Night One - The First Night

Evenings belonged to you.

Not in any grand, poetic sense—London didn’t surrender herself to anyone—but in the quiet, unspoken way nightfall belongs to the people who notice it. Most had already retreated behind curtains by the time you twisted the key in the shop’s lock. The familiar chime of the front door greeted the dim street rather than a customer.

Your tea shop sat on the fringe of Soho, where the sharp edges of the nightlife softened into residential calm. By day, your windows reflected nothing but closed blinds and your own faint outline. But by night, they glowed with warm, uneven candlelight. Pale gold spilled over the dark pavement like something alive. The sign above the shop shines ‘Moonlight Brew’.

The place smelled of bergamot and dried rose petals—scents that had soaked into the walls, the shelves, even the pages of the paperbacks you kept by the window.

The regulars came almost as soon as you lit the first wick.

Arthur, the poet, was first through the door every evening. A man whose tweed coat seemed permanently stitched to his frame, no matter the weather, he carried an old leather notebook whose corners curled in submission to decades of use.

He greeted you with the same gravel-rough “Evening, my dear,” every night, and immediately claimed the corner table by the window. It was his post, his lookout, his makeshift desk. He wrote there until closing, pausing only to sip the tea you set down without asking for his order.

Behind him came Maya and Sam—students at the university, though not in the same field if their constant debates were anything to go by. They commandeered the back table, spreading their notes and textbooks until the wood disappeared beneath them. Every night they ordered a pot of Earl Grey to share, cups forgotten and cooled while they argued over equations or literary interpretations.

Outside, just beyond the glow of your candles, Leo the busker set up against the brick wall. His guitar case lay open at his feet, a scatter of coins catching the lamplight. He had the gift of making even hurried pedestrians slow down—his playing was soft, steady, and curiously intimate, like he was speaking directly to the pavement.

You moved through the opening rituals without thinking. Wipe the counters, check the till, rinse the teapots from the night before. The kettle’s whistle was a familiar punctuation. You liked the rhythm of it all—predictable, unhurried. The rain outside was a steady whisper, pooling in the cracks of the pavement, blurring the reflections of street lamps into smears of yellow. The sound made the shop feel even warmer by contrast—the hiss of the kettle, the muted clink of china against wood, the candle flames bowing in the occasional draft.

The door chime stirred the air.

You looked up.

A man stood just inside, shaking droplets from his hair, coat damp from the rain. His presence was quiet, but his face—well, it wasn’t one you could mistake for ordinary. There was something about him that drew the eye, and something else that suggested he’d rather it didn’t. The stranger’s coat looked like it had seen better days—thick wool, tailored, but softened from wear. It was damp at the shoulders, darkened several shades by the rain. His hair had been pushed back once, hastily, then left to fall where it pleased. A few strands clung stubbornly to his forehead.

He scanned the shelves behind you, gaze lingering on the chalkboard menu. His brow furrowed as though the words were written in another language.

“Evening,” you said, keeping your tone warm but not intrusive.

“Hi,” he answered, voice low, a little rough. “I’ll be honest—no idea what half of these are.”

“Fair,” you said, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Do you want something strong or gentle?”

His gaze flicked briefly to the window, almost like he expected someone to be following him. Then he looked back at you.

“Gentle,” he decided.

You turned to the shelf, fingers brushing over jars before selecting one. “Evening Fog. Soft black tea with lavender and vanilla. It usually makes people feel lighter than when they walked in.”

The corner of his mouth twitched—almost a smile. “Sounds perfect.”

The kettle hissed; you measured the leaves into a pot. He glanced around the shop while you worked, taking in Arthur muttering over his notebook, the students buried in their papers, the muted strum of Leo’s guitar outside. He didn’t take his eyes off you as you measured out the tea leaves. Not in an invasive way, more like he was studying something that made him feel a little steadier.

“This place always open at night?” he asked suddenly, voice still low, as though too much volume might break the spell.

“Always,” you said, glancing up at him. “It’s quieter then. People who come here want to be here.”

A small hum of acknowledgment, almost swallowed by the rain tapping the window.

You poured hot water into the pot, steam rising between you. The scent of lavender unfurled into the air, curling into the darker base note of black tea. He inhaled without meaning to, shoulders easing a fraction.

When you slid the cup toward him, his fingers brushed yours for the briefest moment—cool skin against the faint warmth from the kettle. It was the kind of fleeting contact that would be forgotten by most, but you felt it linger, he wrapped both hands around it like he’d been cold all day.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, retreating to a corner table.

And you thought—that would be that.

It wasn’t.

He carried the cup to the far corner and set it down like something fragile. He didn’t immediately drink, just sat there with both hands wrapped around the porcelain, watching the steam lift and disappear.

Arthur, of course, noticed the new arrival within minutes. The poet had a sixth sense for fresh faces, and tonight was no different.

“You’ve the look of a man in search of words,” Arthur said from his table, voice carrying across the shop.

The stranger looked up, faintly amused. “Do I?”

