Maxen
The rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee curled through the air, warm and grounding. The faint hum of conversation layered over the rhythmic hiss of the espresso machine, a comforting symphony of daily life. Sunlight streamed through the large glass windows, streaking golden across the dark wooden floors of the café.
Maxen leaned back in his chair, fingers lightly drumming against the armrest. The weight of Mr. Colm's words settled over him.
"That's it, Max. The papers are signed. The café is yours."
The elderly man's graying beard shifted as he smiled. His voice, rich with years of wisdom, carried a warmth Maxen had always associated with home—a tone that had guided him through countless shifts. "Your mother would be proud."
A slow exhale. A nod. Maxen had prepared for this moment, yet the reality of it pressed against him. This café—more than just a business—was a quiet dream made real. A sanctuary, an escape for those seeking refuge from life's noise.
"You've taken care of this place for years," Mr. Colm continued, sliding the documents neatly into a folder. His wrinkled hands lingered over them for a beat longer, as if reluctant to let go. "I trust you'll make it even better."
Maxen didn't need to say anything. The older man understood. With a final pat on Maxen's shoulder, he stood and walked off, leaving behind the weight of ownership in his wake.
---
A Home, Not Just a Café
Stepping out of the office and into the café area, familiar scents and sounds wrapped around him. The clinking of cups. The low murmur of patrons lost in their own worlds. The smooth swirl of steamed milk as a barista poured delicate latte art.
Lena, her dark hair tied back in a messy bun, wiped down the counter with practiced efficiency. Her eyes sparkled as she glanced up, a grin spreading across her face. "So, Mr. CEO, how does it feel?"
Maxen shook his head at her teasing. "It's just Max."
"Uh-huh," she smirked, tossing the cloth over her shoulder. "I bet your name's already on some fancy gold plaque."
"Not happening."
She laughed, popping a piece of gum into her mouth with a crisp snap. "By the way, your café's already attracting VIPs." She nodded toward the mounted television.
Maxen's attention shifted lazily—until the screen flashed an all-too-familiar figure.
Adrian.
A press conference. The sharp cut of a navy-blue suit. Crisp, refined. The gleam of his golden-brown hair under the stage lights. And then—his eyes. Piercing blue, carrying an effortless gravity that commanded attention.
A jolt, sharp and sudden, shot through Maxen's chest. His fingers twitched against the cup—heat pressing through ceramic, grounding him as the world tilted for a fraction of a second.
Lena, ever the gossip, nudged him. "Oh? Interested?"
Maxen blinked, setting the cup down as if nothing had happened. "No."
Lena snickered. "Sure, sure."
The screen shifted to another scene—Adrian and Rick entering a building together.
"You know, I've seen that guy before," Lena mused, eyes still on the TV. "Yeah, they always sit in the same booth, near the back, all casual, like normal people. They always order the same thing too—a latte and a black coffee."
Maxen's head snapped around, his gaze locking onto Lena. "What did you just say?"
Lena, oblivious to his reaction, shrugged. "Yeah, they sit in the corner, all casual, like normal people. Wouldn't think one of them is the country's top actor, right?" She leaned in, whispering as if revealing a grand secret. "Rick is practically an A-lister."
Maxen processed the words. Slowly. They had been coming here—again and again. All this time. And he hadn't known.
Lena grinned. "Told you this café is special. Mr. Colm never wanted just anyone to take over. This place is a little escape for people." She gestured around. "Now it's your responsibility to keep it that way."
Maxen's gaze drifted over the space—the intimate layout, the reading nook by the window, the quiet corners designed for those seeking solace.
Escape.
He exhaled, the tension easing from his shoulders. "Yeah. I know."
---
Later that night, the café was quiet, the last customers having trickled out. Maxen sat in his office, the glow of his phone screen illuminating his face.
Adrian's name was still fresh in his mind. The memory of those blue eyes, the unexpected thread of connection between them.
A hesitation.
Then, with a short breath, he typed:
Hi Rian, congratulations.
His thumb hovered over the send button.
For a second, an urge flickered—to write more, to say something that acknowledged the unspoken familiarity between them.
But he didn't.
He glanced at the screen one last time, a flicker of uncertainty, a brief tremor in his usually steady gaze, before pressing send.
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TO BE CONTINUED...
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