The shop is modestly busy for a weekday afternoon. A few students huddle over laptops in the corner, a mother pushes a stroller past the display case of pastries, and an elderly man reads a newspaper with his glasses perched low on his nose. The light filtering through the large windows is golden, casting long shadows across the worn wooden floor.

Y/n finds a seat near the window, a small round table with a view of the bustling street outside. The chair creaks slightly as they settle in, the fabric of the seat cushion worn soft from years of use.

Almost immediately, a figure approaches. He's tall, with a shock of ginger hair that catches the light like a flame. His arms are covered in tattoos—snakes, skulls, and flowers weaving together in a riot of color. A silver ring glints in his nose, and his grin is wide, almost wolfish, as he reaches the table.

Behind him, near the counter, another barista works the espresso machine. He's bigger—broad-shouldered, thick-armed, with dark hair dusted with flour from the pastries he's plating. He moves with surprising gentleness, carefully placing a croissant on a ceramic plate. He hasn't looked up yet.