12-14-2025, 11:18 PM
The door to the café had barely finished swinging closed behind Ezvin when he spotted her golden curls, pale winterlight smile, and eyes lit with something brighter than caffeine.
He smiled.
It was a quicksilver thing, that smile. Not too practiced, not too polished, but warm in the way kindling was warm, not just from heat but from the suggestion of flame. She was already moving toward him.
Not a surprise, but pleasant nonetheless.
He dropped the final button of his coat just as Cadence reached him. Her hug was brief, and for a heartbeat he returned it with a companionable tightness, one hand at the small of her back. The other rose with the ease of a man who’d done this before: two kisses, one to each cheek, brisk and friendly, a greeting born of Moscow and musician camaraderie. Then he leaned back, and something in his gaze held the faintest shimmer of expectation as if he’d known he would see her today.
His coat slid off and slid onto the nearest hook and underneath his slate-gray cashmere sweater clung to the lines of his frame. He shook his hair just tousled enough to suggest effortlessness, and gave a soft huff, more pleased than exasperated. He reached toward the counter without needing to be asked. One cup was already in his hand, lifted toward her as if it had waited there just for her.
“This one must be yours,” he said, his voice velvet-thin and pleased. “I had a feeling today called for something warm, familiar, and just a little bit indulgent. Like the sound of a vinyl record skipping exactly where you want it to.”
The barista behind the counter, a broad-shouldered man with a copper-colored beard, placed Ezvin's order in front of him - a punchy ristretto. He accepted it with a nod, then turned back to Cadence with a flicker of curiosity.
“So... your friend,” he said lightly, brows lifting with theatrical intrigue, “is she protective, charming, or quietly judging me from across the room?”
He swept his gaze casually around, but didn’t linger. There was a playful smoothness to the gesture like a pianist testing a key before deciding to play it.
Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he extended a hand toward the second drink Cadence had ordered.
“May I carry it for you?” he asked, all gentleman grace and mischief. It wasn’t totally flirtation. It was Ezvin being Ezvin. Warm, charming, and just a little bit theatrical.
He smiled.
It was a quicksilver thing, that smile. Not too practiced, not too polished, but warm in the way kindling was warm, not just from heat but from the suggestion of flame. She was already moving toward him.
Not a surprise, but pleasant nonetheless.
He dropped the final button of his coat just as Cadence reached him. Her hug was brief, and for a heartbeat he returned it with a companionable tightness, one hand at the small of her back. The other rose with the ease of a man who’d done this before: two kisses, one to each cheek, brisk and friendly, a greeting born of Moscow and musician camaraderie. Then he leaned back, and something in his gaze held the faintest shimmer of expectation as if he’d known he would see her today.
His coat slid off and slid onto the nearest hook and underneath his slate-gray cashmere sweater clung to the lines of his frame. He shook his hair just tousled enough to suggest effortlessness, and gave a soft huff, more pleased than exasperated. He reached toward the counter without needing to be asked. One cup was already in his hand, lifted toward her as if it had waited there just for her.
“This one must be yours,” he said, his voice velvet-thin and pleased. “I had a feeling today called for something warm, familiar, and just a little bit indulgent. Like the sound of a vinyl record skipping exactly where you want it to.”
The barista behind the counter, a broad-shouldered man with a copper-colored beard, placed Ezvin's order in front of him - a punchy ristretto. He accepted it with a nod, then turned back to Cadence with a flicker of curiosity.
“So... your friend,” he said lightly, brows lifting with theatrical intrigue, “is she protective, charming, or quietly judging me from across the room?”
He swept his gaze casually around, but didn’t linger. There was a playful smoothness to the gesture like a pianist testing a key before deciding to play it.
Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he extended a hand toward the second drink Cadence had ordered.
“May I carry it for you?” he asked, all gentleman grace and mischief. It wasn’t totally flirtation. It was Ezvin being Ezvin. Warm, charming, and just a little bit theatrical.