The Art of Zagreb [Part One]
Summary: In Zagreb, Noa begins the first chapter of “Bridges Over Borders,” where sport, Balkan history, and youth voices intersect. But with new responsibilities rising and old attachments resurfacing — all in the same weekend — the city with a million hearts is bound to break a few. Dobrodošli. Be Zagreb.
A/N: Zagreb is the Arc 3 finale, told across three parts.
Master List
Full Episode Soundtrack
Paperbacks by Arlo Parks
Mid-Morning, Hotel de Rome, Berlin
Hotel de Rome cleaners wheeled carts in quiet bursts of German down the hallway, the whir of a vacuum slipping under each door.
Noa sat in the chair by the window, the GQ still open in front of her, brushing a stray flake of Pfannkuchen off her thigh. She set her phone down beside the half-cold hibiscus tea and her eyes drifted toward the bed.
Slowly, she pulled herself up and crossed the room.
The bedsheet was crumpled, dented from Vaughn’s weight, one pillow still smelled of his cedar and sandalwood scent. Her chest tightened as she scooped one of his long, dark hairs off the pillow and dropped it in the trash.
She picked up his sock and untwisted the duvet corner, trying to steady her breath. She couldn’t tell if the weight in her stomach was regret or longing.
She stood very still at the foot of the bed, Vaughn’s note between her fingers, the faint indentation of his handwriting pressed into her thumb. The crease was perfect. She opened it once, reread the first line, then closed it again. It stayed in her hand as she reached for her phone.
Vaughn.
She typed and deleted four times before landing on a message:
Got your note. Thank you for giving me space. It wasn’t a mistake. We’re friends. — NJ.
His reply came almost immediately
We’re friends. Safe travels to Zagreb. Doei. — Vaughn.
Her eyes flickered closed.
Then she locked the phone, just as Kez’s name lit the screen.
She crouched, pulled her suitcase from under the bench, folded blouses messily, grabbed the shampoo she almost forgot, and scooped toiletries from the marble counter into the pouch.
Buzz.
Elijah.
“Wouldn’t have been a success without your test run.”
She sat on the edge of the bed and typed back:
“It was incredible. Congrats again — you should be proud. Mrs. Thatcher will love it.”
She stood, tightened the belt of her robe, and crossed to the room phone.
“Hi — this is Noa Jameson. Could you send the bill up? I’m checking out within the hour.”
She hung up before the concierge finished his greeting.
She walked back to the couch, stacked the GQ carefully, refolded Vaughn’s note, and slipped it between two journal pages and opened her phone again.
Julian.
She typed:
“Congrats on the Zagreb Film Festival. Sorry I’ve been out of pocket. I booked Pod Zidom for lunch — close to your shooting location. Yes, I looked it up. Yes, you’re busy. Yes, it’s absurd we’re in the same place again. We should talk. -Noelle.”
Her finger hovered for half a second, heart thudding. She sent it.
Knock.
“Bill for Ms. Jameson.”
Noa crossed to the door and opened it just wide enough to take the envelope and sign without reading the total.
“Thanks,” she said, as she pulled the door shut.
Buzz.
Another text from Kez blinked.
“I’m here when you’re —”
She rolled her eyes, locked the screen, and exhaled.
The robe came off in one fluid shrug. She stepped into clean underwear, tugged on her clothes, and moved to the bathroom to fix her hair and makeup. She slipped on her watch, gold hoop earrings, and doused a spritz of her travel perfume before the suitcase zipped shut.
She lifted the handle and rolled it toward the door. Her hand rested on the light switch as she closed her eyes exhaled — warm bodies, cedar, his baritone still somewhere behind her.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Zagreb.”
She turned off the light and stepped into the hallway, the carpet swallowing her footsteps as she pulled the suitcase behind her. A cleaner’s cart sat parked a few doors down, stacked with fresh towels and tiny wrapped soaps. The wheels creaked as the housekeeper shifted her weight, offering Noa a quick nod.
Noa nodded back, then kept moving.
The elevator dinged before she even pressed the button, the doors slid open, and she stepped inside alone to a soft chamber-music track.
First floor.
Ground.
She adjusted her grip on the suitcase handle and walked toward the taxi stand. The revolving doors whooshed softly, suitcase rolling behind her. A line of taxis idled along Bebelplatz. The second cab in line had a familiar passenger seat: paperboy cap next to a folded newspaper, pine tree air freshener swinging lazily from the mirror, same faint scent of tobacco drifting from the cracked window.
Klaus Meineke.
He flicked his eyes to the mirror as she approached.
“Miss Jameson,” he said, as if he’d been expecting her. His gravelly German accent rasped, “Airport, yes?”
“Brandenburg,” she confirmed, pulling the door shut behind her.
He nodded, taxi quickly pulling from the curb as she secured the last of her luggage and closed the door.
Klaus drove in silence at first, eyes fixed on the road, one hand resting easily on the gearshift.
“Traffic good today,” he said. “We make it fast.”
A half hour later, Klaus rolled to a gentle stop beneath the departures awning. He put the taxi in park, stepped out, and opened the door for her with a small nod, quietly removing her luggage.
“Safe travels, Miss Jameson,” he said.
“Noa,” she said, adjusting the strap on her bag, fingers brushing the handle of her suitcase. “Danke, Klaus.”
He gave a single, satisfied nod, already heading toward the driver’s seat and on to the next fare.
Cola by Arlo Parks
Late-Morning, Berlin Brandenburg Airport, Departures
The automatic doors hissed open and fluorescent lights swallowed her into a sea of people, voices overlapping, suitcases rattling, heels clicking across marble, a toddler wailing. The sound hit her in one overwhelming wave. Noa adjusted her grip on her carry-on, scanning the departure boards.
ZAGREB — ON TIME.
Her phone buzzed once. She ignored it for a moment, weaving toward security.
“Next!” the gruff, raspy voice of the security agent called.
When she placed her tote in the gray bin, her fingers brushed the journal where Vaughn’s folded note was now tucked. She pushed the bin forward with a bit more force than she intended and stepped through the scanner. Her heartbeat spiked and a breath snagged in her chest, but she forced it down, moving on autopilot.
Shoes. Watch. Jacket — tugged back on. The line lurched forward, a shuffle of impatient feet, exasperated groans, and half-hearted apologies.
Buzz. Buzz.
She finally checked her phone as she walked toward her gate. Her thumb hesitated, already bracing for an onslaught. Another announcement crackled overhead and she flinched.
“Excuse me.” Someone brushed her shoulder as they passed, she didn’t look up.
Patats Group Chat
Selam: “OH MY GOD?? GQ?? FROM THEO’S MOUTH???” Lore: “To Noa’s ears [laughing emoji].” Carmen: “Girl. Your hair looks AMAZING in those pap pics from Wimbledon. That journalist was giving TEA. No stone left unturned [laughing emoji].” Everyone: Laughing emojis Amina: “I was waiting for everyone to wake up so we could discuss. Noa, how are you feeling?” Selam: “Babe… did you know???? Was this before or after the Dolomites??? Venice???” Carmen: “Dolomites? Venice?” Selam: “She didn’t want anyone to know Theo whisked her away for a private weekend.... and you were in Nebraska? Colorado? Idaho? Shit. Carmen, I don’t know where your white man lives.” Carmen & Lore: “Nebraska!” Amina: Laughing emoji Carmen: “I mean — Noa, you could’ve dropped some tea in this text without me having to hit the paywall for the article.” Lore: “You really need to learn how to make the internet work for YOU, Carmen.” Amina: “Noa, where are you now? Did Theo talk to you about the article? What can we do?”
