Chapter Text
Till had always had a feel for music. As a toddler, it was the kitchen counters, the back of his plastic chair, his own thighs — anything that made a sound when struck became his first instrument. His mother liked to joke that he’d been born with a metronome in his chest. "You've had music in your bones since birth, Till" she’d say, with a fond smile.
By the time he was seventeen, he’d created a viral hit. By twenty, he was touring the world. By twenty-four, he was a global star, multiple rewards from the most prestigious and famous music rewards academies.
He wore eyeliner, glitter, piercings, combat boots, leather jackets. He sang like he was tearing himself open. On stage, he was electric. Alive.
At twenty-six, he disappeared.
Burnout wasn’t glamorous. Depression even less so. One day he simply couldn’t get out of bed, couldn’t pick up a pen, couldn’t care that millions were waiting for his next song. His manager was patient and compassionate. “Take your time. Seriously. You’ve earned it.” He even had found Till a therapist.
The years blurred after that. Therapy. Walking. Gym. Walking some more. Eating better. Less alcohol. More sleep. He put on muscle. His face aged slowly, the baby fat finally melting off. When he looked in the mirror, he sometimes startled himself. The young pretty boy was gone. In his place: a thirty-year-old man with broader shoulders and a beard.
But the music never came back.
He tried. Oh, he tried. Late nights at the piano, with his guitar, blank sheets. Nothing felt right. Nothing felt at all.
“You need a change of scenery” his therapist had said after seeing him for four years. “Try quiet. Not the loud and hectic big city. Somewhere where you don't have to mask yourself to go on a simple walk”
So here he was.
Standing in a damp garden in a small village that smelled of earth and flowers. The cottage was modest but warm, with creaky floors and wild ivy climbing the walls. The air was clean in a way he’d forgotten air could be. He could actually hear birds.
He stepped into the garden barefoot, still a little hungover from sleep, and rubbed the back of his neck. The grass needed trimming. The flowerbeds were wild. There was potential here, though to grow things. Strawberries, tomatoes, cucumbers. Herbs too. He could always call his uncle, who owned a farm, for advice.
"Morning!" a voice called, bright and unexpected.
Till turned at the sound of it and was momentarily blinded by the beauty of the source — a woman with bright pink hair and the kind of smile that could lighten up every room. She stood just on the other side of the fence, wearing dungarees over a floral top, holding a small watering can in one hand. Something about her was familiar, not her face exactly, but the energy. She reminded him of a pop star he’d had a crush on as a teen — bubbly, pretty, untouchably radiant.
He blinked, rubbed his hand over the back of his neck, and tried to remember how to sound normal — after all, he had only talked to his manager, therapist and mum for the past few years. "Hello" he said, hoping his voice didn’t sound too scratchy.
The woman grinned even wider. “Hi! I’m Mizi”
Till hesitated for a moment. She didn't seem to recognise him. No wonder though, he didn’t look the same anymore as most would've remembered him. "Till," he finally said. “Nice to meet you.”
Mizi leaned a bit closer, elbows resting on the top of the fence. “So you're new here, yeah? Where’d you move from?”
He paused. “City. Needed a bit of a change.”
“Mmh, same!” she said brightly. “The only good thing I got out of living in the big city was meeting my wife. Sua—oh, there she is!”
Till followed her pointed finger. A few meters back, seated comfortably in a chair, was a petite woman with shoulder-length black hair and bangs. She was reading a thick book, but looked up when she sensed the attention. Sua was small, yes, but the energy coming off her was anything but. Her gaze landed on Till with the precision of a scalpel. There was a flicker of silent judgment, a quick scan up and down.
Till raised a tentative hand. “Hi. Hello...”
Sua held his eyes for a second longer before giving him a curt nod — the kind of nod that said: I acknowledge your existence — and went right back to her book.
“Isn’t it beautiful here?” Mizi gushed, turning back to Till. “The birds sing. You can see little animals everywhere. There are fish in the lake, deer in the woods, bunnies on the fields—honestly, it’s a dream.”
Till chuckled softly, surprised to feel his lips twitching upwards. “Sounds... peaceful.”
“Oh, it is!” Mizi said. “And the village centre is the cutest thing. All the shops are handmade this, handmade that—jewellery, soaps, pottery. The old folks are so kind here too. The kids? Little angels. Always playing outside.”
Till's smile widened.
