Chapter Text
The hallway light was on.
Jere noticed it immediately when he unlocked the apartment door — wrong already. Luka treated electricity like a personal enemy.
Lights didn’t stay on in empty rooms.
He stepped inside, dropping his bag by the wall. “Luka?” he called casually, toeing off his shoes.
No answer.
But the apartment wasn’t quiet.
A voice carried from the bedroom. Not a phone. Not the TV. A person. Low and close.
Jere stopped moving.
For a second he just listened — brain rearranging sounds into meaning whether he wanted it or not.
Then a laugh and it wasn't Luka's.
He walked down the hallway.
Not slowly. Not hesitating either. Just direct, like checking something that had already explained itself.
The bedroom door stood half open.
He pushed it.
Two seconds.
That was all it took to understand the entire situation.
Sheets tangled. Someone unfamiliar in his place. Luka sitting up too fast, eyes wide in the specific panic of a person caught before preparation.
Silence hit the room.
Jere leaned one shoulder lightly against the doorframe.
“Okay,” he said.
No yelling. No disbelief. Just confirmation.
Luka blinked. “You were supposed to be back tomorrow.”
That — of all sentences — landed first.
Jere let out a short breath that might have been a laugh without humor.
“Yeah,” he said. “That seems to be the main problem here.”
The other guy was already scrambling for clothes.
Jere didn’t even look at him again — only at Luka.
“How long?”
“Jere—”
“How long,” he repeated, calm enough to remove negotiation from the question.
Luka hesitated exactly long enough.
Jere nodded once. “Right.”
The quiet stretched uncomfortable.
Finally Luka ran a hand through his hair. “It just happened.”
Jere stared at him for a long moment.
“No,” he said evenly. “This required scheduling.” He straightened from the doorframe.
“You’ve got one hour,” Jere continued. “Pack what you need and leave the keys.”
Luka frowned. “You can’t just—”
“I pay the rent,” Jere replied simply. “And I’m not moving.”
Another silence.
The argument Luka had ready didn’t survive contact with certainty.
Jere stepped aside, opening the door wider. “You should start.”
He walked back toward the kitchen without waiting, picking up his phone like he had simply interrupted something minor instead of ending a relationship.
Behind him — movement, whispers, urgency.
In front of him — stillness.
He leaned against the counter and exhaled slowly. What the hell he was suppose to do now?
The days passed slowly. Luka had moved out less than a week ago.
The apartment still carried the echo of it — drawers half empty, a different silence in the mornings, the strange feeling of ownership returning to objects Jere hadn’t realized he’d slowly stopped claiming.
He was making coffee when his phone vibrated.
Once.
Twice.
Then continuously.
Jere frowned, wiping his hands on a towel before checking the screen.
Messages stacked faster than he could read them.
Did you break up?
Bro what happened?
Call me immediately!
Are you okay?
Is that about you??
He blinked.
Then opened social media.
And swore immediately.
Luka’s face stared back at him — soft lighting, carefully tired expression, long caption about distance, growing apart, and hoping “he” finds peace.
Thousands of sympathetic comments.
Jere locked the phone and immediately called Jesse.
Jesse answered instantly. “Okay I need context because people are texting me like you got divorced publicly.”
Jere leaned against the counter. “He posted.”
“I figured. What actually happened?”
A pause.
“I came home early,” Jere said flatly. “He wasn’t alone.”
Silence — the heavy kind.
“…you walked in on it?”
“Yes.”
Jesse exhaled slowly. “I’m sorry.”
Jere shrugged even though he couldn’t see it. “It simplified things.”
“How are you?”
Jere sighned. “I don’t know yet.”
“And what now?”
“I genuinely have no plan,” he admitted. “Stay. Leave. Disappear into the forest. Options open.”
Jesse’s tone softened. “Then don’t decide today. Think when it’s actually your decision — not reaction.”
Jere nodded slightly. “Yeah.”
A brief pause — then Jesse’s voice shifted, more focused.
“Okay,” he added, manager now instead of just friend. “Are we responding to the post?”
“No.”
“Statement?”
“Not yet.”
Jesse considered that. “We wait.”
“We wait,” Jere agreed.
He glanced at the phone again, still lighting up on the table.