She didn’t know what to say to the girls. It was overwhelming to explain, even to her best friends. She didn’t know what to think or feel yet. Her fingers curled around her phone, grip going stiff.
Anfield Red FC Group Chat (Tessa, Thomas Bradley, Vaughn)
Tessa: “Recording w/ The Athletic tomorrow. If any leaks come from this, I’m burning down the FA.” Thomas Bradley: “Tess — this is a phone. Hello!”
Noa glanced down and laughed before seeing Vaughn’s name flash across the screen.
Vaughn: Read.
Noa blinked, lips threatening a frown she didn’t let form. Her fingers trembled and she locked her phone without meaning to.
MOM: “Had lunch with Juliet Aldridge-Wells. GQ Magazine. Noa, really?! Call me.”
She quickly typed back “Okay,” and pocketed the phone.
Niko: “Mishandled the Loro Piana thing. My bad. Should’ve told you I was involved.”
A loud, aggressive sigh left her lips as her jaw clenched. She typed a draft — deleted it. Typed another — deleted it.
She didn’t respond and boarded instead.
The cabin lights dimmed as the plane leveled out above the clouds. Noa rested her head against the cool plastic of the window. The whizz of the engines filled the space where her thoughts should’ve been. Her forehead pressed lightly to the window pane, cold seeping into her skin.
She closed her eyes.
The scent hit first: saffron, fruity, sandalwood — ghosted through her mind for a second.
The voice hit second: smooth, low, Dutch accent.
“This wasn’t a mistake. I don’t think it was. I think you needed something. And I needed something too. It wasn’t a mistake.”
Then the hands — warm moisturized caramel-toned — gripping her fingers, caressing her sweating skin, enveloping her into a cocoon under the bedsheets.
“Miss? Water? Something to drink?” the flight attendant asked softly, leaning down just enough to reach her.
Noa jerked upright.
“Coke,” she said, too fast. “Just — Coke, please.”
“Coca-Cola,” the attendant smiled, handing her a can of soda and a cup of ice. The can hissed open, the cold bite of carbonation giving her something immediate to hold on to.
By the time the captain announced the descent, her mind felt scraped clean, empty in a way she needed.
The wheels hit the runway with a firm jolt, sunlight flooding the cabin from the left side. As the plane rolled toward the terminal, she caught glimpses of low hills in the distance, red roofs, and the stark white letters: FRANJO TUĐMAN AIRPORT.
The plane door opened to warm air and the faint scent of jet fuel. She moved quickly through passport control.
The officer glanced at her passport, then at her face, recognition flickering. Noa looked at the floor for a second.
A sick thought flickered through her mind. Did he read the GQ article? Did everyone?
“American?” he asked, even though he already knew.
“Yeah,” Noa said, clutching the strap of her bag tighter.
He stamped the page. “Welcome to Zagreb.”
“Thanks,” she replied, voice soft, stepping forward before the moment lingered.
In baggage claim, her suitcase appeared almost instantly, thudding softly onto the carousel. A Croatian family stood beside her — a mother trying to calm her son tugging at her sleeve.
“That one’s ours!” the little boy shouted in English, pointing at a bright blue suitcase.
“That is not ours,” the mother sighed, switching to Croatian as she nudged him closer.
Noa smiled faintly. “He’s got good eyes,” she said.
The mother huffed a laugh. “Too good. He thinks everything is ours.”
Her own suitcase slid into view. She grabbed the handle in one quick pull, nodding to the family before stepping back.
“Have a good day,” the father said, accent thick but kind.
“You too,” Noa murmured, already moving toward the exit.
She didn’t slow down until she stepped out into the taxi queue and slid into the backseat, “The Westin, please.”
The door shut with a heavy thunk.
Mercedes by Brent Faiyaz
Early Afternoon, The Westin, Zagreb, Croatia
“You’re not serious,” a silky firm baritone teased.
It was followed by the soft tap of a pen on the counter.
“You wrote your middle name on the signature line,” the attendant said, laughing under her breath.
“I panicked…. And my penmanship is sensitive. Please be gentle with it.”
She arched her brow. “Sensitive?”
“Tragically,” he smirked, eyes flickering from her face to the name pinned neatly on her lapel — Lisa Rowland.
The lobby was bright, all marble and brass, cool air-conditioning purred softly above her. Light spilled down from a chandelier, catching the gold trim along the walls.
A pianist in the corner played something slow, melancholic, fingers theatrically gliding over as if performing for an imaginary audience.
Noa slowed for a moment, eyes scanning the interior in front of her. The hotel was… nice — nicer than she expected. Clean lines, warm lighting, everything curated to feel expensive without trying too hard.
A bellhop nearly collided with a bridal party, as she approached the front desk, passport in one hand, bag slung over her shoulder. He bowed as he maneuvered around them — almost bumping into the photographer snapping photos by the floral display.
“Checking in?” a pretty receptionist smiled. She had bright blue eyes and cascading chestnut waves with blonde balayage. The lapel neatly pinned with the name Elena Novak — she couldn’t have been more than twenty.
“Jameson. Noelle Jameson,” Noa said, sliding the passport across the desk.
The man next to the other desk attendant stopped talking midsentence.
Elena’s eyes flicked over to Lisa Rowland — deep brown skin, a sleek part-down-the-middle bob, gold nameplate necklace. She accidentally hit the wrong key and the computer beeped before sliding a form toward the man, tapping the corner with her nail.
“Initial here,” Lisa said, smiling like he was trouble.
He leaned in, arm brushing the counter, buttery-smooth baritone barely a whisper. “Only for you.”
Lisa shook her head.
He wasn’t trying to be subtle.
He was trying to be charming. And succeeding.
“Of course.” Elena typed quickly, her bracelets clinking as she moved.
“Welcome to Zagreb.”
Elena slid a keycard across the desk. “The Presidential Suite. The elevator is to your left.”
“Thank you.” Noa reached for it.
Elena slid the keycard across the counter — and before Noa could grab for it, she heard a familiar voice from behind:
“There she is. International superstar, Noelle Jameson, everyone,” he said, straightening and gesturing his hands into a slow clap with a wide cheshire grin.
Noa closed her eyes for half a second before turning.
Tall.
Deep chocolate skin, smooth and buttery under the lobby lights.
A charcoal suit stretched across broad shoulders, shirt open just enough to look intentional, not sloppy.
He wore that half-smirk — the one that made every woman in a five-meter radius feel like he might ruin or rescue them.
Lisa’s lips parted just a little. “Mr —”
“Damien. Damien Cole,” he smiled.
“Damien, your signature?” she shyly smiled, even though he’d already given it.
“Thought you might want to double-check it. Left my number right there—,” he winked, slowly and smugly sliding his index finger across the paper on the desk before abruptly turning to face Noa.
“Didn’t know you were landing today, Nova,” he smiled, eyes dragging over her travel attire, the gold hoops,the exhaustion she didn’t hide well. “Or I would’ve met you at the airport.”