Arthur stood—always a prelude to an unsolicited recitation—and wandered over. “Permit me, then,” he said, and without waiting, began:

‘I have wandered in rain and in rapture, where streets wore the perfume of night. And the faces I passed were all strangers, until one looked back in the light…’

It went on. Not bad, really, though Arthur’s delivery was more grand than the quiet shop demanded. You busied yourself at the counter, hiding a smile at the way the stranger—Joseph, you’d later learn—sat with surprising patience, even leaning forward slightly as if indulging the performance.

When Arthur finally paused, the man nodded politely. “That’s… beautiful. Do you write every night?”

“Every night I breathe,” Arthur said, clearly charmed, before drifting back to his corner.

The man—still just a nameless visitor to you—caught your eye across the room, and his smile this time was unguarded.

For the next half hour, he sat without a phone in sight, without any fidgeting, without the restless tapping you often saw in people who didn’t know how to be still. Every so often, he’d take a slow sip of tea, gaze moving over the room as though mapping it into memory.

When he finally stood, placing his empty cup on the counter, he hesitated.

“That was… exactly what I needed,” he said.

You nodded, used to people thanking the tea when what they really meant was the peace that came with it. “Come back anytime.”

He gave a half-smile that looked almost like a promise. Then he stepped out into the rain, collar turned up, disappearing past Leo’s slow, mournful guitar.

The door swung shut. The candle flames swayed. And something in the air felt… different.

Night Two

The chill had crept in overnight, sharper than the rain itself. London wore that kind of cold that settled beneath your skin, the dampness seeping past your coat and threading into your bones. The drizzle was constant—a soft curtain of moisture blurring the streetlights and painting everything with a sheen of quiet.

Inside your tea shop, the atmosphere was a cozy contrast. The low hum of conversation, the gentle clatter of teacups, the flicker of candle flames casting warm shadows across the shelves. Arthur was at his usual spot, muttering verses under his breath, his fingers stained with ink. Maya and Sam argued quietly about some academic crisis, their textbooks spilling across the table like a miniature battlefield. Leo’s guitar floated in through the open door, dampened but still soulful.

The bell over the door tinkled, soft but definite.

You glanced up and there he was.

The same man from the night before. The wet wool coat, the unruly dark hair dampened by rain, the quiet presence that seemed to absorb the shop’s warmth rather than disrupt it.

There was something familiar about him, a vague sense that you’d seen his face somewhere before—on a screen, maybe, or in a magazine. But the exact place eluded you, slipping like mist through your mind.

“Evening,” you said, trying to sound casual but feeling your heart quicken just a little.

“Evening,” he answered, the faintest hint of a smile touching his lips. His eyes held that same softness from last night, but now there was something more open about them, as if he’d made a quiet decision to be here again.

“Same as yesterday?” you asked, already reaching for the jar of Evening Fog.

He nodded. “Yes, please. I remember now—the lavender and vanilla.”

You poured the steaming water over the leaves, the scent blooming in the air between you. You glanced at him again, studying the curve of his jaw, the way the candlelight caught the slight creases around his eyes when he smiled.

“Do I know you from somewhere?” you found yourself asking, unable to stop the words from tumbling out.

He paused, looking almost surprised. Then chuckled softly, the sound low and warm. “That’s a good question. I get that a lot, actually. Maybe from a show or a film—something like that.”

His answer only made the recognition more frustratingly vague. You searched his face, trying to pin down the memory—a theater poster? A magazine cover you skimmed over? But it was like chasing shadows.

Arthur, who had been observing with his usual keen interest, suddenly appeared at your side.

“Good to see you again,” he said, nodding toward the man.

Joseph—that’s what you learned his name was, spoken quietly when he finally introduced himself as he took his cup—gave a small smile. “Joseph Quinn,” he said.

You repeated the name in your head, the pieces clicking just enough to feel like you’d finally put a label on the familiarity.

Arthur leaned in conspiratorially. “Did you know lavender was once thought to ward off nightmares?”

Joseph smiled at the tidbit, eyes twinkling. “I think it’s working.”

You poured the tea into a warm cup and slid it across the counter. Joseph didn’t retreat to the far corner like last night. Instead, he settled at a table closer to the counter, close enough that when you moved around the shop, you could feel his presence like a soft current behind you.

He watched you with quiet attentiveness, occasionally glancing at the rows of teapots behind you as though memorizing them.

“You’re busy tonight?” he asked quietly.

“Not really,” you said. “This is the usual crowd. A few regulars, and a handful of night owls who prefer candles over neon.”

Joseph nodded, the faintest smile curling his lips. “I think I took the right turn last night.”

The weight of those words settled between you, soft but full of meaning.

When he rose to leave, he held his empty cup just a moment longer than necessary.

“You know,” he said quietly, “this place feels like it exists in its own little bubble. Like the rest of the world just presses pause the minute you walk through that door.”

You tilted your head, struck by how perfectly he’d summed it up.

“That’s the idea,” you said softly.

His smile deepened, eyes warm. “See you tomorrow.”

And this time, it wasn’t a question.

When the door shut behind him, you caught the faint reflection of that smile in the glass before the rain swallowed it whole.