“Maybe karma handles him,” he muttered.
Jesse snorted softly. “It often does.”
They ended the call.
Jere took a sip of coffee that had gone cold.
For now — silence was still his choice.
A week later, the messages had slowed.
Not stopped — the internet never truly forgot — but settled into background noise instead of a constant alarm. Jere had learned where not to look on his phone and which streets not to take on instinct.
Ljubljana had quietly rearranged itself into a city that no longer belonged to two people.
He walked without a destination again.
The river first, then a bridge he didn’t usually cross, then a narrow side street he was fairly sure he’d never taken before.
That’s where he saw it.
The café’s sign hung slightly crooked, the paint worn just enough to suggest age instead of neglect. The windows glowed warm in the late afternoon — not bright, not curated.
Just… lived in.
He pushed the door open.
A small bell chimed.
The smell was immediate — coffee without presentation. Comforting, uncomplicated.
An older man behind the counter looked up. “Pozdravljeni,” he said automatically, then paused at Jere’s expression. “English?”
“Yes, please.”
The man nodded and gestured to a table. “Sit. I bring coffee.”
Jere didn’t argue.
He sat near the window, watching people pass outside while the quiet inside seemed to ignore the rest of the city’s pace.
The cup arrived a moment later.
It was just a coffee.
But it was good a coffee.
The owner leaned lightly on the counter, drying a glass that didn’t need drying.
“You are not from here,” he said.
“No. Finland.”
The man nodded approvingly, as if that explained enough.
They talked in small pieces — weather, the river flooding sometimes in spring, how tourists always stood in the middle of bike paths.
Then the owner glanced around the café.
“I close soon,” he said casually.
Jere looked up. “For the day?”
The man smiled faintly. “No. For good.”
Jere set the cup down. “Retiring?”
“Trying,” the man said. “Hard to stop habit after forty years.”
His gaze drifted briefly toward a door near the back wall. “And apartment upstairs too large now.”
The quiet stretched comfortably for a moment.
Jere hesitated — then asked the question that strangely had been forming since he walked in.
“Are you selling the place?”
The owner looked at him properly this time, studying rather than chatting.
“Yes,” he said. “But finding buyer… it's not simple. People want modern café. Screens. Trends. Not this.”
He gestured around the room — mismatched chairs, shelves of old books, sunlight hitting worn wood.
Jere followed the motion.
Something about the steadiness of the place pressed against the uncertainty he’d been carrying for days.
“Shame,” he said honestly.
The man shrugged lightly. “Everything changes.”
Jere didn’t answer immediately.
For the first time since the breakup, a thought appeared that wasn’t about leaving.
Jere stayed longer than one coffee required.
The owner moved around him easily, wiping tables that were already clean, adjusting chairs by centimeters — the quiet choreography of someone who knew a place by memory rather than sight.
Jere watched.
He had worked in a café once. Years ago. Before studios, before tours, before schedules planned six months ahead by people who knew his calendar better than he did. Early mornings, burnt fingers, regular customers who ordered without looking at the menu.
Simple work.
Tangible work.
He wrapped his hands around the empty cup again.
It would be insane.
He did not speak Slovenian properly.
He had never run a business.
His last major life decision had involved moving countries for a man who now wrote poetic captions about growth.
Naturally — his brain kept returning to it.
The idea didn’t leave. It settled.
Jere stepped outside, stood on the sidewalk for a moment, then pulled out his phone.
Jesse answered slower this time. “Please tell me you didn’t forgive him after all.”
“I’m thinking of buying a café.”
Silence.
“…what.”
“The one near the river. Old place. Owner retiring.”
A longer silence.
Then Jesse sighed. “Okay. We’re past shock so I can say this properly.”
Jere waited.
“You’re insane,” Jesse said calmly. “But not in a bad way.”
Jere leaned against the wall. “I’m serious.”
“I can hear that,” Jesse replied. “And honestly? This sounds less like running away than the music break did.”
That landed.
“Maybe,” Jesse continued, softer now, “you need something that belongs to you and not your past life.”
Jere looked through the window at the quiet interior.
“Yeah,” he said.
A pause.
“You still have the apartment in Finland,” Jesse added.