Her pulse thudded — annoyance or anticipation, she wasn’t sure.
“Good thing I didn’t need a welcoming committee,” she said, sliding the keycard into her bag.
Damien chuckled, stepping closer, not touching her, but close enough she could feel the warmth radiating off him.
“You never need one,” he said softly. “You’re Noa Jameson, remember.”
Elena pretended to organize papers she’d already straightened.
Noa exhaled through her nose, steadying herself.
“Long day,” she said. “Don’t start.”
“It’s barely noon.”
Behind them, Lisa Rowland handed him his keycard. “Mr. Cole. The Executive Suite.”
Damien accepted it with a slow drag of his fingers across Lisa’s palm. It was so unnecessary and intentional.
Noa rolled her eyes, of all people.
“It was my pleasure, Ms. Lisa…. and remember it is Damien,” he said.
“You’re welcome,” Lisa said, smiling, like he’d just made her entire shift.
Noa glared at him.
He lifted his hands, surrendering. “Fine. But you’re not going to be like this for the entirety of the trip.”
Noa’s brow furrowed in confusion, but she was too tired to ask any more questions. Instead, she turned on her heel and walked toward the elevators, suitcase rolling behind her, not giving him the satisfaction of looking back.
“Wasn’t planning to,” she said over her shoulder, voice cool. “We have work.”
Damien’s laugh echoed through the lobby, “I’m aware,” sliding his hands into his pockets.
Noa turned for the elevators as his unhurried stride matching hers instantly.
“Didn’t say you could walk with me,” she said without looking.
“Didn’t ask,” he replied.
The elevator dinged.
They stepped inside.
Noa pulled out her phone and scrolled.
Damien did the same.
Ping.
A woman’s name flashed across his screen.
Noa’s eyebrow lifted. “Lisa Rowland,” she smirked.
“Occupational hazard. I aim to please.”
Noa rolled her eyes and made a mock gag sound.
Ping.
Elijah.
Damien glanced down at her screen. “Ah. Elijah Merrick. Of course. The highbrow hero.
She shifted her weight but didn’t answer.
Ping.Ping.
An email preview lit up both their phone notifications:
FIFA Communications cc: Damien Cole, Elijah Merrick, Viv Marchand, Noa Jameson
Damien made a soft clicking sound with his tongue. “Well. Isn’t that cozy.”
The doors slid open.
Damien stepped out backward, still facing her, the half-smirk firmly in place. “This is going to be so much fun.”
The door slid shut.
Crush (It’s Late, Just Stay) by Yumi Zouma
Noa’s Suite, The Westin, Zagreb
The elevator doors slid shut on Damien’s stupid grin, leaving Noa alone in the mirrored box with her breath catching somewhere low in her ribs. The ambient piano music in the elevator hummed quietly as the numbers climbed.
15.
16.
17.
DING.
The doors opened onto a quiet hallway lined with warm oak paneling and framed black-and-white photography of old Zagreb. The carpet was thick, patterned, and it swallowed her footsteps as she stepped out and rolled her suitcase to Presidential Suite — 1700.
Her keycard light blinked green as the heavy door eased open on its hinges. Cool air spilled out first, Noa walked in slowly, her suitcase bumping softly over the marble entryway. She let go of the handle and dropped her bag onto the bench by the wall, shoulders finally sagging.
The room was massive — everything cream, walnut, and polished in a corporate, old-money way. To her left, a living area opened out: two cream sofas angled toward each other across a low dark-wood coffee table. A bowl of green apples sat untouched. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the view of Zagreb’s red roofs and the faint purple outline of Medvednica mountain behind them.
She walked forward, fingertips grazing the back of a suede armchair. It was soft — softer than she expected. The dining area sat to the right: round table, four velvet chairs, a tray with still and sparkling water lined up in a row.
Her suitcase waited where she left it by the bedroom doorway. Noa rolled it into the space, unzipped it in one pull and sorted without thinking: blouses stacked, underwear in the top drawer, travel journal slid into the bedside table (Vaughn’s note stayed tucked inside — untouched).
The Presidential Suite bedroom was larger than her apartment, a king bed with perfect sheets, a cloud of five pillows, a throw blanket folded. Across from the bed, a desk sat near the window. There was a single lamp, a leather blotter, and a chair.
She stepped into the bathroom, motion lights bloomed across the marble. There was a fog-proof mirror, two sinks, and a soaking tub large enough to float in, sitting beneath a frosted window that diffused the afternoon sun into a warm haze. Of course she immediately spotted the two white robes resting on a heated rack. She reached out, brushing her fingertips over the robe’s sleeve — plush, thick, cool.
She had exactly twenty minutes before she was due for the biweekly MARCHAND team meeting. Her clothes came off in a quick, loose trail across the marble as she placed on a shower cap. The shower hissed to life in one twist; steam fogged the mirror before she even stepped in. She scrubbed fast, turning off the water only when her fingertips wrinkled.
She shut the water off, pulling the towel around her body in one practiced sweep, damp footprints following her into the bedroom. Moisture clung to her collarbone, catching the afternoon light filtering through the curtains.
She tugged a clean work blouse over her head, trousers sliding up her hips. Her fingers worked through her curls quickly, twisting them back with a clip; gold hoops clicked faintly as she fastened them; a watch clasp snapped shut around her wrist. She even put her glasses on today.
She crossed the suite to a small plate waiting on the dining table — granola bar, a yogurt parfait, and fruit she grabbed from the welcome tray. She chewed as she crossed the room and dropped into the cream sofa. With one hand, she stripped open the parfait and dipped the spoon; with the other, she pulled the room-temperature bottled water toward her with a finger.
Her laptop thunked lightly against her knees; its metallic edge was cool against her thighs. She stretched to pull the charger in, flipped her notebook to a clean page, uncapped her lucky pen with a single click, and opened Teams.
The screen blinked white, then connected instantly.
Vivian Marchand — joined Her box snapped to life first: harsh, overhead office lighting; Paris skyline blurred behind her glass wall. Vivian wore a tailored red dress, cascading chestnut curls, red lip, eyes already evaluating the screen. Behind her, a perfectly arranged stack of books — brand strategy, global law, two art monographs — aligned by color.
Georgia-Louise Windsor — joined Her video opened mid-sip — iced latte, straw clinking. She was clearly in a London coworking lounge, soft gray banquettes behind her, the reflection of rain streaking the window. Sticky notes lined her laptop rim in neat colors; she had a pen tucked behind one ear, and a horse show program open on another monitor.
Bash (Sebastian Hale) — joined His camera shook as he adjusted it. He was in his airy loft, a giant fern behind him, soft natural light pouring from industrial windows. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, collar undone, wire-rimmed glasses slightly askew. A golden retriever tail blurred past the frame as he murmured, “Archie, not now—.” A massive mood board glowed on the wall behind him — FIBA logos, color palettes, sketches.
Maya-Rose HS (Maya-Rose Harris-Stowe) — joined Of course she had perfect lighting. She was slouched in a sleek Marseille hotel suite, sunlight pouring in at a flattering editorial angle. She wore an oversized maroon pantsuit, mismatched pinstriped blouse and tie with an antique chain, oversized gold earrings, glasses, and a slicked-back bun showing her distinct widow’s peak. She had three tabs open behind her: Tour de France Femmes coverage, a French newspaper, and an astrology chart.