Night Three

The rain had finally eased into a gentle drizzle by the time you unlocked the shop, but the air was still thick with that damp, London chill that clung stubbornly to skin and clothes. The streets outside were slick with reflected light, a mirror world shimmering beneath the hazy glow of lampposts.

Inside, the shop felt like a refuge—soft candlelight flickering against the walls, the faint scent of bergamot curling in the air like a promise. You slid open the heavy wooden door, releasing the small cloud of warmth you’d built up over the day.

Arthur was already there, sitting at his usual table, head bent over his notebook, muttering lines that floated between poetry and mumbling about rhythm. Maya and Sam were settled in as well, their textbooks splayed out like a fortress of knowledge and frustration. Outside, Leo’s guitar was silent—likely taking shelter from the wet evening.

You moved to the counter, your hands already busy with the familiar opening rituals: polishing the wooden surfaces, arranging the teapots with practiced care, lighting fresh candles to chase away the damp chill.

And then, as if by a gentle magnet, the bell chimed again.

You looked up and there he was—Joseph. His coat was buttoned tightly, collar turned up against the drizzle that still lingered. His hair, tousled but somehow perfectly imperfect, looked slightly drier tonight. There was a softness in his eyes that hadn’t been there the first night—a quiet familiarity, a sense of belonging that surprised you more than it should.

“Evening,” you greeted, voice steady though your heart betrayed a flutter you tried to hide.

“Evening,” he replied, stepping inside with a measured calm. “I was hoping you’d be here.”

Something about the way he said it—a mix of quiet hope and certainty—made your throat tighten.

“Of course,” you said, reaching for the Evening Fog blend without hesitation. “Same as before?”

Joseph nodded, his smile almost shy this time. “I think I need it more now.”

You poured the tea, the steam rising between you like a fragile veil, the scent of lavender soothing and familiar.

As you handed him the cup, your fingers brushed again—light, accidental, but electric. He caught your eyes for a moment, and you felt that same flicker, that silent acknowledgment that this was no longer just a chance meeting.

He settled at his table—not in the corner, not too close, but just right. Close enough that you could catch the subtle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, close enough that his presence wove into the shop’s rhythm like a new melody.

Arthur looked up, nodding in recognition but saying nothing—he’d learned that some stories were better left to unfold at their own pace.

The students glanced over, their usual chatter momentarily subdued by the newcomer’s quiet intensity.

And Leo? You noticed the busker had set up outside again, guitar in hand, playing a slow, gentle tune that seemed to wrap around the shop like a warm blanket.

You found yourself watching Joseph more than you cared to admit—how he savored the tea, eyes closing briefly as if tasting a memory; how he glanced toward the rain-slicked street outside with a thoughtful expression; how he seemed to listen to the soft music from Leo’s guitar as though it spoke directly to him.

When he finally spoke, it was low and almost hesitant.

“You ever wonder what it would be like… to step outside all this? To leave the noise behind?”

You paused, caught off guard by the sudden vulnerability threading through his words.

“All the time,” you admitted. “That’s why I opened this place. It’s my little sanctuary.”

He smiled, a quiet, genuine thing that reached his eyes and held them.

“Feels like a sanctuary,” he said softly. “I didn’t realize how much I needed one until I found it here.”

Your chest tightened at the admission.

For a moment, the world outside—the rain, the city, the endless noise—faded away until it was just the two of you, the soft glow of candlelight, and the fragile warmth growing between.

When the night finally wound down and Joseph rose to leave, he lingered at the counter, his eyes searching yours.

“Thank you,” he said simply.

“For what?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“For this,” he gestured to the shop, the tea, the quiet space you’d built. “For letting me be a part of it.”

Your smile was shaky but sincere.

“Anytime,” you said.

As he stepped back into the night, the bell chimed softly behind him.

You watched the door swing closed, the flicker of candlelight catching the empty space he’d left behind.

And you knew—this was only the beginning.

Night Four

The night felt oddly still. The rain had finally stopped, leaving behind streets that shimmered under the lamplight like liquid gold poured between the cobblestones. You’d lit the shop’s lantern early, its warm glow spilling onto the pavement in an inviting circle. The faint smell of wet leaves and city air followed you inside each time you stepped out to check the street.

You’d expected the usual soundtrack—Arthur’s low poetry recitations, the scratching of Maya’s pen as she and Sam bickered over some textbook, Leo’s guitar drifting through the air from his post outside—but tonight the shop was missing its usual ensemble. Arthur was visiting an old friend in Bath. The students had disappeared early, muttering about deadlines. Leo hadn’t set up at all.

The quiet made the shop feel even smaller, but in a way you liked. The candlelight seemed to burn warmer, the clink of china cups sharper, the low hum of the kettle almost like a heartbeat.

The bell chimed, breaking the stillness.

You looked up, and your pulse jumped in recognition. Joseph.

He stepped inside like he’d been walking for miles, his hair a little mussed, the collar of his coat folded down instead of tucked up. This time, the coat wasn’t even on—slung casually over one arm, revealing a soft, open-necked shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. The fabric was creased, as though he’d been pulling at it throughout the day.

Something in his expression—soft but edged with fatigue—made you want to just hand him a cup of tea before he’d even said a word.

