"Some people don't walk into your life. They slowly settle there—like warmth, like home."
By the end of her first week in Havenbrook, Yuna had memorized the rhythm of the town.
The way the church bell rang softly at eight each morning. The way the bookstore opened its doors ten minutes late every day, without fail. The way people waved to each other without expecting anything in return. It was a town that breathed slowly.
And Yuna, after everything she'd endured back in the city, needed that slowness.
She had three morning classes on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Literature, creative theory, and modern fiction. Her professors were kind, curious, and slightly eccentric in that way that only university teachers could be. She took notes neatly, participated when called on, but mostly stayed quiet — listening more than speaking, absorbing more than expressing.
Afternoons were her own.
She used to dread them.
Back in the city, afternoons had been long stretches of overthinking and pretending to be fine. But here in Havenbrook, they became something else. Something almost soft.
Each day, she found herself gravitating toward the same path. Past the maple trees turning amber. Past the alley of ceramic shops. Past the little florist who smiled every time Yuna walked by.
And then, always — Mocha Moon.
It wasn't that she didn't have other places to study. The campus library was beautiful. Her apartment had space. Even the park near the lake was peaceful in a postcard kind of way.
But there was something about that café. Or maybe, more honestly, something about the man inside it.
Eli didn't always speak when she walked in.
Sometimes he just nodded, or offered a brief smile. Sometimes he slid her drink across the counter with a napkin already folded underneath, as if he'd been waiting to share the words with her all day.
He wasn't trying to impress her.
That's what made it matter.
On Tuesday, he was playing jazz again — Miles Davis this time, if she wasn't mistaken. The café was half full, the windows slightly fogged from the sudden drop in temperature. Yuna walked in just before two, her journal under one arm, her scarf knotted loosely around her neck.
Eli glanced up from where he was restocking mugs.
"Vanilla oat?"
She paused. "Surprise me."
His eyebrows lifted slightly — a rare reaction from him. "Bold."
She shrugged with a small smile, hanging her coat on the wall hook near her usual seat. "Maybe I'm learning to take risks."
He gave a soft chuckle, the sound low and warm.
A few minutes later, he brought over a new drink — something nutty and floral. She took a cautious sip and tilted her head in approval.
He slid the napkin toward her.
"You don't have to be whole to be loved." — r.m. drake
Yuna stared at it for a long moment before folding it gently and tucking it into her journal. Her fingers lingered on the edge of the page, but she didn't write.
Not yet.
Instead, she opened the novel they were assigned in her creative fiction course and lost herself in the world of another woman learning how to feel again.
Eli moved in the background. Pouring, cleaning, helping, humming under his breath when he thought no one was listening.
She didn't talk to him much.
But she noticed him.
And maybe that was its own kind of closeness.
That Thursday, Mina convinced her to come out for late-night snacks at a ramen cart downtown. The wind was sharper than expected, and they huddled around steaming bowls with chapped hands and running noses.
"I saw that look," Mina said mid-bite.
"What look?"
"The one you gave your phone earlier. You were thinking about him."
Yuna blinked. "Who?"
Mina gave her a flat stare. "Eli. You know, the human embodiment of a warm blanket. Tall. Quiet. Runs a café. You've basically moved in there."
Yuna rolled her eyes. "He makes good coffee."
"He makes you breathe softer," Mina said, nudging her with an elbow. "That's not nothing."
Yuna didn't respond.
Not because Mina was wrong, but because she didn't know how to explain what it was. She didn't have a crush. Not like that. This wasn't about flutters or fantasy.
It was about calm.
About how her chest didn't tighten when she was around him. About how he never looked at her like she was supposed to perform. About how he gave her space without making her feel invisible.
And maybe, just maybe, that was what she needed more than romance.
The next day, Yuna brought Eli something for a change.
It was a small thing — a folded page from one of her poetry books, the edges creased, her favorite line highlighted.
She handed it to him with her drink order, unsure of what to say.
He looked at the paper, read it silently, then looked back at her.
"You wrote this?"
She shook her head. "I wish."
His eyes scanned it again. "It's beautiful."
She didn't say anything.
She didn't need to.
He tucked it into his apron pocket and made her drink without another word.
When he brought it over to her seat, he said, "Try this one. Cardamom and rose."
She took a sip and smiled.
Then he surprised her.
He slid into the seat across from her — just for a moment — resting his arms on the table like he belonged there.
"Do you write?" he asked.
Her fingers froze on the rim of her cup. "Used to."
"Why'd you stop?"
She looked down. "It stopped feeling like mine."
Eli nodded like he understood. "I used to play piano."
Yuna looked up, surprised. "Seriously?"
"Conservatory kid. Used to think music would save me."
"What happened?"
He shrugged. "I got tired of performing for people who weren't listening."
That sentence sat between them like a mirror.
She met his eyes and said softly, "I get that."
He didn't smile. Not really.
But his gaze warmed.
And in that moment, the silence between them wasn't empty.
It was full.
That evening, she went home and wrote for two hours.
Not perfect lines. Not poetry.
Just thoughts.
Just pieces of herself she hadn't visited in a long time.
And when she was done, she realized something.
She felt…lighter.
Not fixed.
Not whole.
Just less afraid to begin again.