MILES (camera off) — joined (5 minutes late) A black circle with the letter M. Background noise like he was walking somewhere — keys jangling, maybe sunglasses tapping a lanyard.
Everyone started talking at once. A wall of noise hit — overlapping greetings, mic feedback, someone’s desk chair squeaking.
“Hi loves,” Georgia-Louise said, while adjusting her camera angle for better lighting.
“Hi Georgia-Louise,” Noa and Sebastian chimed in unison.
Maya-Rose hummed in acknowledgment.
Miles said nothing. A car door slammed on his end.
Vivian’s stern voice cut through “It has been a while, team MARCHAND. How are we doing?”
Sebastian dropped a pen. “Shit—sorry,” he muttered.“
Vivian exhaled slowly, big, brown, no-nonsense eyes sweeping across the screen like she was checking for weakness.
“These are the assignments for the next week or so and we need to discuss.”
She paused, glancing down at a legal pad with six color-coded tabs, flipping one with a faint manicured click.
“Sebastian — you are covering FIBA-related events in Europe. I need your preliminary visuals tonight. Your last batch was… conceptual.”
Sebastian frowned. “Conceptual is good.”
“Not when I need clarity,” Vivian snapped back, scratching something off on her notepad, never looking at the screen.
He shut up.
Maya-Rose typed Noa in a private chat. “Ouch.”
Noa smirked, and took another scoop of her parfait.
“Maya-Rose. Tour de France Femmes. Evian Championship. You’re coordinating with their comms directors, correct?”
Maya-Rose lifted her chin. “Already aligned with both. Drafting scenario plans tonight.”
“Excellent. Thank you.” Vivian crossed another line off on her notepad.
“Georgia-Louise. The Royal International Horse Show and The Scottish Horse Show. I want your client experience run-of-show tightened.”
Georgia-Louise sipped her iced drink. “It’s already done. Sent it an hour ago. Check your inbox.”
Viv looked up at Georgia-Louise. “Excuse me?”
“I mean, I shared it to your inbox an hour ago for your review,” Georgia-Louise timidly replied, clutching her iced drink.
Viv lifted her chin, reclaiming the room.
“Noa. There are a lot of key global players in this — FIFA, UEFA, UN — and they all do not play nice. Elijah. Damien. FIFA. The UN committee. Narratives must be aligned. I expect your treatment by tonight.”
There was a muffled pause as the mic shuffled away from Vivian’s lips — the soft scrape of her chair against hardwood, a pen tapping once, papers being squared into a neat stack — like she was reorganizing her entire desk while still lecturing.
“And finally—” she pinched the bridge of her nose, bracing herself, “—Miles. Miles. What are you working on this week?”
A bored voice echoed from the void. “Something… special. You’ll see the deck.”
Maya-Rose lifted her brow.
Noa rolled her eyes.
Sebastian cracked a grin, eyes flicking to Noa, conspiratorial.
“Mm-hmm,” Viv murmured, “I will see it. Tomorrow. By noon.”
There was a second of silence on Miles’s end that seemed to stretch the virtual room.
Georgia-Louise mouthed, “See. Told you he gets away with everything.”
“Fine. By noon.”
Georgia-Louise, sipping her iced drink, attempted to change gears. “Your lighting notes from the Merrick & Co. installation were perfect, by the way.”
She aimed it at Noa, half-smiling, half-teasing.
“I can’t believe you got the exclusive invite. Elijah and I have been neighbors for over a decade—”
Noa’s eyes went wide.
Maya-Rose snorted, covering it with her mug.
“—and I have never received any special event invites. Matches or anything,” Georgia-Louise sighed, leaning dramatically back in her chair.
Sebastian, already distracted by something off-screen, called out, “One sec — no, leave it by the door, thank you — sorry —”
A dog barked loudly in the background.
“MARCHAND — we build brands that move people. Intelligence. Culture. Creativity,” Vivian bellowed.
She said it like scripture — then shifted tone.
“Noa. Zagreb is diplomacy. Whatever Berlin was… leave it there.”
Noa’s spoon froze halfway to her mouth.
Viv didn’t let it linger. She immediately pivoted again.
“Sebastian — stop letting your dog in your meetings. Georgia-Louise — tighten your timeline. Maya-Rose — send me the scenario grid. Miles — do not disappear after this call. I need to speak with you.”
Everyone answered at once.
“Understood.”
“Ok.”
“Already done.”
“On it.”
“Surrrreee.”
And finally, the last knife, “And Noa? Fix your lighting. You look tired. Italy must have been more fun than relaxation.”
Everyone’s eyes went wild before Viv hit “End.”
The screen went black.
Noa exhaled, a long, slow release from somewhere under her ribs. It was game time.
The Teams window vanished, leaving Noa’s reflection faint in the black screen as her phone buzzed once against her thigh.
Julian.
Julian: Just saw this. Pod Zidom for lunch works. And no — it’s not absurd. It’s us. Serendipity. I’ll see you there, Julian
Noa stared at the message a second longer than she meant to. There was a small pull in her chest she didn’t want to analyze. She exhaled, set the phone face-down, and moved through the room to get herself ready. She spritzed a touch of her travel perfume, before slipping on sunglasses and heading for the door.
Fifteen minutes later, she stepped out of the Westin lobby into a wave of heat. Sun hit her bare arms; humidity sank into her curls; traffic blared around her as she crossed the street, tightening the strap of her bag.
She passed a cluster of small cafés that lined the block — chalkboard menus, tiny tables spilling onto the sidewalk.
On one patio, a barista slid a fresh espresso across a counter and shouted, “Za Ivana [For Ivana]!” toward a girl waving from a tiny steel table. Inside, plastic cups clattered as a staff member restocked the stack beside the machine. At the window, three students crowded around a phone; one swiped the screen and groaned, “Ma daj, nema šanse [Come on, now way],” while the other two doubled over laughing.
Two women in blazers strode past Noa, heels clicking fast. One lifted a hand, juggling her tote as the phone slipped toward her shoulder.
“Ne sutra [Not tomorrow],” she snapped into it. “Danas. Danas. [Today. Today.]”
Noa moved through the square and toward the small alleyway leading downhill. The shade cooled instantly. A pair of workers wheeled crates toward a restaurant door, their shoes thumping against the old stone. One of them nodded at her, saying, “Pazite [You guard],” as he maneuvered the dolly around her.
In Blue by Yumi Zouma
Pod Zidom, Zagreb
The alley opened into a quieter street. A chalkboard sign outside a wine bar read “Danas degustacija [Today’s tasting] — 17:00,” the last two digits written messily.
And then Pod Zidom came into view at the corner — white umbrellas open, servers carrying bowls of soup to the terrace. A woman at one of the outdoor seats leaned back, laughed sharply at something her friend said, and waved her menu like a fan.
A host stepped forward to greet a couple arriving behind Noa.
“Dobar dan, imate rezervaciju? [Hello, do you have a reservation] ” he asked.
The man answered, “Imamo, na Marko [We have, name Marko],” and the host flipped to the page on his clipboard.
Noa slowed, sunglasses slipping slightly down her nose.
