* WAY / down ˖

“Oh?” Josephine’s brows perk. “And who’s your best friend?” Followed by light laughter, “No, don’t call yourself easy! I feel like a high school sleaze!” She shakes her head, grinning. “Though honestly, you do have that leading man look—very silver screen. But I’m not about the whole, ‘using words to get what you want’ thing. I prefer to rely solely on my natural charm. Much more ethical, no?”

"her name's angelica." he doesn't supply her last name. that's not the important part anyway. "i guess i should be worried," minho says, a soft laugh caught behind the words, "you know, since the charm's working." he lifts a brow at her, amused and slightly tilts head like he's humoring her. "if i'm the leading man, i hope i survive the third act of the horror movies you're mentally casting me in. you got any box office hits with a happy ending in mind for me? or am i giving tragic, doomed but memorable?"

Coronado is nothing but a madhouse full of performers. Josephine knows that much. It’s a lawless land where secrets fold into one another, and it’s best to turn a blind eye to it—especially if you aren’t the type who’s used to living with the heartache that comes with circus life. It’s an endless sort of loneliness covered in colored streamers. It took a while for her to learn that lesson—and she sure as hell learned it the agonizingly slow and hard way—but she’s comfortable with it now. Everyone has (and always will have) secrets. Most of them will successfully take them to their graves. Sometimes, those graves are dug early. She just hopes Minho isn’t one of those people. He seems nice. “You know, you do have the face of a movie star,” Josephine teases. “Have you watched that one horror movie, The Feedback Loop? The main actor finds a film reel of some sort of homemade movie, and he basically has to fight off the ghosts coming out of his TV when he watches it. You look like him, kind of.”

minho's brows raise at her assessment of his looks, lips twitching into a smile that seems to inquire where on earth she got the idea from. but he listens patiently as she talks about the movie in question and he can't help but chuckle. "horror, hm?" how fitting, he thinks. but he chooses not to say it. instead, he rolls up his sleeves, pointing in the general direction of the crates he suspects need to be lifted and tilts his head as if to prompt her to give a nod of confirmation. "well, don't go around saying that within ear shot of my best friend," he adds, an image of angelica flashing through his mind as he pictures her reaction to someone claiming he had 'movie star potential', "she might try and cast me for her next project and i'm not sure i'm made for the big screen." he flashes her another grin, rare and honest. "up until now i liked to think i had a pretty forgettable look going for me. you sure this isn't just you trying to butter me up?" there's something teasing to be found in his tone now too. "i swear the muffin's worked just fine on that front. no extra work needed. i'm easy like that."

“Ah, well, I try to keep the scales balanced,” she wittily retorts back. “I charge yuppies §300 for coffee, then I give people free muffins. It all just evens out, you know?” Hardly, but she grins at her own flawed ‘logic,’ anyhow. “Okay, so… if you’re not a corporate zombie…” Josephine starts as she’s walking from the back entrance, “I don’t think you’re from Viejo, either, because then I would’ve heard about you. And you’re definitely not a banker.” Memories of that very odd day flash like a broken rotoscope, though she pays it no mind—for now. “Hm… are you a teacher somewhere? Or a performer?”

minho watches patiently as she makes her assessment on his potential job. his arms are crossed lazily, head tilted slightly to the side as his dark eyes sparkle with amusement. when she concludes her guesses, his lips curve into a grin. "a performer..." he repeats, like he's trying the word on for size. he thinks of his carefully curated documents. of the name he now carries like he owns it while his own fades into obscurity. the way he bends himself into whichever mold guarantees him survival for another day. "i guess you could say it's something like that," he finally concludes, shrugging his shoulders, though the way he says it sounds more like she just nailed an inside joke she didn't even know she was part of. he winks at her then, all dramatics, big and showy much unlike his usual persona and tips an imaginary hat. "life is my stage and muffins will be my payment."

