked up as the door chime rang, a faint, smooth smile touching his lips. "Look who finally decided to join the living. Morning, Till."

Till froze on the mat, his boots dripping river-mist onto the linoleum. His heart did a violent, erratic flip in his chest. "What the hell are you guys doing here?" he demanded, his voice raw from sleep. "The shop doesn't open for an hour. How did you even get in?"

"I have a key, genius," Sua said, shutting off the steam wand with a sharp hiss. She finally turned around, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. "Hyuna dragged Luka out of bed at four in the morning because she had an 'epiphany' about the old notebook we left in the backroom. I figured if I was going to be awake to listen to her scream about time signatures, I might as well get paid for it."

"It's called inspiration, Sua!" Hyuna shot back, grinning as she tossed her pen at Till. "Hey, grumpy. Grab your apron. We’re putting the band back together, or at least we're going to argue about it until the sun comes up."

Till caught the pen out of reflex, his head spinning. He looked past them toward the backroom door, his mind violently racing. Where was Ivan? If Ivan walked through that front door right now with that smug, proprietary look on his face—

"Ivan's already in the back," Luka supplied smoothly, as if reading Till's frantic internal panic. He took a slow sip of his coffee. "He arrived about five minutes before us. He's currently organizing the milk shipment."

Till’s jaw tightened. "Right. Fine. I'm working."

He aggressively ripped his jacket off and tossed it onto the coat rack, trying to ignore the way his fingers were trembling. He grabbed his stained canvas apron from the hook and threw the loop over his head. Because his hands were stiff from the cold and his mind was completely scattered, he fumbled with the ties, his collar pulling awkwardly to the side as he yanked the fabric down.

Sua stepped up to the counter to hand Hyuna a fresh mug, her sharp, clinical eyes naturally drifting toward Till to judge how late he actually was.

She stopped mid-motion. Her gaze locked directly onto the left side of Till’s neck, right where the collar of his shirt had shifted down.

Against Till's pale skin, the mark was glaringly obvious. It wasn't a standard bruise; it was a dark, distinct, crescent-shaped impression—the unmistakable, fierce seal of teeth left by someone who had broken right through his defenses the night before.

The silence that fell over Sua was sudden and heavy. She lowered the mug to the counter with a slow, deliberate clack.

"Till," Sua said, her voice dropping into a dangerously flat, monotone register.

"What?" Till snapped, still struggling with his apron strings, his teal eyes darting toward her defensively.

Sua raised a single, evaluating eyebrow, pointing a finger directly at his collarbone. "What the hell happened to your neck?"

Hyuna’s head whipped around instantly. Her eyes went wide, a massive, unhinged grin spreading across her face as she leaned over the counter to get a better look. "Oh my god. Is that a bite mark? Till! Did you finally get into a bar fight, or did you get attacked by a stray animal in the alley?"

"It's not a bite mark!" Till exploded, his face instantly erupting into a furious, brilliant crimson that traveled all the way to the tips of his ears. He violently yanked his collar up, holding it flat against his throat with one hand while his other hand frantically tried to tie the apron. "I scratched it! On... on the supply locker! The metal edge is sharp!"

"The supply locker has rounded plastic corners, Till," Sua stated clinically, her arms crossing over her chest. "And unless the locker has a dental plan, those are definitely incisor marks."

Luka let out a soft, amused chuckle from the booth, turning another page of his book without looking up. "The upper-district collectors are getting quite aggressive these days, it seems."

"Shut up! All of you, shut up!" Till yelled, his voice cracking with pure, unadulterated mortification. He felt like he was burning alive behind the counter, his chest heaving as he looked around for any possible escape.

Right on cue, the heavy wooden door of the backroom swung open.

Ivan walked out, carrying a heavy plastic crate filled with oat milk containers. His dark hair was perfectly styled, his black Anakt t-shirt completely neat, and his face was a flawless mask of polite, morning compliance. He didn't look like a wolf who had spent the night tearing down walls; he looked like a model barista ready for a shift.

The moment Ivan entered the space, the atmosphere in the cafe shifted from teasing to high-voltage static. Hyuna’s eyes darted from the mark on Till’s neck straight to Ivan’s lower lip—where a small, faint, dark bruise from Till's own teeth was still perfectly visible.

Hyuna’s jaw literally dropped. She looked back at Till, then back at Ivan, the pieces assembling themselves in her chaotic mind with the speed of a lightning strike.