“I’ll sell it.”
“Big step.”
“I moved here for someone else,” Jere replied. “If I stay, it should be for me.”
Jesse hummed approvingly. “Then I support your terrible financial decisions.”
Jere stayed outside a moment longer.
For the first time since arriving in Slovenia, the future felt less like a question and more like a risk he actually chose.
Still, maybe he should consider about all this for a while.
Jere didn’t get far.
He made it halfway down the street before stopping, turning, and walking straight back to the café like the decision had already been made somewhere ahead of him.
The bell chimed again.
The owner looked up from the counter, unsurprised in the way older people often were when younger ones tried to outrun their own thoughts and failed.
“ Did you forgot something,” he asked mildly.
“Yes,” Jere admitted. “ My courage.”
The man smiled faintly. “Good thing to find.”
Jere hesitated only a second. “Could I see the apartment?”
The owner studied him — not skeptical, not hopeful. Just measuring sincerity.
Then he nodded toward the back door. “Come.”
The staircase was narrow and worn smooth in the center from decades of steps. It smelled faintly of coffee even here, like the building had absorbed the business permanently.
At the top, the man unlocked a simple wooden door.
The apartment opened wider than Jere expected.
Not modern — lived-in.
Two bedrooms, doors slightly uneven from age. A large kitchen with actual space to cook, not just perform cooking. A living room facing the street, light falling across wooden floors softened by time instead of renovation.
And a small balcony toward the courtyard — quiet, sheltered, almost hidden.
Jere stepped outside onto it.
No traffic noise. Just distant voices and the clink of dishes from somewhere below.
“Two bathrooms,” the owner added casually behind him. “Built later. My wife insisted.”
Jere turned back inside slowly, taking in the details — cupboards that didn’t match but fit anyway, windows placed for morning rather than symmetry.
Perfect was a dangerous word.
But it hovered there.
He could picture mornings here.
Not temporary mornings. Not borrowed ones.
He exhaled softly. “This is… good.”
The owner watched him for a moment, then nodded once — like he recognized the tone.
“Yes,” he said. “It is.”
Jere didn’t pretend to “think about it for a few days.”
He walked home, sat at the kitchen table, stared at nothing for exactly three minutes — and recognized the feeling.
Not impulse.
Clarity.
For the first time since the breakup, the future didn’t look like a reaction to something that had happened. It looked like a direction.
He picked up his phone.
His uncle answered with background noise loud enough to suggest tools, metal, or both. “If this is about borrowing a trailer again, the answer is still no.”
“I’m thinking of buying a café,” Jere said.
A pause.
“…well that escalated quickly.”
“You ran one,” Jere reminded him.
“For twenty years,” his uncle corrected. “And my knees still wake me up at five in the morning out of habit.”
“Good sign?”
“Depends how much you like mornings,” his uncle replied dryly.
Jere leaned back in his chair. “What do I actually need besides creative madness and bad financial decisions?”
His uncle chuckled softly. “Routine. People don’t come back for coffee — they come back for certainty. Same taste, same greeting, same place to sit if you can manage it.”
Jere nodded unconsciously.
“And patience,” he continued. “You earn regulars slowly and lose them quickly.”
“Makes sense.”
“You’ll also talk to strangers before your brain is operational,” his uncle added. “And you’ll care about things like milk delivery schedules more than any sane person should.”
Jere smiled faintly.
“Still,” his uncle finished, voice softer now, “if you want a place that’s yours — really yours — it’s good work.”
The call stretched longer than expected — practical advice, stories disguised as warnings, encouragement disguised as teasing.
When it ended, Jere looked around the apartment.
For the first time it already felt temporary.
He wasn’t staying in Slovenia because he didn’t know where else to go.
He was staying because he’d chosen something to build.
The rehearsal space smelled like cables, dust, and decisions postponed until tomorrow.
Joker Out had been practicing the same section for fifteen minutes — not because it was difficult, but because none of them were actually concentrating anymore.
Jan stopped playing first. “We’ve played this chorus so many times it’s becoming legally binding.”
Kris leaned back in his chair. “You say that every rehearsal.”
“And yet I’m always right eventually.”
Nace set his bass aside. “Coffee?”
No one argued.