Julian wasn’t here yet.
Noa hovered near the host stand, sunglasses still on, one hand wrapped around the strap of her bag. The host finished checking the reservation and gestured her toward a small table under the awning. She followed him, the cobblestones uneven under her sandals.
“Here,” he said quietly, placing a menu down. He added a second one beside it.
She nodded and slipped into the chair. The wood was warm from the sun. A server stopped by with water, set the glass down, and asked, “Still or sparkling?”
“Still,” she said.
He poured half a glass, left the bottle, and moved on.
Around her, cutlery clinked, a chair scraped over stone, a woman behind her murmured, “Ne još, čekamo još jednu osobu [Not yet, we are waiting for one more person].”
Noa checked her phone. Nothing.
She pushed her sunglasses up into her hair.
A shadow crossed the table.
Julian stepped into view from the street, one hand sliding into his pocket as he slowed.
“Noelle,” he said, voice low enough the sound almost got lost to the restaurant noise.
He pulled out the chair across from her and sank into it. He set his phone on the table, screen down, the edge clicking softly against the wood. His cuff brushed the water glass as he adjusted the chair, and he caught it with two fingers before it tipped.
“You found it,” she said.
“I did,” he answered, glancing around. “You beat me.”
He looked at her again, longer this time, “You look….”
She laughed once under her breath. “I walked here. It's hard not to look like I’ve been outside.”
He gave a quick smile, gesturing his hands in mock surrender, “Fair enough. I’m not complaining.”
A server appeared at the table. “Will you be having lunch?”
Julian gestured for Noa to go first. She opened the menu, eyes scanning words she barely processed.
“Štrukli,” she said. “And… the salad.”
The server nodded.
Julian handed his menu back without looking at it. “Same for me,” he said. “And a glass of white. Graševina, if you have it.”
“We do.”
The server left.
Julian rested both elbows lightly on the table, fingers steepling. He silently studied her for a moment.
He tapped the edge of his glass with his thumb. “So,” he said, “tell me about the morning you’ve had walking through half the city.”
“I doubt we’ve come all the way to Zagreb to talk about my morning.”
He leaned back, letting his chair settle. “Alright,” he said, not pushing it. “You want to tell me why you’ve been dodging my calls since Scotland?”
A gust of warm air moved through the terrace, fluttering a napkin off a nearby table. A server caught it midair without breaking stride.
Noa inhaled, but something caught in her throat — Theo.
The way she’d left things. The way she hadn’t even processed any of it before stepping into this moment with Julian. Her chest tightened.
Julian’s eyes flicked to her face, reading it instantly.
“Noelle,” he said quietly, tone shifting, “where did you just go?”
Her phone buzzed once in her bag.
She didn’t reach for it but they both heard it.
Julian watched her. “You can get that,” he said.
She shook her head.
Another buzz.
Julian exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh. “You’re going to ignore your phone during lunch with me?”
She finally reached into her bag, pulled it out, set it face-down on the table.
“That work for you?” she asked.
He didn’t answer right away. He just looked at her, the corner of his mouth lifting slowly, like this version of her — conflicted, present, walled and unwalled at once — was more interesting than anything they could order.
“Yeah,” he said at last. “That works.”
The server arrived with their water refills. Julian leaned back, giving space, but his eyes stayed on her.
As if he already knew the phone buzz hadn’t been about him.
As if he already knew who it was.
My Palms Are Your Reference by Yumi Zouma
Pod Zidom, Zagreb
The terrace had filled around them, a breeze lifted the edge of the tablecloth, brushing against Noa’s wrist as she steadied her water glass.
A server appeared with their plates before either of them had said anything more — two steaming bowls of štrukli, golden and bubbling at the edges, and the salads. He set them down gently.
“Graševina?” he asked Julian.
Julian nodded once, eyes still on Noa.
The server poured — the thin stream of white wine catching a glint of afternoon sun — then refilled Noa’s water. She murmured a quiet “Hvala,” barely above a whisper.
When the server left, Noa didn’t touch her fork, neither did Julian. She inhaled, slowly, eyes on the condensation sliding down her water glass, then she raised her eyes to him.
“Julian… I need you to listen to me, and not… try to fix it. Or soften it. Or make it poetic.”
She let out a breath.
“I should’ve said this a long time ago. But no time like the present,” she said with a quiet laugh.
“In London… London was when I first realized I liked you. Like — liked you liked you. And it surprised me. Because I wasn’t expecting to feel anything for anyone. You were easy to talk to. Smart. Charming. You saw me before I saw myself. This was serendipitous timing. I had done the work, and I was being rewarded… with something new.”
She tapped her thumb against the table once.
“In Paris, I thought maybe it was magic. You made things feel… cinematic. Better than real life. Like it tricked me. I felt… safe? Seen? I don’t know. You made everything feel easy. But that was the problem — it started to feel like I only knew how to be with you in stolen time. Perfect time.”
She swallowed.
“In Barcelona, I thought it was me messing everything up. Not because anything was wrong with you — but because something was wrong with me.”
Her voice softened.
“I wanted to meet you where you were. I wanted to fight for us — for the chance to be an us — something new. I really did. Except I wasn’t beginning anything. I wasn’t honest. And there was someone else in my head — someone I didn’t want there, but he was. He is. And I couldn’t fight for you — for the chance of you—”
“But the truth is—”
She laughed under her breath, quietly and painfully.
“It was never about you.”
She finally met his eyes.
“It’s that I don’t want this. I don’t want you like that.”
“I care about you. That’s real. But it’s not the right kind. And I’ve known that for a long time, even before Barcelona. Dublin. Before Scotland tried to convince me otherwise.”
She leaned back.
“You kept showing up, and I kept thinking maybe I’d catch up to you. Maybe if we were in the right city, the right moment, the right anything… it would click.”
She let out a dry laugh.
“It didn’t. It won’t.”
Her voice quieted.
“I don’t want the version of us we keep hoping for. And trying to pretend is unfair to both of us.”
She sat forward, palms flat on the table.
“I’m ending it. Because it should’ve ended a long time ago.”
Julian’s fingers tightened around the stem of his wine glass, knuckles whitening. He leaned back slowly, breath leaving him all at once, like someone had knocked the wind out of him. He sat there, silently, shoulders drawing in.
“Okay,” he said.
Then, after a long pause, “Thank you. For saying it out loud.”
He swallowed once, the muscle in his jaw ticking.
“I wanted to be someone you could want,” he added softly. “I think a part of me always knew I wasn’t. But I would’ve chosen you,” he said quietly. “Every time. In London, Paris… all of it.”
He didn’t smile, he looked at her like he would remember this moment forever.
“But wanting you and being right for you aren’t the same thing. I get that now. You deserve someone who meets you where you are, Noelle… and I hope, one day, you let him.”
He traced his thumb along the condensation on his untouched glass. He lifted it in a small, almost invisible acknowledgment. The plates between them had cooled completely.
A server passed by, hesitant. “Everything alright?”
Julian nodded without looking up. “Yes. Thank you.”
When Noa pushed her chair back, Julian reached for his wallet without even thinking.
“No—really, you don’t have to—” she began.
“I know,” he said softly. “Let me, anyway.”
He slid a card to the server with a small nod as she stood.
Noa stood too.