“Evening,” you greeted, letting the warmth in your voice match the candlelight.

His gaze lingered on you a moment longer than usual. “Evening,” he replied, a little slower this time, his voice low and rough in the way people sound when they’re letting go of the day.

You waited for him to ask for the usual, but he didn’t. Instead, he stood there for a second as though debating whether to sit or just… exist in the doorway for a while.

“Long day?” you asked.

He huffed out a small laugh, one corner of his mouth twitching upward before falling again. “That’s one way of putting it.” He walked to his usual table, fingers trailing along the edge of a nearby chair as he passed, before lowering himself into the seat.

You followed him over with the teapot already in hand. “Evening Fog?”

His eyes softened. “Please. I think I need it.”

You poured the water over the tea leaves, the scent of lavender blooming between you. The steam curled in slow spirals, blurring the line between his features and the candlelight for a moment. When you slid the cup toward him, your fingers brushed his again—accidental, maybe, but neither of you moved too quickly to pull away.

He kept his gaze on you as you straightened. “I don’t mean to bring the mood down,” he said quietly, “but I’m not exactly great company tonight.”

“That’s all right,” you told him, leaning lightly on the edge of the table. “You don’t have to be anything here. Not for me, not for anyone.”

The smallest of smiles tugged at his mouth. “That’s… rare.”

You tilted your head. “Not many places like that out there?”

He shook his head, looking down at his tea before taking a slow sip. “Not in my world. In my world, you’re always on. Always smiling. Always ready with a clever answer. And when you’re not… people notice. And they talk.”

There was no bitterness in his tone, but something in it was heavier—like he’d carried the weight for so long he didn’t notice it until now.

You sat in the chair opposite him, a quiet decision you didn’t ask permission for. His eyes flickered to yours briefly, like he wasn’t sure whether to thank you or warn you.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” you offered, “but if you want to, I’m here.”

He let out a breath, and for a moment, you could almost see the muscles in his shoulders unclench. “It’s just… exhausting sometimes. The interviews, the events, the smiling until your face aches. You end up wondering if you even remember who you are without it.”

Your chest ached at the thought. “Maybe that’s why you came back here. Maybe you wanted to remember.”

Something shifted in his expression then—like you’d said something truer than you realized.

“I think you’re right,” he said after a pause. His voice was quieter now, as if the walls themselves shouldn’t hear. “Here… I can just sit. I don’t have to pretend. I can be quiet, and it doesn’t feel like I’m failing at something.”

You held his gaze. “You’re not failing here.”

The silence between you was warm this time, threaded with a kind of mutual understanding. You watched him cradle the cup in both hands, like he needed its warmth as much as its taste.

“I’m glad I came back,” he said finally, looking at you with a softness that felt dangerously close to personal.

“I’m glad too,” you admitted, the words slipping out before you could check them.

His eyes searched yours for a long moment, as though trying to decide whether to say something more, but in the end, he just finished his tea slowly, the moment stretching without breaking.

When he finally rose to leave, he hesitated at the counter. “Thank you,” he said again, and it wasn’t just for the tea.

“Anytime,” you said.

The bell chimed softly as he stepped back into the night, his figure fading into the lamplight glow. You stood there a moment longer than necessary, staring at the empty space he’d left behind, feeling the strange pull of someone who, piece by piece, was starting to unburden themselves to you.

Night Five

The wind had picked up since dusk, cutting sharp through Soho’s narrow streets. It battered the shop windows and made the old lantern outside sway, the flame inside dancing like it was trying to escape. You kept your scarf on while you lit the tables, the candles flickering every time the door cracked open.

Inside, the night began quietly. Arthur was muttering over a battered notebook, his pen moving in frantic bursts, pausing only when he needed to stare into the middle distance. Sam and Maya were buried in their laptops, the soft click of keys and the occasional muffled groan marking their presence. Leo was outside, stubborn against the wind, his guitar producing a delicate, wavering tune that threaded through the glass.

The bell above the door gave its gentle chime.

Joseph.

He stepped in with his scarf half-undone, curls wind-tousled, cheeks flushed from the cold. This time, his coat was buttoned but his posture carried the slump of someone who’d been resisting the day since it began.

“Evening,” you greeted, and he gave a small, tired smile that felt more intimate for its lack of performative charm.

You took his coat and led him to his table, already reaching for the familiar tin of Evening Fog. “Rough day?” you asked, noting the faint crease between his brows.

“Mm,” he hummed in agreement, lowering himself into the chair. “You could say that.”

You poured the water over the leaves, watching the lavender rise in soft clouds of scent. You had just set the cup in front of him when the door opened again—this time with a gust of cold and a burst of high energy that felt out of place in the warm quiet of the shop.

A woman in a vivid, almost blinding fuchsia coat strode in, eyes sweeping the room with a speed that suggested she was on a hunt. Her gaze darted past the counter, over Arthur, past the students—until it landed on Joseph.

“Oh my god,” she breathed, already pulling her phone from her bag. “That’s Joseph Quinn, isn’t it?”

You froze. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Joseph’s shoulders tighten, his focus drop to the tea in front of him like it might hide him.