The café was part of the routine — ten steps down the street, across the corner, bell on the door, Samuel pretending not to expect them while already reaching for cups.
They walked in.
Samuel looked up from the counter and smiled faintly. “You are late today.”
“Creative crisis,” Bojan said solemnly.
Samuel poured without asking. Five cups. Always the same order. Always the same placement on the counter.
They sat.
For a moment it was quiet — the comfortable kind, broken only by spoons against ceramic.
Then Samuel cleared his throat.
“I have news.”
Five heads lifted at once.
“I am selling this place,” he said simply.
Silence landed.
Jan blinked. “Selling?
“I'm retiring,” Samuel replied. “I told you this day would come. I allready have a buyer. ”
Kris frowned slightly. “To who?”
Samuel wiped his hands on a cloth. “Young man. Not from here.”
Bojan tilted his head. “Tourist project?”
Samuel shook his head. “No. He wants to run it properly.”
Nace exchanged a look with Jure.
“Does he know what he’s inheriting?”
“He will soon,” Samuel said calmly.
“When?” Bojan asked.
“Two weeks. Then it is no longer mine.”
They absorbed that.
The café had outlasted albums, relationships, bad haircuts, good songs, and existential band discussions at two in the afternoon.
Change felt… incorrect.
Jan sighed. “We’re going to have to be polite to a stranger, aren’t we.”
Samuel almost smiled.
Bojan looked around the familiar room — the table they always took, the window light at the same angle, the predictable quiet.
Two weeks suddenly sounded short.
They stepped back into the afternoon light with their cups finished and their routine slightly damaged.
For a moment no one spoke — like saying it out loud would make it happen faster.
Jan broke first. “Well. That’s unsettling.”
“Very,” Nace agreed. “I don’t like change that involves my coffee source.”
Jure shoved his hands into his pockets. “Did you hear Samuel saying he's young? Young means ideas.”
“Ideas are dangerous,” Kris said calmly.
Bojan glanced back at the café door as it closed behind them. “Maybe he just keeps it the same.”
Jan gave him a look. “No one buys a café to keep it the same. That’s against personality law.”
They started toward the rehearsal space again.
“What if he modernizes it,” Nace said darkly. “Plants. Neon signs. Menu boards that require explanation.”
“QR codes,” Kris added.
Jure stopped walking. “If I have to scan something before caffeine, I’m leaving the country.”
Bojan laughed quietly despite himself.
They walked a few steps in silence.
“…Samuel’s muffins,” Jure said suddenly.
Four heads turned toward him.
“What about them?” Jan asked.
“What if the new guy can’t make them,” Jure said, genuinely troubled.
“You can’t replace those. That’s structural to my emotional stability.”
“That’s your concern?” Nace asked.
“Yes.”
Kris nodded thoughtfully. “Valid.”
Bojan shook his head, smiling faintly.
“We don’t even know him yet.”
“Exactly,” Jan said. “And already he’s suspicious.”
They reached the rehearsal door.
For the first time in years, the café — their most stable constant — had become an unknown variable.
None of them were ready for that.
The sign was the first thing they noticed.
A sheet of paper taped neatly to the door — not Samuel’s handwriting, and not Slovenian.
"Closed for two weeks starting tomorrow.
New ownership preparations.
Thank you for your patience."
They stood there for a second.
Jure frowned. “Two weeks is long enough to remove muffins from existence.”
Kris opened the door before the conversation could spiral further.
The bell chimed — familiar, grounding.
Inside looked the same. Completely the same. Which somehow made the sign worse.
Samuel stood behind the counter, already preparing cups when he saw them.
“You came,” he said.
“Of course,” Bojan replied. “We need a closure.”
Samuel almost smiled and set the coffees down.
They didn’t sit immediately this time.
Bojan glanced around the café slowly — shelves, window, worn table edges polished by years of elbows and conversations that had solved nothing and everything.
“So this is it,” Jan said quietly.
“For me, yes,” Samuel answered. “For the place — just a pause.”
Jure eyed the kitchen door. “You made muffins today.”
“I made many,” Samuel confirmed.
“Good,” Jure said seriously. “This is important historical moment.”
They finally sat.