For a moment, they faced each other in the narrow space between tables, the noise of the terrace swirling around them.
“Noelle,” he said, almost under his breath.
“Julian,” she replied, holding his gaze just long enough to show gratitude, not regret.
He gave a tiny nod, a very, very faint smile.
“Take care of yourself,” he murmured.
“You too.”
She stepped away first, weaving between tables, sunlight hitting her shoulders as she moved toward the street.
Julian stayed where he was, hand braced on the back of his chair, watching her go.
Barricade (Matter of Fact) by Yumi Zouma
As soon as Noa turned the corner she pulled out her phone. Her thumb hovered for a second before she typed.
Theo: 8pm tonight. Dua, like you said. I’ll be there. Noey
She hit send before she could take it back. Her pulse jumped in her chest and her hands shook a bit, but she shrugged it off.
The walk back to the Westin felt lighter than her morning walk into the city. When Noa turned onto Masarykova, the street shifted immediately. They were narrower, busier, with bakeries, kiosks, and shops selling everything from handmade soaps to soccer jerseys.
A bakery worker pushed open the door with his hip and slid a tray of hot burek into the front window as steam fogged the glass. At the kiosk beside him, a man slapped a twenty-kuna note on the counter.
“Jedan filter, i kartu za tramvaj [One filter, and a tram ticket],” he said.
The vendor slid both toward him without looking up. Sugary air drifted from the pastry shop next door. A kid pressed both hands against its window, staring at the top shelf stacked with kremšnite.
Above Noa, a balcony door creaked open. A man leaned over the railing with a watering can. A few drops hit the awning of the pharmacy beneath.
“Sorry! Sorry!” he called down.
The woman passing under him lifted her eyes just enough to say, “Sve u redu [Alright],” and kept walking, tapping at her phone.
Upstairs in the suite, she kicked off her sandals, peeled off her clothes, and stepped into a cold shower. She let the water hit her face, her shoulders, her lungs. When she stepped out, wrapped in a towel, she grabbed her phone and thumbed.
Harper.
Noa sat at the edge of the bed, towel knotted tight at her chest.
Harper picked up instantly — hospital beeps in the background.
“I did it.”
“…did what?” Harper asked, distracted but instantly alert.
“I ended things with Julian. Finally,” Noa said, softer now. “I actually did it.”
Harper exhaled, a gasp-laugh, like she’d been holding her own breath all day.
“Oh my god. Okay. Okay. Start talking right now. What did he say? Did he cry? Did you cry? Do I need wine? Do YOU need wine?”
Noa fell back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling, breath finally settling.
“Shush,” she waved to the ceiling, “No wine. Just… just let me tell you.”
Harper shifted in her chair, “Go. I’m here. Start from the beginning.”
Noa closed her eyes, “I told him the truth.”
And for the first time all day, since she’d walked out of the hotel that morning, she felt like she could actually breathe.
For a few hours she just lay there, towel still wrapped tight around her, the ceiling blurring softly above her.
Then she sat up.
She had to move. She had to get out. She had to… go.
She dressed quickly, grabbed her bag, and escaped into the city.
Overhead, tram lines crisscrossed the sky, a blue tram screeched to a stop, doors snapping open. Inside, a teenage boy nudged his girlfriend and lifted one earbud toward her. She grinned and leaned closer to hear whatever he was playing.
Noa rounded the corner to Maximilian Street. A boutique owner dragged a rack of dresses outside. A few steps later, a florist sprayed a row of peonies and the mist landed on Noa’s arm as she passed. She brushed it off and sidestepped when a cyclist cut between her and a cluster of tourists, shouting, “Pozor [Attention]!”
Ahead, a busker crouched over his guitar amp, twisting a knob until the speaker hummed. He plucked a few notes, and started into a bright melody. A little girl ran toward him, opened her fist, and dropped a coin into his case.
“Hvala, mala [Thank you, little one],” he told her, giving a small salute.
Noa stepped into the open square and the Croatian National Theatre filled her vision — yellow stone catching the sun, flags shifting overhead. On the steps, a group of schoolkids arranged themselves for a photo; one boy kept jumping forward, making the others shove him back, all of them talking at once.
To the right, an older couple sat with Vincek cones. The man tried to keep his from dripping down his wrist. The woman laughed and handed him a napkin.
Across the square, a stroller wheel thumped over a loose stone, while a small dog in a pink harness lunged toward a cluster of pigeons, barking twice before its owner tightened the leash.
A tram bell pinged from behind her, she heard the low rumble of it pulling away toward Ilica. Noa left the square behind and cut across the small park in front of the theatre. A group of teenagers sat on the grass, sharing a bag of chips. One girl brushed crumbs off her shorts and said, “Daj, daj meni još malo [Come on, give me some more],” while another swatted her hand away, laughing.
A man on a bench scrolled through his phone with one hand and held a cigarette in the other. He didn’t seem to notice the ash that dropped on his shoe.
Noa followed the path toward Gundulićeva, where a delivery van blocked half the sidewalk. The driver jumped out, swung the back doors open, and started unloading crates of water bottles, each slam of plastic echoing off the buildings.
She stepped around him and crossed the next street. The light flipped to red behind her as two cyclists rolled through anyway.
Open by Rhye
Theo’s Restaurant, Dua, Zagreb — Entrance + Tour
Noa spotted the restaurant before she realized she had. The narrow street curved, and then there it was a soft light glowing through the windows, the sign still half-covered in brown butcher paper. A small handwritten note on the door read, “Closed for private service.”
Theo was standing just inside, talking to someone near the bar. The sound of construction noise carried from the back, Noa heard a drill whining once, then immediately stop. Soft Italian guitar filtered through the speakers from an old playlist. Theo lifted his head at the sound of the door, like he’d been checking for her every few seconds. His eyes found her instantly. He excused himself and walked over.
“Noey,” he said quietly.
He wore a cream linen suit, the sky-blue shirt open just far enough that she could see the line of his collarbones and the start of his chest. His skin looked gold-brown under the restaurant lights, his beard sharp. A small gasp left her lips before she could stop it. Her fingers tightened once on the strap of her bag, and she looked at his mouth.
“Ahem.”
Theo cleared his throat quietly and adjusted his jacket. His gaze flicked down her dress once before she caught him. He held her eyes when she did, the corner of his mouth tugging up into a slow, cocky smirk before he looked away again. His jaw flexed, subtly, like he was steadying himself.
Her gold heels brought her nearly up to his chest. Her olive dress pulled clean along her waist when she stepped forward, and one of her necklaces shifted, catching the light. His eyes dropped again, his throat pulsing. He breathed out through his nose, slowly as he stepped back, and held the door for her.
When she moved, her hair brushed her arm and he watched that too, his throat tightening again before he looked ahead.
The door clicked shut behind her, muting the noise of the street. The moment she crossed the entryway, it hit her — lemon, garlic, grilled herbs, finishing in the kitchen. There was a low buzz from a fridge, a pan sizzling on metal, and repeated clatter of someone shelving plates, it was cozy instead of chaotic.
Theo stepped in close enough that his cologne — clean, warm, woodsy— reached her before his voice did. Noa kept her eyes forward, but she felt him looking at her again. There was a slight choking sound that left his lips before he shifted his weight like he needed to break the moment.