You stepped out from behind the counter. “We don’t allow filming in here,” you said evenly, keeping your tone light but firm.

She didn’t even glance at you, already angling her phone toward him. “I’ll just be a sec—”

“No,” you said, moving between her and Joseph’s table. “I mean it. This is a no-filming space. House rule.”

Her brows shot up. “Seriously? I’m not doing anything wrong. He’s famous. People take pictures of him all the time.”

“Not here they don’t,” you said, keeping your voice calm but letting your eyes hold hers in a way that didn’t invite argument. “People come here for peace. Not to be chased by a lens.”

She scoffed. “Chased? I’m literally just—”

“I think you’ve made your point,” you said, still smiling, though there was no softness behind it now. “And I think it’s time you sat down and enjoyed some tea without your phone.”

She hesitated, lips parting like she might try again. Then, with a dramatic sigh, she stuffed the phone into her pocket and ordered a chai, retreating to a table by the window.

For a brief moment, you thought that was the end of it.

It wasn’t.

Ten minutes later, she’d abandoned her drink entirely and was on her feet again, circling closer to Joseph’s table with a kind of restless, manic energy—hovering just out of arm’s reach, pretending to look at the books on the nearby shelf while peeking at him in short bursts.

Joseph kept his head down, but his jaw was tight now, his fingers curling slightly around his cup.

You stepped in. “Is there something you need?”

She flashed an innocent smile. “Oh, I’m just browsing.”

“Then you can do that from over there,” you said, tilting your head toward her table.

Her smile faltered. “I’m not bothering anyone.”

You didn’t blink. “You are. And I think it’s time you left.”

Her expression hardened. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” you said, holding her gaze until she broke it.

She huffed, muttered something under her breath, and swept out into the cold with her coat flaring behind her. The bell gave a sharp, final chime, and the silence that followed felt like a deep exhale.

You turned back to Joseph. He was watching you with something unreadable in his expression—half gratitude, half disbelief.

The bell had barely stopped swinging after she stormed out when you realized you were still a little breathless—not from the confrontation itself, but from the fact that Joseph had been watching you the entire time.

He sat back in his chair now, his expression half-shadowed under the lamplight, a small crease between his brows like he was still processing what just happened.

“You didn’t have to—”

“I did,” you interrupted, not looking at him while you straightened the already straight menu by the counter. “Because this is a tea shop, not… whatever circus she thought she was buying a ticket to.”

When you glanced back at him, the corner of his mouth was twitching. “A tea shop with rules. I like it.”

You smirked. “It’s how I keep out the riffraff.”

His brows rose, mock offended. “And yet somehow I made it in.”

You tilted your head. “Jury’s still out on you.”

Hours Later..

2am came fast tonight, usually it drags. The wind was still wild when Arthur left with his scarf pulled tight, when the students finally packed up and mumbled goodnight, when Leo closed his guitar case with a shrug that said the weather had beaten him.

The lantern outside swayed, casting soft amber waves across the foggy glass, and the shop emptied until it was only you and Joseph.

You lingered at the counter, pretending to tidy things you’d already tidied, watching him over the rim of the teapot. He was still at his usual table, leaning back, the tea in front of him mostly gone, fingers idly turning the cup in slow circles. You glanced at the clock. Officially, you should’ve been closing. Unofficially… you turned the “OPEN” sign to “CLOSED” and slid the latch. You walked back to the counter, double checking all of your stock for the 100th time today when you fly presence behind you. 

You reached for the small, square tin of 'Stormwatch'—a strong, malty black tea with a hint of smoky lapsang—and set about making him a fresh pot.

“What’s this one?” he asked, watching you with quiet interest.

“Stormwatch,” you said. “Bolder than what you’ve had so far. Thought you could handle it.”

His smile grew, just slightly. “And if I can’t?”

“Then I’ll bring you back down to Evening Fog. I’m not a monster.”

When you placed the cup in front of him, you set a little biscuit on the saucer—a shortbread star dusted with sugar. “On the house. Don’t get used to it.”

His eyes flicked to the biscuit, then back to you, faintly amused. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” you said, returning to the counter with a cloth in hand. “Just felt like feeding the riffraff.”

He laughed again, softer this time, and you let the sound fill the space as you moved around the shop, wiping tables, turning chairs slightly askew the way you liked them. Every so often, you caught him watching you—not in the hungry way you’d seen men watch in bars, but in a quieter, curious way, like he was trying to learn the shape of your world by observing the small things you did.

“You’re good at this,” he said suddenly.

You glanced over your shoulder. “At cleaning tables?”

“At making people feel… safe.”

The words landed heavier than you expected. You met his gaze, searching for something in it, but he was already taking a sip of the new tea, his expression unreadable.

“Well,” you said after a beat, “that’s the job, isn’t it?”

“Not everywhere,” he replied, setting the cup down gently. “Not for everyone.”

Something in your chest tightened. You wanted to ask him what he meant, but the quiet between you didn’t feel like something to break with questions.

Instead, you wrung out the cloth, wiped the last table, and wandered back to his corner. “So? Stormwatch—too much for you?”