The air felt different — not sad exactly, but aware. Like everyone was trying to memorize details they had never consciously noticed before.
“What’s he like? The new owner.” Nace asked before sipping his coffee.
Samuel wiped the counter once more, thoughtful.
“Tired,” he said after a moment.
They looked at him.
“But determined,” he added.
Bojan tilted his head. “That sounds specific.”
Samuel shrugged lightly. “You will see.”
None of them knew yet how soon that would be.
Jere found the notebook at the bottom of a box. The cover was worn soft, corners rounded by decades of kitchens. His grandmother’s handwriting filled the pages — looping, patient, occasionally annotated with strict opinions about butter.
He flipped through it slowly.
He hadn’t baked properly in years. Not since schedules had replaced weekends and grocery lists with airport coffee and venue catering.
Measurements felt grounding.
Grams.
Minutes.
Temperatures.
If you followed the steps, something happens. It was simple.
The first batch was… acceptable.
The second edible.
The third made the apartment smell like a real morning instead of a temporary address.
Jere leaned against the counter waiting for the timer, flour on his hands, realizing he hadn’t checked his phone in hours.
He didn’t miss it.
He took a bite.
“…okay,” he admitted to the empty kitchen."This is actually pretty good."
Downstairs the next day, two electricians were arguing mildly about cables while Jere sanded the counter.
He hesitated for second, then placed a plate on the table near them.
“Test subjects,” he said.
They looked at him, then at the pastries.
One shrugged and took one.
Then the second one took two.
By afternoon the plate was empty.
The next day he brought more.
The painter asked if he was opening soon.
The plumber asked what time mornings would start.
Someone’s cousin stopped by “just to see the progress” and somehow also left with a pastry.
Word spread through the building faster than renovation dust.
By the fifth day, Jere baked automatically before going downstairs.
He realized that evening — washing flour off his hands — that people were already planning to come back.
The café wasn’t open yet.
But it was no longer unknown.
Two days before opening, the café finally stopped looking like a project.
No more plastic sheets.
No more ladders leaning where customers would sit.
The paint had dried into permanence, the new tables stood steady, and the counter — sanded and sealed — felt ready for hands that didn’t belong to contractors.
The last of the painters packed their equipment slowly, stretching a job that had ended ten minutes earlier.
Jere wiped the counter for the third unnecessary time that morning.
One of the men watched him for a moment. “You know,” he said in careful English, “alone you will die here within your first week.”
Jere snorted. “Encouraging.”
“Morning rush,” the painter clarified. “Coffee, food, money, talking. Too many hands needed.”
Jere leaned against the counter, considering the reality he had politely ignored so far.
“I figured I’d manage,” he admitted.
The man shook his head immediately. “No. You need at least one more person.”
He hesitated, then added, “My sister — she's university student. Looking for work. Good with people. Not afraid of mornings.”
Jere raised an eyebrow. “Important qualification.”
The painter smiled faintly and wrote a number on the back of a receipt, sliding it across the counter.
“You call. She calls back faster.”
Jere picked up the paper, folding it once. “I’ll talk to her.”
The man nodded, satisfied.
When they left, the café became quiet in a different way — no longer waiting for work, but waiting for people.
Jere looked around the room again.
Two days suddenly felt short.
Jere stared at the number for a full minute before calling.
Hiring someone sounded significantly more adult than buying a café had.
The phone rang twice.
“Hello?” a bright voice answered.
“Hi — uh, this is Jere. Your brother gave me your number? I own a café.”
“Oh! Yes!” she said immediately, energy jumping through the line. “I can come today. After lectures — maybe seven?”
“That works. I leave the front door open. ”
At seven exactly, the bell chimed.
A young woman stepped in, shaking rain from her jacket and smiling like she’d already decided the place was friendly.
“Katrina,” she introduced herself, offering a hand.
“Jere.”
She looked around slowly, eyes lighting up in a way that felt reassuring rather than critical.
“It feels… calm,” she said. “Not trying too hard.”
Jere relaxed a fraction. “That’s the goal.”
They talked at one of the window tables — schedules first, then practicalities.
“I have university lectures usually after 10am,” Katrina explained. “But I can work early a few hours. And some days also afternoons.”