A narrow vestibule opened into a small host stand to the right: old wood, edges worn, a lone notebook on top. To the left: rustic chairs stacked two-by-two, shelves lined with cookbooks, their spines faded and mismatched. One wall sconce flickered low, and Theo reached past her shoulder to tap its switch, his hand brushing the air just inches from her arm.
The motion pulled his rolled cuff higher on his forearm. The muscles there tightened briefly as he hit the switch. Her perfume lifted when she shifted — something soft and floral — and she watched the muscle in his neck pull tight as he caught it.
The place wasn’t entirely finished. One corner of the tile was still raw. There were several half-sanded chairs. A small stack of plates sat dusty waiting to be washed and shelved. A ladder stood open near the back, a paint tray sat abandoned beneath it.
“You—” she started, but he was already looking at her, waiting.
“This is new,” she said finally.
“It will be,” he answered, voice low. “Soon.”
“Come here,” he said, softer. “Let me show you.”
He stepped to her side, close enough that she couldn’t breathe anything but his scent. She felt him glance down at her again, a quick flick of his eyes before he looked ahead and started walking.
When she stepped after him, the olive dress pulled smooth along her back, and she felt his attention catch for half a second before he looked away.
She caught a glimpse of chest, warm against the blue. She blinked hard, her eyes dragging up from his spine to the back of his neck before she forced herself to focus on the room instead.
He led her through the front room, running a thumb along the raw tile, shifting a chair slightly with his foot, stopping once to steady a bar shelf that didn’t need steadying. Her eyes focused on the way his hands spread wide over the wood, palm flat, and she bit her lip when he ran them across it like he needed to feel it. He moved like someone who’d been in the space for months, comfortable but keyed-up, adjusting things out of habit, not necessity.
“Front dining room,” he murmured, nodding toward the long farmhouse tables. “Gonna do family-style here. Big groups.”
She traced a finger along the nearest table. Theo watched that finger drag the grain before he looked away.
“It’s very you,” she said.
“This part’s going to be a wine wall,” he said, tapping the wood lightly. “Still figuring out if I want Croatian bottles only or a mix.”
“You should do both,” Noa said, stepping closer to look. Her shoulder brushed his arm on the way, a clean, accidental slide that made him shift his stance. “Feels more… you.”
Theo let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, titling his head. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. You’re authentic. A Croatian restaurant without Croatian wine?” Noa mock gasped, “What ever would Theodore Aldridge-Wells do,” she laughed. “Plus your teammate, Puli, would kill you.”
Theo laughed. “Yeah. He would.”
He stepped past her to straighten a crooked frame on the wall. It remained crooked.
“You framed that?” she teased.
He made a face, nose scrunching, brows pulling in, before he lifted one large hand and tried to nudge the corner again, failing.
She reached into her bag, pulled out a small printed photo from their weekend in Venice, their heads close, blurry from movement.
“Here,” she said. “You should go ahead and frame us since we seemed to be framed in every one of your restaurants.”
Theo inhaled as he took it. His fingers brushed hers when he reached, slow enough that she felt the drag of his skin before he pulled the photo fully from her hand. He held it a second longer than he needed to.
He hung it inside the crooked frame.
She snorted. “Still crooked.”
He dropped his head, smiling, and his hand came to rest briefly on his thigh like he needed to ground himself.
Noa quietly stepped forward, “Here,” she slowly slid her body in front of his, arms stretched out toward the frame. “Let me help you.”
She felt Theo’s body press against hers, his suit jacket brushing her lower back where her dress dipped low, tracing the line of her curves as her back flexed. Theo moved his arms over hers to center the frame as he dipped his head into the crease of her neck. “Right… there,” he whispered, his deep baritone, softened by that faint lisp, brushing against her skin and sending heat low in her body.
BANG.
A pile of stacked mismatched chairs tumbled to the floor interrupting the moment.
Noa’s shoulders flew up, Theo’s chest pressing fully against her back for a split second, shielding her. Her breath shot out in a sharp gasp. His hand found her waist by pure reflex before he yanked it away.
“Jesus,” he mumbled under his breath, the corner of his mouth tugging up. His heartbeat felt like it was still racing in his chest.
Noa laughed, breathless and embarrassed.
A contractor carrying a crate brushed past them, muttering a quick, “Oprosti,” before disappearing into the kitchen.
Theo scrubbed a hand over his jaw once, trying to play it off. “Shall we?”
Noa nodded, lips pressed together, shoulders still lifted like she wasn’t done recovering from the jolt, taking his hand to continue the tour.
His eyes flicked down in surprise to their joined hands for half a second before he matched her stride.
When the space narrowed, Theo’s hand hovered at her back but didn’t touch her. His palm stayed open, inches from her spine, following the line of her waist as she moved ahead of him.
He pointed toward the raw tile in the corner. “This was supposed to be done last week.”
“Why isn’t it?” she asked.
Theo hesitated, rubbing along the unfinished edge. Dust clung to the pad of his thumb and he wiped it against his linen trousers leaving a faint smudge. The fabric pulled tight across his thigh as he bent closer to inspect the tile, his shirt loosened another inch with the movement. Noa swallowed and quickly looked away.
“Because it took three extra weeks to get the permit.”
They moved toward the bar — a narrow oak top, shelves behind it lined with bottles and glasses still wrapped in paper. Theo stepped into her space to reach overhead, his forearm passing just behind her shoulder. The heat from him came first, then the shift of air when his arm lifted, brushing her hair lightly. His wrist hovered by her cheek, the scent of clean linen and his cologne mixing with the steam drifting from the kitchen.
She felt his warmth again, and his shirt, open a button lower than usual. His breath hitched when he stepped back down, his hand rested on the counter’s edge, fingers spread, knuckles sharpening as he shifted his weight, like he almost said something back and swallowed it instead.
Verse by Rhye
Theo’s Restaurant, Dua, Zagreb — The Kitchen, The Terrace, The Pantry
Steam rose from a pot behind the half-wall, hissing near a towel hung half-off a hook, and a pan scattered with herbs left cooling on the stove as Theo guided Noa into the kitchen.
He reached for the pot lid with his bare hand.
“Tss—shit,” he hissed, snatching his fingers back with a sharp “Ow—fuck.”
“Idiot,” he muttered, shaking out his fingers.
Noa smirked. “Still not using oven mitts, chef?”
He shot her a look, half embarrassed, half amused, then reached for the drawer with his hip. It slid open smoothly and he grabbed two forks.
“Here,” he said. “Taste this.”
He held out a forkful.
She leaned in, opening her mouth slowly as she closed it around the tines.
She licked the sauce from the edge.
Theo’s hand slackened on the drawer, knuckles going limp. His eyes dropped to her mouth. “Fuck,” he breathed, a low sound he didn’t catch in time, before he tore them away. He turned, unnecessarily, adjusting a pan that didn’t need adjusting.
Noa quietly watched the way his broad chest rose as he inhaled and exhaled, repeatedly, like he was trying to steady himself. His shoulders rolled as if he was physically talking himself down.
So… she stepped into his space. Close enough that she heard the hitch of his breath through his nose as his eyes flickered closed.
He froze when she touched his chest, right where his shirt was open, Brunello-Cucinelli-soft fabric sliding under her palm, her gold bracelets warm against his skin.