"Oh!" Mizi continued, "And you have to try the café in the city center. It’s called—actually wait, do you have your phone on you?” Till pulled it from his pocket. “Search for The Café—"
"The Café? How creative" Till huffed, amused.
"Right?" Mizi replied sarcastically "Ivan, the owner, thought it'll be funny to name it that. We're friends by the way, he's lovely."
Till nodded as he tapped the name into his phone. “Alright. I’ll give it a go.”
Mizi beamed again. “Yay! Sorry—I’ve just been, like, talking your ear off. I do that.”
“It’s alright,” Till said. And meant it.
“Well then, see you around, neighbour!” she called, already walking backwards toward her wife, nearly tripping over a flower pot in the process.
He stood there for a second longer, looking at his phone, then the fence, then the house behind him. His new neighbours: one ray of sunshine, one protective wife. Noted.
He walked back inside, thumb hovering over the café’s location pin. The Café, nestled right next to the old church. He clicked it open. Checked the opening hours. Open. He grabbed his keys.
The walk to The Café was short—just under fifteen minutes—but it did him good. The air was crisp, with a hint of earth and pine in it. Birds sang between branches overhead, and the roads were so quiet he could actually hear his footsteps on the gravel. Soon, he arrived. The front window covered in painted vines, flowers and little golden bees. It looked like something out of a picture book. He hesitated at the door, then stepped inside.
The scent hit him immediately. Warm sugar, roasted coffee beans, vanilla, citrus, something slightly nutty—all blending into the kind of aroma that made your shoulders drop and your stomach sigh. The place was full, but not chaotic. People talked softly at their tables, sharing pastries, sipping coffees, tea and the kids hot chocolate. Laughter bubbled up now and then, but it wasn’t sharp or grating like it had been in the cafés in the city. There were no laptops, no queues snaking to the door, no stressed-out baristas half-screaming names over blenders. The staff moved calmly, smiling as they took orders, as if time wasn’t a threat here.
Till found an empty table by the window, took a seat, and simply breathed for a moment. Then he picked up the menu tucked into a little wooden stand. He scanned the options, keeping it simple: Espresso. And... alright, he’d give the lemon pastry a go as much as he didn’t love sweets. He usually only ate what his mum and grandma would make because both women knew exactly which amount of sugar to add without making anything too sweet. They respected Till's easily overwhelmed taste buds.
A waitress approached a minute later, young, freckles scattered across her cheeks, her apron dusted with flour. "Hi there! What can I get you?" she asked, with a warm grin.
"Just an espresso, and... the lemon pastry, please."
"Great choice," she said, scribbling. "Be right back."
When she left Till leaned back, letting his eyes drift closed for a second. The murmur of soft conversation, the clinking of cutlery on plates—it all felt real but not loud. Full, but not heavy. Like the world had turned its volume down to something bearable.
His order arrived fast. And when he took his first bite of the pastry, it actually stopped him in his tracks. It wasn’t overly sweet. The lemon was sharp and bright, cutting through the butteriness of the pastry. Light, delicate, balanced. A flavour you would savour, not just swallow down. Then came the coffee. He took a sip, and it was rich, smooth. He didn’t reach for his phone, didn’t feel the need to scroll. He just sat. Ate. Drank. Took it all in.
The walls were painted a soft rosé, warm and welcoming. Potted plants sat on every surface—lavender, pothos, petunias, even a small citrus tree near the door. Drawings clearly made by children were hung up on every wall as well as some more detailed paintings. The whole place felt like a hug.
And then... then he looked up.
Behind the counter, pulling a fresh espresso shot, stood the most beautiful man Till had ever seen. Tall. His arms flexed slightly beneath his fitted shirt as he worked the machine, sleeves rolled up just enough to show lean muscle and veins. His skin was pale, pretty pink undertones. His hair—silky, black, wavy—fell messily into his face as he concentrated on the pour. His lashes were ridiculous. Long enough that Till could see them from where he sat. And his eyes—dark, round, watchful. His lips were full, slightly pursed in focus, and curved in a way that made Till’s brain stutter. He looked like someone had taken every clichéd romance novel description of the perfect male lead and made them real.
Till stared. And for the first time in what felt like years, something inside his chest stirred. Not just attraction or just lust, which he couldn't deny it also was, without a doubt. A pulse of something alive. He blinked, looked down at his coffee. Tried to ground himself. Took another sip, eyes trailing back to the man. It wasn’t just beauty. It was presence. A kind of quiet radiance that was impossible to ignore. And somehow, without saying a single word, this stranger reminded him of why life was worth living for again.