His lips curved. “It’s… surprising.”

“Good surprising?”

He pretended to consider. “Ask me after I finish the biscuit.”

You rolled your eyes and left him to it, though you caught the small, pleased smile he thought you didn’t see.

By the time you’d finished cleaning, the shop felt smaller, warmer, like the lamplight had folded in around the two of you. The wind outside rattled the windowpanes, but inside it was just the quiet sound of his cup being set down, the occasional creak of the floor under your steps, and the knowledge that—despite the interruption earlier—he hadn’t left.

The clock hands had crept past your usual closing time, but neither of you mentioned it. You worked through your end-of-night routine with deliberate slowness, partly because there were still a few things to do… and partly because you weren’t ready for him to go.

Joseph had settled deeper into his seat, legs stretched out under the table, looking more at home than he had on his first few visits. The pot of Stormwatch was nearly empty now, and the biscuit—after an unnecessarily thoughtful “taste test”—had disappeared in two neat bites.

“Verdict?” you asked, sliding behind the counter to rinse your cloth.

He leaned back, folding his arms loosely. “The biscuit was an excellent choice. The tea…” He tilted his head, pretending to weigh his words. “…has a bit of an edge. Like it’s judging me.”

“Good,” you said without missing a beat. “That means it likes you.”

He laughed quietly, the sound warm and a little tired in that end-of-day way. “Do all your teas have personalities?”

“Of course. And they all gossip about the customers after closing.”

He arched a brow. “So what do they say about me?”

You met his gaze, letting a playful pause stretch between you. “That you’re mysterious. That you brood just enough to keep things interesting.”

“And?”

“And… you drink tea like someone who’s trying to hide how much they enjoy it.”

His smile went crooked, a hint of something softer in it. “Maybe I am.”

You finished wiping the counter and began turning off the smaller lamps, the shop folding into deeper shadows. The soft golden light from the lantern by the window caught in his hair as he finally stood, sliding his coat on with an easy roll of his shoulders.

“You don’t have to walk me out,” he said as you moved to the door.

“I know,” you replied, unlocking it anyway. “But I’m doing it.”

The cold air slipped in as you stepped outside together. The rain from earlier had left the cobblestones slick and shining, and the quiet hum of late-night Soho felt muted, softened by the damp.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You adjusted the lantern outside, making sure it was secure against the wind.

“Thanks for… earlier,” he said finally.

“For what? Throwing out a madwoman?”

“For… not letting it get to me. For protecting this place.”

You glanced at him, a faint smile tugging at your mouth. “It’s not just my place, you know. Not anymore.”

He held your gaze for a long moment, his breath visible in the cool air. “Careful. I might start believing you.”

“Good,” you said simply.

A passing taxi splashed through a puddle at the far end of the street, and you both instinctively stepped closer to the doorway. Close enough that his sleeve brushed yours. Close enough that you caught the faint scent of his cologne, warm and subtle.

He didn’t move away. Your eyes somehow locked and for a moment, it felt like it was just you and him, the world was nonexistent and you didn’t mind. His chocolate brown eyes looking down at you, half lidded and saying a thousand words. You give a breathy chuckle, a small soft smile curls on your lips as you look away shyly. 

“Same time tomorrow?” you asked, your voice quieter now.

His mouth curved into that slow, deliberate smile you were starting to recognise as dangerous. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

And just like that, he was walking away, his silhouette melting into the glow of the streetlamps until the night took him completely. You lingered in the doorway for a long moment after, the warmth of his nearness still ghosting against your sleeve.

Night Six

The shop always felt different in the half-hour before opening. No clink of cups yet, no steady hum of the kettle, no soft shuffle of regulars settling into their usual spots. Just the faint scent of fresh-baked scones cooling on the back counter and the golden pools of lamplight cutting through the early dusk.

Arthur sat in his usual corner, though technically you weren’t open yet. He claimed he was “helping to warm the room with his presence,” which you suspected meant “I like having the first cup before anyone else gets their hands on the good leaves.”

He was scribbling in his ever-present notebook when he glanced up. “The trouble with quiet places,” he said, “is that people start to think they can keep them.”

You smiled faintly, pouring his second cup. “And is that a bad thing?”

“That depends on whether you like being kept.” He gave you one of his sideways looks—the kind that always made you wonder if he saw more than he let on—before returning to his writing.

You were about to ask him what that meant when the door creaked open. The bell chimed softly, and there he was—Joseph—stepping in from the early evening chill. His hair was damp at the ends, like he’d walked here in light rain, and his cheeks carried the faint flush of cold air.

“Bit early,” you called, pretending you weren’t already pleased to see him.

“Couldn’t help myself,” he said, his smile small but warm. “Hope that’s not a problem.”

Arthur gave a low hum that might have been amusement. “You again,” he said without looking up.

“Me again,” Joseph replied, and the corners of your mouth twitched at the easy exchange.

You moved behind the counter. “You’re in luck. I was just deciding what to brew next.”

He rested his elbows on the counter, leaning slightly toward you. “Surprise me.”

You tilted your head, studying him for a moment. “You trust me that much?”