"Oh," Hyuna whispered, her grin morphing into something entirely unhinged and delighted. "Oh, wow."

Sua didn't say a word. She just looked at Ivan, then looked at Till’s bright red face, and let out a long, slow, exhausted sigh that suggested she was going to need a significant raise to keep managing this establishment.

Ivan smoothly set the crate of milk down behind the bar, entirely unbothered by the collective stare of the room. He stepped up right beside Till, his shoulder brushing against Till's with that casual, devastating friction that made Till want to slide straight under the floorboards.

Ivan reached out, his long, pale fingers gently catching the messy, twisted strap of Till's apron. With absolute calm, he unknotted the tangled fabric and tied it behind Till’s waist in a perfect, secure bow, his knuckles deliberately brushing against the small of Till's back.

"Good morning, everyone," Ivan said smoothly, his dark, heavy-lidded eyes fixing on Till’s furious teal ones with a quiet, terrifying amusement. "The espresso machine is at full pressure. Shall we open the doors?"

"You're dead," Till hissed under his breath, his whole body tense as Ivan’s hands lingered on the ties of his apron a second too long. "I am going to poison your shift meal."

"I look forward to it, Boss," Ivan murmured back, his voice smooth and entirely unbothered. Instead of stepping away like a normal employee would, Ivan leaned his weight slightly against the counter, his hip brushing Till’s as he reached over to grab a stack of clean demitasse cups. He didn't just grab them; he took his time, his forearm sliding deliberately against Till's sleeve, practically gluing himself to Till's side in the cramped space behind the bar.

Till barked an irritated breath, but he didn't move away. He just aggressively grabbed the milk pitcher, his face still a violent shade of pink, letting Ivan crowd into his space because, honestly, trying to fight it at this point was like trying to argue with the tide.

Across the counter, Sua watched the entire display with a look of pure, unadulterated exhaustion. She picked up a dry rag and began wiping down the pastry case with a heavy, rhythmic aggression. "If you two are going to physically fuse together behind the espresso machine, let me know so I can ask for a raise."

"Oh, come on, Sua, let them live!" Hyuna cackled, slamming her hand onto the counter so hard her half-eaten pastry rattled on its plate. She was practically vibrating with delight, her sharp eyes bouncing between Till’s burning ears and Ivan’s smug, unblinking expression. "This is the most entertainment I’ve had since the campaign started. Till, look at you! You look like a tomato that’s about to explode. Ivan, what did you do, use a compass to get that symmetry?"

"Hyuna!" Till choked out, nearly spilling the oat milk as he slammed the carton onto the counter. "Shut up!"

"It was a matter of proper placement," Ivan supplied helpfully, offering Hyuna a flawless, entirely shameless smile as he casually rested his chin on Till’s shoulder, peering over at the lyric sheet she was holding. He was being aggressively, ridiculously clingy, a giant dark shadow draped completely over Till’s back.

Till flinched at the sudden warmth against his neck, his elbows flaring out. "Get off me, you giant freak! Go wipe a table!" He shoved his elbow back into Ivan’s ribs, but it was a half-hearted effort, and Ivan barely even moved, just shifting slightly to press his chest more firmly against Till's shoulder blades.

From the corner booth, Luka slowly turned another page of his book, his elegant fingers smoothing down the paper before he raised his eyes. A soft, devastatingly wicked smile played at the corners of his mouth. "Be gentle with him, Ivan. Our director has a very fragile heart when it comes to... public relations."

"Luka, I swear to god, I will ban you from this shop," Till threatened, pointing a wet steam wand directly at him, though the effect was entirely ruined by the fact that Ivan’s hands had now slid down to lightly anchor themselves on Till's hips to keep him from spinning around.

"See? Perfect harmony," Hyuna roared with laughter, throwing her head back. "The band is officially back together, and the first single is a domestic dispute over milk inventory!"

Sua let out a long, suffering groan, tossing her rag onto the back counter and checking the clock. "It's five-on-the-dot. Turn the neon sign on, Till. If I have to watch Ivan act like a velcro suit for one more minute without a customer interrupting, I’m going to throw myself into the pastry oven."

Till violently reached over and slapped the master switch, the blue neon of the front sign buzzing to life through the fog, but as he aggressively began grinding the first batch of coffee, he didn't push Ivan’s hands away from his waist. He just let the heavy, rhythmic thud of the grinder drown out Hyuna's laughter, finally settling into the chaotic, ridiculous rhythm of the morning.