the hug was both a surprise and a blessing. she knew that minho wasn't always so fond of affection, physical or verbal, but to abandon it completely was against who she was as a person. she never pushed, but with all the things she did have to hide, the value of friendship would never be among them. with this development, angie liked to think that she had rubbed off on him in some way. she liked to think he had done the same to her. everyone, she knew, was a collection of all the people they admired. she admired minho. "i'm holding you to that," she said, giving him a last squeeze. "and i promise you can sleep in the next day. i just know i'll have so many things to tell you!" pulling back, she gave him a last, appreciative smile. "text me so i know you got home safe?"

minho huffs out a soft breath that could almost pass for a laugh if you knew him well enough to recognize the difference. his hands drop back to his sides but he lingers for a second longer than necessary, as if reluctant to fully step away from the warmth of it. "don't get used to the sentimental stuff," he says but the words come out softer than he intends. there's no real bite behind them. just a half-smile and the glint of something fond in his eyes. he steps back, hands in his pockets. "i'll text," he promises, tilting his head slightly, "and you better save the good stories. i'm not listening to twenty minutes of antevenas descriptions." he waits a beat, lips curving into something that's supposed to be warm and reassuring. "take care of yourself, ang. don't forget i'm just a call away if you need me." and with that, he turns, slipping into the night like smoke.

Josephine surprises herself with a loud laugh, “‘Morally upright’? Are we sure that’s the title we’re giving to a café that might be selling overpriced coffee in a city full of corporate zombies?” Though, in her defense, she’s millions in debt. But she won’t say that out loud—obviously. She stills. “…unless you’re a corporate zombie, in which case, I take back everything I said.” She’s a bit embarrassed now, her lips quirking, “I didn’t just completely insult you, did I?”

minho snorts — an honest, surprised laugh that slips out before he can catch it. the sound is rare, unguarded, and it lingers in the space between them a beat too long to be anything but real. "corporate zombie?" he echoes, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth, "i think you'd have to kill me twice just to get me into a cubicle." he watches her with a look that could border on fond as his brow quirks lightly, studying her expression. "furthest thing from corporate anything, don't worry. insult fully dodged." a pause, lips twitching. "overpriced coffee though? bold talk from someone bribing me with free muffins."

Minho's answer, yay or nay, will help Teodósio kill two birds. So he waits, sling in hand.

the corner of minho's mouth lifts but it doesn't reach his eyes. "no problem," he says easily — too easily, perhaps — as he reaches for his glass of water. he takes a sip before continuing, tone light enough to pass for indifferent. "but it wouldn't be smart. notfor me, not for the room. you know how certain names play in certain circles." he sets the glass back down with quiet precision. his gaze meets teo's, unblinking. "better to watch the fire from outside than dance too close to the flame. i can be nearby if you need me." a pause. "just not on the guest list." another pause, thinner this time. "you'll get more use out of me that way anyway." he doesn't elaborate. doesn't mention the shibatas. doesn't say why it wouldn't be smart. just enough space in the phrasing to imply there's more and that teo's smart enough to fill in the blanks. which he was. hopefully just not too smart. minho leans back in his chair. the message is clear: he won't be attending but he's still on the job. still watching. still useful, just from the shadows where he prefers to be.

"okay, but i'm holding you to another time. i would love for you to meet my family! i just know they'll love you as much as i do." his presence also stood to prove that there were people, outside of the family, that could stand to be around her. "and you would still be my favorite, trust me. i'm more worried you'll be their favorite, too!" but she knew better than to push those who didn't want to be pushed. "i really appreciate you coming this far, min. you'll at least let me wake you up early tomorrow, won't you?"

he's not sure when someone last told him they loved him. minho just stares at her for a moment. his gaze seems tinged with a kind of affection that's slowly starting to feel familiar when he's with her. it's the kind of look that says your words mean a lot to me. the kind that says you mean a lot. his lips curve into a smile that holds a certain kind of weight that seems to reach far beyond this moment as he steps closer. he's still mildly awkward as he pulls her in for a hug, evidence of how rusty the action had become since it had served no purpose in his life. "i'd let you wake me any damn time of day, ang," he says with a quiet chuckle, voice low and brimming with affection before he clears his throat and loosens his hold on her, voice attempting to land on a teasing note when he continues, "just don't make me regret awarding you that privilege, alright? i can't risk handing in my cult membership because i can't cope with the daily wake up calls before sunrise."