“Perfect,” Jere said.
She smiled. “Good. I already told my brother that I'm sure you say yes.”
He laughed softly. “Then I shouldn’t ruin hour family expectations.”
Cafe had bee open three days now.
The morning rush had faded, lunch hadn’t started yet, and the café rested in that fragile calm between purposes. Cups dried on the rack. Sunlight stretched across the floorboards.
Katrina had just left.
“See you tomorrow!” she called as the door closed behind her.
Jere nodded and wiped the counter, letting the silence settle.
The bell chimed.
“Hi—”
Jere looked up.
Luka.
For a second nothing moved — not even the air.
Jere placed the cloth down with deliberate precision. “You found me.”
Luka glanced around the room, taking in the new furniture, the same walls, the life that had reorganized itself without him.
“You actually stayed,” he said.
“I did.”
A pause. Tight.
“You ignored my messages.”
“You made a public announcement,” Jere replied evenly. “Seemed efficient.”
Luka exhaled sharply, irritation already surfacing. “That wasn’t fair and you know it.”
Jere didn’t react. “You cheated on me in our bed.”
The words landed flat. Undramatic. Final.
Luka’s jaw tightened. “I made a mistake.”
“No,” Jere said calmly. “You made a decision and then try to wrote a poetry about it.”
That hit.
Luka ran a hand through his hair, pacing once like the room was suddenly too small. “You think you’re better than me now? Playing stable café owner while everyone thinks I’m the villain?”
“I don’t think about you that much,” Jere replied.
The silence sharpened.
Luka laughed — short, brittle. “Right. You move countries for me, then replace me with a building.”
Jere held his gaze but didn't reply.
Luka stepped closer to the counter, frustration slipping toward spite.
“You really want honesty?” he said quietly. “You really think it was the first time?”
The words landed.
For the smallest fraction of a second — too brief for anyone who didn’t know him — Jere stilled.
Then he leaned back against the counter again.
“I suspected as much,” he said.
Luka searched his face, looking for damage.
Found none.
Something in his expression faltered.
“So that’s it?” he demanded. “You win some quiet moral high ground and I disappear?”
Jere finally straightened, meeting him fully.
“You already left,” he said. “ There's nothing more me to say.”
For a moment Luka looked like he might argue again — then the fight drained into something smaller and sharper.
The bell rang when he pulled the door open — louder this time in the quiet room.
Jere picked up the cloth again and continued wiping the same clean spot.
His hands didn’t shake — until the door had closed.
Jere locked the café door later than usual.
The street outside had already quieted, evening settling into the riverbanks and windows across the courtyard lighting one by one. He stood a moment with the key still in the lock, breathing in air that smelled faintly of roasted coffee and cold stone.
Upstairs felt different tonight.
Not wrong — just louder inside his own head.
He dropped his keys on the kitchen table and sat without turning on the lights.
Three years.
His mind replayed Luka’s words with clinical persistence - You think that was the first time?
Had it been a jab meant to hurt?
Or honesty arriving too late to matter?
He tried to reconstruct memory — trips Luka insisted on taking alone, messages answered hours later, explanations that had sounded reasonable because Jere had wanted them to be.
You can rewrite anything in hindsight.
That didn’t make it truth.
He rubbed his face and stood, forcing the spiral to stop before it decided the entire relationship had been imaginary. Some parts had been real.
He refused to let Luka edit even the past.
The shower ran hotter than necessary.
By the time he stepped out, hair still damp, his phone vibrated on the counter.
Jesse.
Jere answered. “Hi.”
“Tell me you haven’t opened Instagram,” Jesse said immediately.
“…I have not.”
“Good. Keep it that way.”
Jere leaned against the counter. “He posted again.”
“Yes. And somehow he’s now bravely healing from a difficult partner situation.”
Jere closed his eyes briefly. “Of course he is.”
“Do you want details?”
“No.”
“Smart,” Jesse admitted. “Internet sympathy cycle peaks fast. Then people notice inconsistencies.”
Jere stared at the dark window. “I don’t need to win a comment section.”
“You won’t,” Jesse said. “You would just outlast it.”
Silence settled.
“Are you okay?” Jesse asked finally.
Jere considered the question honestly. “I will be.”