By week two, Till stopped lying to himself. The first week, sure—he’d tried to keep up the act. He told himself he was simply enjoying the atmosphere of The Café. The smell of coffee and baked goods. The sound of spoons clinking in porcelain. The warm rosé walls and plants in hand-painted pots. Purely aesthetic appreciation.
But by the second week, he admitted the truth.
He was obsessed. Utterly, shamefully obsessed.
The man behind the counter had a name now—Ivan. The friend Mizi had mentioned. The owner of this café. Till came every single day. Same table. Same spot by the window. He sketched like a man possessed—page after page of Ivan’s face, his hands, his profile in soft morning light. Ivan laughing. Ivan frowning in concentration. Ivan with his hair in his eyes. Ivan tying an apron. Ivan pouring coffee like it was some sacred ritual. It was deranged. It was embarrassing. It was inspiring.
And he hadn’t felt inspired in years.
So today, like clockwork, he pushed open the café door, already reaching for his sketchbook. But something was off.
The hum of conversation had more static in it, more movement. There were fewer staff behind the counter.
“Oh, hi again!” chirped the waitress who always served him—he really should learn her name by now. It was written right there on her name plate. “Just so you know,” she continued, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead, “we’re a bit short-staffed today, so it might take a little longer.”
“No worries at all” Till said, voice calm and reassuring. He understood that this was nobodies fault. So what if he'll have to wait ten more minutes than usual? It was worth it as long as Ivan was here.
He slipped into his usual seat. Sketchbook out. Pencil ready.
“Hello, sir. What can I get you?”
Faster than expected, Till thought as he looked up. He froze. Ivan. In front of him. Up close. Speaking. To. Him. Till blinked, then croaked: “You... You’re serving me?”
The beautiful raven tilted his head slightly, expression neutral, but kind. “Yes. Is that a problem?”
“No! No, no problem. I just—I’ve never seen you serve before. I thought... Are you new here?”
Idiot! The words escaped before he could stop them. Ivan raised an eyebrow, and Till wanted to throw himself headfirst into the nearest coffee and drown.
“No, sir,” Ivan said patiently. “I own the café. I usually don’t serve, but since we’re short on staff today, I’m helping out.”
“Ah. That makes sense.” Till laughed too loudly, awkward and high-pitched. “Haha... Right. Of course. Sorry. Espresso and, uh, the—whatever pastry. Surprise me.”
Ivan gave him a smile. A small one but not unkind or irritated. “Coming right up.”
Till stared at the tabletop once he was gone. He buried his face in his hands, mumbled a prayer to no one in particular. A few minutes passed. Then Ivan returned, a cup in one hand, plate in the other. “Here you go, sir” he said smoothly.
But as he leaned over to place the cup down, his elbow caught the edge of the table. And knocked Till’s sketchbook off. It landed with a quiet thud, open. Pages splayed.
Till froze.
Ivan bent to pick it up.
"No—!"
But it was too late. Ivan had it in his hands. Eyes scanning the page. One. Two. Three pages. Every sketch. All of him.
His mouth opened slightly. Brows drawn in confusion. Then focus. Then a shift in his posture—as if a tiny, sharp thought had just pricked the back of his brain. Till, meanwhile, was gripping the edge of the table like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth.
Ivan flipped another page. Another. More sketches. More of him. Serving. Laughing. Stretching. Glaring at a broken mug. Sweeping hair behind his ear. Pouring coffee. Ivan didn’t speak. His lips parted as if he might. Then closed again. His gaze flicked up. Met Till’s.
Silence.
Ivan blinked. Then blinked again. And then—quietly, very slowly—closed the sketchbook and held it to his chest. From his perspective now, suddenly, everything shifted. Because this man... this man had looked familiar. He hadn’t said anything before. Hadn’t wanted to say anything, because it seemed absurd. But he’d known that face. Those eyes. That nose. The hair. The way he spread his legs without a care in the world.
Till.
Till the End.
The star who had vanished from the public eye nearly four years ago. Ivan's idol. Now he was sitting here, caught red-handed drawing Ivan.
Before Ivan could say anything Till’s mouth moved before his brain had the chance to rethink a single word. “Will you model for me?”