“They’re in the truck,” Josephine says with a grin. “You don’t have anything better to do today than help a solopreneur, right?” A light tease, of course, punctuated by an exaggerated drawl of the terrible-sounding buzzword. “Or am I interrupting more surreptitious dodging?” From taxes, she assumes… for now.

he huffs out a laugh, already moving toward the truck. "solopreneur," he repeats, like it physically pained him to hear it out loud. "i'm helping out of self-preservation now. if you say that again i might not recover." he glances over his shoulder, a smirk tugging at his mouth. "and for the record, i'm not dodging anything. i just happen to enjoy the company of morally upright small business owners with too many crates."

"are you sure you won't come inside with me?" she couldn't understand why minho would refuse her invitation, but she didn't want to press the issue. "i know you would have a great time!"

"maybe another time. i don't really think this is my crowd." that's one way to put it. his spine is already stiff with the mere knowledge of who is surely already inside. "i wouldn't do well sharing your attention anyway. i like being your reigning favorite when there's no competition around. but i'll be back for the debrief." he winks, letting his lips curl into a smile that's part teasing, part earnest. "you look beautiful, though."

“Hey, Mr. Mysterious!” Josephine cheekily calls out, “I could use a hand with these crates—I could give you the last batch of today's muffins!” (@nightmourned)

minho appears in the doorway a second after she calls out like he'd already been halfway there. "crates for muffins?" he says, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. "you really know how to sweet-talk a guy." he crosses the distance between them in a few easy strides, rolling up his sleeves. "point me to the heavy lifting. i'll trade muscle for sugar any day." the actual trade is however long with her this will get him, even if he's running on borrowed time himself.

"There's another matter... More a question, really." Teodósio leans back in his seat, studying Minho's face. "What do you know about the Premier's death?"

minho listens in silence. he doesn't interrupt, doesn't rush, just lets teodósio speak, absorbing the details like he's filing them away in a drawer he might never open again unless he's paid to. which, fortunately — or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it — he is. the mention of grigorio doesn't get a visible reaction but something sharpens slightly in his eyes. "grentholme park," he echoes, like he's tucking it under his tongue and mapping the location out in his mind already, "public. plenty of faces. good for blending. bad for follow-ups if things go sideways." a beat. "which they won't." there's no bravado to the statement. just calm confidence. his kind of work doesn't leave room for second tries. most things in his life don't. not that he'll give himself the time to ponder on it. at least not now. there's the faint clink of his water glass as he accepts it with a small nod once the water returns, taking a sip, slow and unbothered, as if they're discussing the weather and not surveillance on someone teo admits he's too close to tail himself. then the second request comes. a question. minho meets it with stillness. no flicker in his expression. no shift in posture. he just watches teodósio watching him, that ever-present hum of tension under the surface. not defensive. just... unreadable. and when he speaks, it's low. even. nearly dry enough to crack. "that it was a well-aimed shot." that's all. no elaboration. no lean forward. no sign of whether he means the shot was political or literal or both. his gaze doesn't break from teo's. he simply lets the silence sit there, daring the man across from him to make what he wants of it.

"that's the point. i don't think i'm sinister enough for it! i'm a lover, not a fighter, you know?" either way, it was hard to believe that anything about her could be good for pr... the scene, so to speak, had not been kind to her as of late. most times, she let it roll off of her. what did she care what anyone else thought, right? but year after year, it began to wear on her... when would she do something right? she didn't worry about it so much around him. it was a truer mark of friendship, of the understanding between them, than any other. a light laugh escaped her. "you know me too well. i was going to head for yoga in the park. after that, a jog. you would be amazed at how productive you can be when you fill your time with things you don't like doing." angie had learned to enjoy her time exercising and being out and about, but that enjoyment had been won by tooth and nail. "you should come with me. you never know, you might just enjoy yourself." aka, too late... she was already roping him into it.