He pretended to think it over. “Reckon I do. But if I hate it, I’m blaming you.”

You reached for the glass jar of 'Night Orchard'—a fragrant oolong with dried apple and cinnamon peel, smooth but layered. “This one’s… different,” you said as you scooped the leaves.

“In a good way?”

“That’s for you to decide.”

As the kettle hissed, you caught him glancing around the shop in that same quiet, observant way he always did, like he was measuring the shape of it in his head. Arthur watched him once or twice over the rim of his cup, though whether it was curiosity or some deeper assessment, you couldn’t tell.

When you set the cup down in front of Joseph, you slipped a small plate beside it—two almond biscuits, delicate and golden.

“Thought I’d bribe you,” you said lightly.

He looked down at the biscuits, then back up at you with a smile that made something shift low in your chest. “Bribed and flattered. Dangerous combination.”

You moved away to straighten a stack of saucers, the sound of Arthur’s pen scratching in the background, while Joseph took his first sip. You didn’t look directly at him, but you caught his expression in the glass reflection of the cabinet—his brows lifting slightly, lips parting just a fraction.

“Well?” you asked over your shoulder.

He set the cup down slowly. “That’s… good. Really good. Like autumn in a cup.”

“Not bad for a gamble then?”

He shook his head, still watching you. “Not bad at all.”

You kept moving around the shop, but the air between you and Joseph felt warmer somehow, stretched taut in a way you couldn’t quite name. And you were fairly certain Arthur noticed—because when you glanced over at him, he was wearing the faintest, most knowing smirk.

A Couple Hours Later..

Arthur drained the last of his cup with the deliberate pace of a man who never hurried unless there was fire or free whisky. Then, without looking up from his notebook, he said, “I’ll leave you two to it.”

You blinked. “To what?”

“To… tea,” he replied dryly, tucking the notebook under his arm. “And whatever else the evening decides to serve.”

Before you could press him, he was shrugging into his coat and heading for the door. The bell chimed once, then again as the door clicked shut, and just like that, the room felt larger… and emptier.

You glanced at Joseph, who was watching the steam curl off his cup like it held answers.

“He’s cryptic,” Joseph said.

“He’s nosy,” you corrected, though you couldn’t help a smile. “Harmless, though.”

Joseph made a low sound of agreement, then took another sip of the Night Orchard. You went back to stacking clean cups, but you could feel his gaze trailing after you, a quiet tether keeping you anchored near him.

“You always do this?” he asked suddenly.

“Do what?”

“Stay open late. Keep a place like this… alive after dark.”

You thought about that for a moment. “The city’s loud enough during the day. I like catching the quieter hours. The people who come in after sundown… they stay longer. Listen more. They don’t rush their tea.”

Something in his face shifted—like you’d brushed against a hidden thread. He looked down into his cup, swirling the liquid slowly.

“I don’t get much quiet,” he said after a beat. “Not… the kind you mean.”

You leaned on the counter, tilting your head. “Even at home?”

He huffed out something between a laugh and a sigh. “Especially at home. Feels like everyone’s… wanting something. Pulling in some direction. And if you stop moving, even for a second—” He stopped, jaw tightening slightly. “—you start to wonder what’s left when you take all that away.”

The kettle gave a low hiss from its resting heat, but otherwise the shop was still. The lamplight caught the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the kind that came from thinking too hard as much as smiling.

You didn’t push. You just let the quiet hold the weight of his words, the scent of oolong and cinnamon curling between you.

Finally, you said softly, “Then maybe that’s why you keep coming back here. You can stop moving here.”

He looked at you for a long moment, and there was something in his gaze you hadn’t seen before—not guardedness, not exactly vulnerability, but the space between the two.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Maybe.”

You poured yourself a cup from the same pot and slid onto the stool across from him. He didn’t look away, even as you took a sip, and the silence between you felt full rather than empty.

The Last Hour..

You didn’t rush the last half hour. No one else wandered in, and neither of you seemed in any hurry to end the quiet. Joseph finished his tea in slow sips, you nursed yours while pretending to tidy a shelf you’d already straightened twice.

When the clock’s small hand brushed past two, you finally rose and began turning down the lamps. The glow shifted into something more golden, more private. He watched you as you moved, his expression unreadable but warm, like he was memorising how the light hit your shoulders.

“Guess that’s my cue,” he said softly, setting his empty cup on the counter.

“You guessed right,” you said, though your voice lacked the firmness of someone eager to see him go.

He shrugged on his coat while you locked the till. The small scrape of his chair against the floor seemed louder than it should in the hush of the room. You unlocked the door and pushed it open, the bell giving a subdued chime that felt like a whisper compared to the usual clatter of daytime trade.

Outside, the air was cool and faintly damp. The cobblestones gleamed under the streetlamps, and somewhere far off, a busker’s guitar drifted through the night.

You stepped into the doorway beside him, adjusting the lantern by the frame. “Same time tomorrow?” you asked, more out of hope than habit.

“That depends,” he said, slipping his hands into his coat pockets. “Will there be biscuits?”

You gave him a look. “There might be.”

The corner of his mouth lifted into a smile that was equal parts tired and trouble. “Then I wouldn’t miss it.”