And for the first time that evening, he meant it.
The rehearsal room door slammed shut behind them as Jan dropped onto the couch.
“Coffee,” he declared. “Actual coffee. I refuse to continue art without it.”
Nace grabbed his jacket. “We could go to Samuel’s and pretend nothing has changed.”
Kris hesitated. “Everything has changed.”
Jure was already halfway out the door. “We investigate.”
Bojan followed.
They turned the familiar corner — then stopped.
Above the café door hung a freshly painted wooden sign.
PLAN B
Jan tilted his head. “That feels like a warning.”
Nace nodded slowly. “Or a confession.”
Jure squinted. “I already trust it more than any trendy places.”
Kris opened the door.
The bell chimed.
Warmth — and the smell of baking — met them immediately.
And then they saw the owner.
He didn’t look like someone who had inherited a quiet neighborhood café.
Short dark hair slicked neatly back. Clean beard. Rings catching the light as he adjusted cups. A thin chain at his neck. Black nail polish visible when he wiped his hands on a towel.
He looked up.
There was a brief pause — the kind where expectations quietly rearranged themselves.
“Hi,” he said calmly. “First time here?”
The band collectively processed.
Jan blinked.
Nace glanced at Jure.
Kris just leaned on the counter.
Jure leaned forward slightly, fascinated. “You own this place?”
“Yes.”
Another pause.
“…huh,” Jure said, because language failed him.
Bojan hadn’t spoken.
He was looking — not obviously, not impolite, but just long enough to qualify as noticeable.
The man held his gaze for a fraction longer than necessary before glancing back to the espresso machine.
“Coffee?” he prompted.
Jan recovered first. “Yes. Five. Please reassure us emotionally.”
Jere nodded once and began working — movements precise, practiced.
Bojan still watched for a moment.
Something about him didn’t match the room and yet somehow fit it better than expected.
He glanced at the sign again.
Then back at the owner.
“…good name,” Bojan said quietly.
The man’s mouth curved faintly.
“Wasn’t the original plan.”
Nace grinned.
Kris sat down automatically.
And without noticing, they chose their usual table again — as if the place had decided it before they did.
The bell rang one last time that evening.
“Thanks,” Jan said, pulling his jacket on.
“See you,” Nace added.
Jure gave a small, sincere nod. “Don’t stop making those.”
Kris followed with a polite wave.
The last to the door paused.
“Bojan,” he introduced himself simply, like the others had — but a fraction later, as if he’d almost decided not to.
“Jere.”
A brief look held — not long, not awkward.
Just noticeable.
Then the bell chimed again and the door closed.
Jere locked up half an hour later.
Chairs up. Counter wiped. Machine cleaned. Lights dimmed.
Routine settled his thoughts — until it didn’t.
Upstairs, he dropped onto the couch and stared at the ceiling.
Five customers shouldn’t occupy this much mental space.
Yet the conversation replayed easily — the quiet one, the observant one, the way he’d looked around the room like he was measuring atmosphere rather than furniture.
Bojan.
Jere rubbed his eyes.
“Ridiculous,” he muttered to the empty apartment.
He had met hundreds of people on tour, thousands at events, entire crowds blurred into memory. Faces rarely lingered without reason.
This one had.
Not because of anything dramatic — just the opposite. A calm presence that hadn’t tried to fill silence.
Jere got up, poured himself water, then stopped midway back to the couch.
The café had worked today.
Customers returned. Katrina laughed through half her shift. Nothing went wrong enough to matter.
So why was his brain focused on one introduction and a pair of steady eyes over coffee?
He shook his head and turned off the kitchen light.
“Sleep,” he told himself.
It did not help.
Somewhere between closing his eyes and actually resting, he realized the day had given him something new — not past, not plans.
Just curiosity.
And that was somehow more distracting than anything else.
It took less than a week.
They didn’t agree on it out loud — they simply kept showing up until it stopped being a visit and became routine.
Late mornings after rehearsals.
Afternoons when songwriting required caffeine.
Occasionally evenings when procrastination needed a location.
Jere learned them the way café owners always did — through repetition.
Nace was steady — calm voice, calm movements, the one who ordered clearly and paid without discussion. If conversations drifted too far, he gently pulled them back.