"you want me to do yoga?" minho echoes, like she might as well have just asked him to join a boy band. his brows lift, the corner of his mouth twitching in something between amusement and sheer horror. "angie, you can't be serious. the only time i willingly contort myself into strange positions is when i'm trying to reach the charger that fell behind the bed." and that's the story he'll be sticking with. he leans back with exaggerated ease, folding his arms. "best i can offer is watching you do yoga as i cheer from the sidelines. moral support and all that. but then i guess i'd be keeping you from getting into the zone." his gaze flickers over her, light but sincere. "listen, if filling your day with things you don't like somehow makes you feel better, far be it from me to get in the way of that. but i have to draw the line somewhere and i'm choosing to draw it at morning yoga." he pushes himself to stand, rolling out his shoulders. "go stretch yourself into a pretzel or whatever helps you sleep at night. just don't say i didn't warn you when your muscles are still yelling at you tomorrow."

It catches her off-guard, his little comment. “You like my coffee?” It’s nothing, really, in the realm of compliments—especially about her business—but she’s a bit nonplussed. “Why, thank you.” And oh, she can’t help it: “It’s made with love.” It’s even paired with a playful little eye roll. She always finds the need to be glib about it; perhaps it's a shield of her own, hiding behind a thin veil of corniness but saying it with so much warmth that it comes out sincere all the same. It’s a delicate dance with her: be genuine, be jovial, be true. But then, she sobers up a little, smile fading ever so slightly. “I know how that feels. A dwindling dining table, I mean. It’s… not the best feeling. I guess that’s why I throw myself into the café. Keeps my mind off it—so much so that I end up butting into the lives of my customers.” She lets out a humorless laugh, and shakes her head. “Nothing’s more embarrassing than someone who takes her job too seriously, right?”

minho huffs out something akin to the ghost of a laugh at her made with love comment. his brow quirks faintly at the eye roll and for a moment there's something oddly tender in the way he looks at her. "figured it had to be something like that." he dips another piece of bread into the soup, chewing quietly as she continues. when she mentions the dwindling dining table, he doesn't speak. not at first. he just watches her like he's reading a line twice, like he recognizes the ache in what she's saying because he's worn it too. "there's worse things than someone who gives a shit," he says eventually. the words are plain but his tone makes it clear it's not empty reassurance. "you remember orders. you don't push when someone walks in quiet. you seem to catch things most people miss — who's had a bad night, who looks like they forget to eat. even who doesn't want to be seen. and you meet them halfway without making a show of it. most people just serve coffee. you do more than that, whether intentional or just second-nature." there's something in his eyes when he speaks but the flicker is gone as quick as it came, before it can turn into something more specific. minho shakes his head once, a quick exhale through his nose. "anyway," he mutters, tone shifting like it's trying to tuck something back under, "if that's embarrassing... well, might be the best kind i've seen. it's what keeps people coming back to you." a pause. "to your café." he tilts his head then, observing her. "have you always taken care of people like that?"

"you know i'm way too giving to be a real cult leader. it would just end up being a commune. not that i'm saying i know anything about that, either." she would find it hard to believe that there were enough people in coronado that liked her for that. angelica had found, perhaps the hard way, that people loved to hate much more than they loved to love. it was easy to hate, often thoughtless. she thought that one of minho's biggest strengths was that he could think for himself. she didn't care if someone didn't find worth in her work as long as they were genuine about it. nothing could be made to suit everyone's tastes, after all. lips twitching, angie continued, "most often, i find that my plans are a perfect mixture of both... but more good than bad. i'm sure you won't be the exception to that." people were made up of good and bad, too. charming and awkward, analytical and gullible. to box the human condition, perhaps the concept of life in and of itself, to such rigid boxes went against everything she believed. "that means i won't demote you, even if you're not always on your a-game."