For a moment, you both lingered there—neither stepping back, neither stepping forward. His gaze dipped briefly to your hands, still holding the lantern hook, before meeting your eyes again.

Then, without a word, he reached for your right hand, turning it gently palm-down. The warmth of his fingers was startling against the cool air. He bent slightly, brushing his lips over your knuckles—a feather-light kiss, gone almost as soon as it landed.

When he straightened, there was the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth, though his eyes were softer than you’d seen them yet.

“Goodnight,” he murmured, his voice low and even.

And before you could say anything clever—or anything at all—he was already walking away, his footsteps steady against the wet stones until the night swallowed them whole.

You stood in the doorway for a while after, your hand still tingling where his mouth had been, the lantern’s warm glow casting your shadow long across the street.

Night Seven

The shop was closed. The little chalkboard out front had been pulled in, the door bolted, the blinds lowered against the street. The only light came from the desk lamp on the counter and the low amber bulbs along the shelves, spilling just enough glow to make the room feel like a pocket hidden from the rest of London.

Your playlist hummed softly from the old speakers—muted jazz with the occasional melancholy piano. You had your laptop open on the counter, spreadsheets and sales figures glowing pale against the dark. The only other sound was the scratch of your pen as you jotted notes in the margin of your ledger.

It was a quiet you didn’t expect to be interrupted.

But movement flickered across the glass of the front door—a shadow shifting just beyond the threshold. You froze for half a beat, then leaned to peek past the counter.

Joseph stood outside, hands tucked into his coat pockets, looking faintly uncertain in the way a man does when he’s not sure if he’s welcome.

You set your pen down, moving to the door. When you unlocked it and cracked it open, cool air curled inside.

“We’re closed,” you said softly, though you couldn’t keep the smile from tugging at your mouth.

His own mouth tilted into something lopsided. “Thought you might make an exception.”

You stepped back, holding the door wide enough for him to slip in. The bell gave its subdued chime before you turned the lock again.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked as he shrugged out of his coat.

“Didn’t want to,” he replied simply, hanging it over the back of his usual chair.

You busied yourself with the kettle. “What’s your poison tonight?”

He leaned against the counter, eyes following your hands. “Something different. Surprise me.”

You reached for a small tin on the top shelf—'Moonlit Garden', a delicate white tea with jasmine and a hint of peach. You rarely brewed it in the shop; it was the kind of tea that made more sense in moments like this, where no one was in a hurry to drink it.

As it steeped, he glanced around at the drawn blinds and the dim glow. “Feels different in here with the windows covered.”

“How so?”

“Like it’s just us,” he said quietly. “Like the whole city’s on the other side of the wall.”

You set the cups down, sliding one toward him. He took it, letting the steam rise over his face before taking a careful sip. A faint smile curved his mouth. “Alright, you win again. You’re dangerously good at this.”

“At what?”

“Making me come back,” he said, almost too lightly. But then he set his cup down and met your eyes across the counter. “I’ll keep coming back… unless you tell me not to.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the way the words settled between you. Your pulse skipped, though you tried for playful. “That sounds like a threat.”

“That’s a promise,” he murmured.

Something in his gaze made your breath hitch—not the way he’d looked at you over the last few nights, quiet and curious, but something deeper. Like he was letting you see just how much he meant it.

You arched a brow, leaning slightly over the counter. “What if I told you I wanted you to stop?”

His mouth curved in that slow, deliberate smile. “Then I’d ask if you really meant it.”

“And if I said I didn’t?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just held your gaze, the faintest warmth of amusement in his eyes, before finally saying, “Then I guess I’d stay a little longer tonight.”

The hours blurred. The tea cooled, and neither of you noticed. Your conversation wandered—from strange late-night Soho stories to the worst tea you’d ever tasted (his was a hotel breakfast brew, yours was a tragic experiment with lavender). There were stolen glances, half-smiles, the accidental brush of hands when you reached for the same tin.

It was nearly two in the morning when you closed your laptop and started gathering your notes in the back room. You heard his chair scrape against the floor as he followed.

When you turned, he was leaning in the doorway, watching you. Not with the casual ease he usually wore, but with something sharper—something that felt like a question he wasn’t asking aloud.

You stepped closer, intending to say something about how late it was, but the words tangled somewhere in your throat when his hand brushed lightly against yours.

For a moment, you both just stood there in the dim backroom glow, the quiet between you thick enough to feel. Then, slowly, Joseph reached up, cupping the side of your face with a hesitance that only made the touch more deliberate.

He kissed you softly—no urgency, no claiming, just the warm press of his lips against yours, careful and lingering. The kind of kiss that felt like it might lead somewhere if either of you let it, but was content to just be this for now.

When he drew back, you were close enough to feel the faint ghost of his breath.

“Let me take you out,” he said quietly, almost like he was afraid speaking too loud might break whatever had just passed between you.

You smiled, your hand still resting against his. “You mean like a date?”

He smiled back, small but certain. “Exactly like a date.”

And though you could have teased him, made him wait, you didn’t.

“Yeah..” you said. “Id like that..”