Jan spoke the least. He watched — people, details, reactions — and when he did comment it was usually precise enough to end the discussion.
Kris was the filter. Practical, reasonable, the one who translated band chaos into decisions.
Jure was permanently delighted by existence, especially baked existence. Every pastry was evaluated like a life event.
And Bojan—
Bojan laughed easily, talked easily, and understood things faster than he let on. He filled silences without overwhelming them, shifting from jokes to unexpectedly thoughtful observations in the same sentence.
By Thursday Jere no longer asked what they wanted.
Five coffees appeared automatically.
Nace nodded approvingly. “Reliable system.”
Jure lifted a muffin reverently. “He cares about us.”
The realization came casually.
They were arguing about rehearsal schedules when Nace mentioned a gig, and Katrina — refilling the sugar jar — froze mid-motion.
“Wait,” she said. “You’re that band?”
Four heads turned toward her.
Jere looked up from the machine. “Band?”
Jan pointed vaguely at all of them. “Us. Professionally loud people.”
Katrina stared. “Joker Out.”
Jere glanced between them. “That explains why you all arrive at the same time like punch of children an a school trip.”
Bojan huffed a quiet laugh.
“You didn’t know?” he asked.
Jere shrugged lightly. “You paid for coffee. That was sufficient information.”
Jan looked impressed. “Finally — a man immune to local fame.”
“Also,” Jere added, placing cups down, “you still have to pay.”
Nace nodded solemnly. “Cruel but fair.”
The bell chimed.
Jere didn’t turn immediately.
He knew the rhythm of them by now — the way the door opened wider than necessary, the scrape of chairs before anyone even ordered, Jure already starting to say something about food.
Five voices.
Except—
There was a sixth.
Unfamiliar.
He glanced up from the cups he was drying, a small automatic smile already forming as he turned.
And stopped.
The smile vanished before it fully existed.
Across the room, the unfamiliar man stared back — shock spreading across his face so fast it didn’t need translation.
For a second nobody else noticed.
Then Jan followed Jere’s line of sight.
“…Milan?” he said slowly.
The name hung in the air.
Milan swallowed. “I—”
Jere spoke first, voice flat and controlled.
“…you.”
The band looked between them.
Jere didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t move. If anything, he became calmer.
“You should leave,” he said quietly.
Confusion rippled across the group.
Bojan looked between them. “Okay — context?”
Jan had already understood that something was very wrong.
Milan took a step back. “I didn’t know—”
“That’s not relevant,” Jere replied evenly. “Now you do.”
The tension tightened.
Jure looked lost. Kris alert. Nace steady but watchful.
Bojan didn’t look away from Jere.
“What happened?” he asked carefully
Jere’s gaze never left Milan.
“I found him,” he said calmly, “in my apartment. In my bed. With my partner.”
The words landed heavier than shouting.
Silence.
Milan looked like he wished the floor would open.
Jan closed his eyes briefly. “…oh.”
No one laughed now.
Jere stepped aside from the counter, giving space toward the door.
“You really should go.”
And this time Milan didn’t hesitate.
No one moved immediately.
The café, usually filled with low conversation and familiar rhythm, felt oddly hollow — like sound itself had stepped outside with him.
They sat anyway.
Out of habit more than intention.
Jere didn’t ask what they wanted.
Five coffees appeared a minute later, placed down with quiet precision. No comment, no half-joke about routine. Just cups.
“Thanks,” Nace said softly.
Jere nodded once and returned behind the counter.
He stayed there.
Not hiding exactly — just keeping distance, hands busy with tasks that didn’t need doing. Aligning spoons. Wiping already clean surfaces. Adjusting the pastry case by millimeters.
At the table, no one reached for muffins.
Jan stared into his cup.
Kris leaned back, thoughtful but silent.
Jure opened his mouth once, then closed it again.
Bojan watched Jere.
“Do we say something?” Jure whispered eventually.
Kris shook his head faintly. “Not yet.”
Nace nodded in agreement.
So they drank.
Slowly.
Across the room Jere kept moving — but never looked their way.
The usual ease between customer and owner had shifted into careful space neither side knew how to cross.
The coffee tasted the same.