"a commune, huh?" minho hums, like he's seriously weighing the idea, "not gonna lie, that is significantly less sinister. kind of a downgrade in dramatic tension, but better for your pr." his mouth twitches like he's about to smile but decides against the full effort. his gaze lingers on her a moment longer before dropping to the surface of her coffee table. "guess i'll consider myself lucky, then," he adds, "not getting kicked out even when i'm barely running on fumes. it's good to know membership comes with a little grace." he stretches out his legs, posture finally starting to ease out of its early-morning stiffness. "what's next on your schedule? let me guess — some overachiever version of relaxing that still somehow involves a full itinerary and at least one moment of quiet existential dread between activities?" there's amusement in his tone but the question is genuine enough beneath the sarcasm. a quiet check-in without making it obvious he's checking in. "just wondering if i should let you escape now before you try and rope me into anything wildly ambitious and only half planned." a beat. "not that it'd stop you."

“Just the ones who look like they forget to eat,” she says, wrapping her fingers around her own bowl’s warmth. Her smile comes easier here, away from watching eyes and careful conversations. The steam rises between them, a small barrier made of nothing. She watches him through it—the way his shoulders relax incrementally, how his eyes do that careful sweep of the room even when he’s trying not to. “Besides,” she adds, lifting the spoon to taste the broth, “it seemed safer than asking what you wanted. Questions draw attention, right?” The soup is perfect—rich and simple, the kind that fills empty spaces you didn’t know existed. She notices he hasn’t started eating yet, still caught in that moment of surprise at her small kindness. “It’s good,” she says quietly, encouraging. “Luiza makes it from scratch every day. Her grandmother’s recipe, I’m pretty sure.” Joey breaks a piece of crusty bread, offering half across the table. “You said you don’t have many people you trust.” Her voice stays soft, matter-of-fact. “I’m guessing that makes eating alone a regular thing.” She doesn’t ask why he was looking for her at the market. Doesn’t push about the café. In Coronado, some questions wait until the third bowl of soup. “So,” she says instead, “do you actually like coffee, or was my café just convenient?”

minho doesn't touch the soup right away like he's waiting to see if it'll vanish. like if he looks away, this moment might fold in on itself and disappear. but it doesn't. her answer — just the ones who look like they forget to eat — makes something flicker in his expression. not quite a smile but the memory of one. his gaze drops to the bowl again and this time he picks up the spoon. the first sip stops him cold. for a second, he holds his breath. it's not just good. it's real. the kind of warmth that sneaks up on you. that fills in cracks so long-forgotten you stopped noticing the chill. he huffs out something that's barely a laugh. "damn," he mutters, half to himself, "i should have asked you for recommendations a long time ago." when she offers the bread, he looks at her, properly this time, like he's still recalibrating something. the gesture, the way she sees through him without prying, it throws him. not in a bad way. just… unexpected. "i used to eat with people," he says finally, taking the bread, careful not to brush her fingers. "then most of them stopped making it to dinner." a beat. "some stopped making it at all." he takes another spoonful, like he needs the taste to anchor the words. his shoulders don't quite drop but the edges round off a little. her question draws his attention again and he exhales slowly, like he knows it's meant to be light but can't help telling the truth. "i don't really think about liking things," he says after a pause, voice low, "coffee's just... fuel." there's no self-pity in the statement. just quiet fact. something functional in a world that rarely lets him want things just to want them. "but," he adds, a little softer now, "i like your coffee." he lets the statement hang in the air for a moment. his eyes meet hers. there's no grin, just simple honesty that's a little rough around the edges, like his use of it has become slightly rusty. he leans back in his seat, gaze still steady. "place felt welcoming. you made it easy." that's all he says but it lands heavier than it should, like it means something more — and maybe it does.