“Noey…” he warned, already losing the ability to control his voice.
She rose onto her heels.
Her fingers curled behind his neck.
And she pulled him down and kissed him.
She traced his lower lip with her tongue.
“You said… ‘Come to Zagreb.”
“No games. Just me and you.”
She took her hands and caressed his face.
“You told me… Put me on the roster.’”
She murmured against his lips, breath brushing his mouth. “Mhmmm.”
“You promised me your bed… your hands… your mouth…”
She moaned in his mouth.
Theo kissed her back once, like he was trying to memorize her mouth. He inhaled and pulled back to breathe, forehead against hers, his chest rising under her hand.
“What are you doing?,” he groaned, flexing his hand once at her waist, fighting himself.
Noa swallowed, breath shaking, mouth still close enough to graze his. “I’m here, Theo. I came.”
Theo’s eyes flickered closed, feeling every word like a punch in his gut.
Her eyes lifted to his as he took a step back, only one though, because if he didn’t, they wouldn't leave the kitchen.
“Noey…” he whispered.
He couldn’t say anything else.
He physically couldn’t.
Theo stepped back that single inch, barely breathing, as Noa let her hands fall from his chest, slow, steady, like she didn’t want to spook him. His jaw flexed, dragging in one long inhale through his nose.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
The kitchen filled the silence — tchk–tchk of the simmering pot, a soft hissss from the hood, the sharp ping of a cooling pan.
Theo swallowed, eyes still dark.
“Come on,” he said quietly, voice hoarse. “There’s more.”
He turned first, and she followed, her hand grazing the counter to steady herself.
His shoulders rose and fell once, resetting.
Her lips were still parted from the kiss.
They pretended not to notice.
He walked her toward the back of the restaurant, candlelight softening the corners of the half-finished space. The wine alcove, the mismatched stacks, the raw wood, all of it blurred under the thrum still buzzing between them.
The door stood there, iron handle, old wood, the grain catching the warm light.
Theo brushed his fingers along the frame. “The terrace,” he murmured, pushing it open.
The air shifted immediately, it was cooler and quieter.
The terrace itself was small, unfinished, spread out beneath a half-hung string of twinkle lights, some lit, some dark, swaying gently.
The vines he’d planted curled along the railing like they weren’t sure yet if they belonged. Two unpainted iron tables sat against the wall, next to a few folded chairs leaned together. Potted rosemary and thyme lined the ledge and lifted in the breeze, wafting across a single candle stub sat on one table, melted into its glass.
The sky above was barely visible between the buildings, a narrow sliver of blue-black with one stubborn star.
A gust lifted a strand of her hair. Theo’s fingers twitched like he almost reached for it eyes tracked the curl, chest rising again like he felt it on his own skin.
“I saw the GQ article, by the way,” she said softly, moving her fingers along the doorframe, then across the table, then the wall, touching everything like she wanted to know every texture he’d chosen.
Theo’s jaw ticked. He breathed in too slowly, eyes flicking away before he forced them back to her.
“Oh,” he said. “Yeah.”
“The comments were… surprisingly nice.”
He huffed a laugh. “Didn’t think you’d read it.”
“I did.”
She stepped forward, eyes flicking to the night sky outside, the shadows, the flickering lights.
“You looked good.”
Theo lifted his glass — where had he even picked it up? — and took a slow sip, lips wrapping around the rim a second too long.
“Didn’t know if you’d…”
His eyes dropped.
“If that is what you’d…”
Noa abruptly turned around, stopping Theo in his tracks. Her dress caught the breeze, curving around her thigh as she looked up at him.
“I was… surprised,” she admitted, shoulders rising as she swung back toward the terrace, and the wind caught the hem again.
She glanced over her shoulder and winked.
“But I thought it was tastefully done.”
She turned and reached for his hand.
“Come on, Aldridge-Wells — what did it say? ‘Building this life off the pitch.’”
She took a slow step deeper into the space, voice dropping.
“I just wasn’t supposed to see it yet.”
She nudged him with her hip.
“Now get me a drink. I don’t know how you have one and I don’t,” she pouted.
She ran her finger along the inside edge of the door as they headed back in.
“And you didn’t have to send the coat.”
Theo’s eyes closed for half a second, a smile crossing his face.
He slowly dragged his thumb along his jaw, “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I… know.”
But the tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth said he wasn’t sorry.
Not even a little.
“Wine cellar is this way,” he said, nodding behind her. “Come on.”
He grabbed his glass, placing it on a nearby table as she followed inside from the terrace toward the narrow passage that connected the kitchen to the back room bar, the cool air fading behind them as the door clicked shut.
The warmth of the restaurant returned immediately from the candlelight, and pots simmering in the kitchen.
“This way,” he murmured, his arm brushing hers just barely as he pointed out a stack of unfinished plates.
He stepped in first, shoulders nearly touching both walls.
The corridor tightened almost immediately, barely more than a sliver. Theo had to turn slightly to fit his shoulders through. Noa followed, one hand brushing the wooden frame, the other smoothing down her dress as she stepped close — too close for a space this tight. Her hip grazed his jacket as she slipped in behind him.
Copper pots hung low, jars lined the shelves, a square window no bigger than Noa’s hand letting in the faintest glimmer of moonlight. It smelled like flour and herbs and dust motes drifted in the single shaft of light.
CLINK.
One of the copper pans swung slightly from their movement and Theo’s arm came up fast, palm flattening against the metal just inches from her cheek, steadying it with one large hand.
“Careful,” he rasped.
“Thanks,” she whispered, halting behind him.
His back rose under her hand. She felt him take a slow, tight breath before his chest lowered it again.
They were too close.
Close enough that her breath hit the back of his neck.
Close enough that she could smell clean linen and heat coming off his skin.
Close enough that he had to plant a hand on the shelf to steady himself.
She hadn’t meant to touch him again, but her fingers stayed there, barely hooked at the seam of his blazer.
Theo didn’t turn right away.
He exhaled, head tipping forward, like the warmth of her hand was pouring straight down his spine.
“Noey…,” barely shaped at the back of his throat.
He stood there, chest rising once, slowly, like the decision hit him all at once.
Noa swallowed behind him. “Are we close?”
Theo let out one quiet exhale that vibrated in the air between them.
Then he turned, just enough that his chest brushed hers in the cramped space — like he was giving her time to stop him and knowing she wouldn’t.
Enough that her heel caught the wall behind her to stay balanced as her back hit the pantry wall.
Enough that neither had anywhere to go.
He looked down at her, eyes darker than they’d been all night.
“Noey.”
She looked up at him, lips parting just a little.
The low pantry bulb glowed over his cheekbone, cutting light behind him and shadow across his collar.
He swallowed.
Her eyes traced the line of his throat, the open collar, the warm column of skin there. Her hand drifted up, feather-light, touching the edge of his shirt where it parted. Her fingers found his chest, spreading over the open part of his shirt, the fabric giving easily under her touch. She rose onto her toes, gold heels clicking softly on the tile as she dragged her fingers over the skin.
“Mhmmm,” Theo’s inhale shook the walls.
Then he leaned in, slowly, the way someone eases into warm water, forehead grazing hers first. He waited there, breath mingling with hers, letting her feel the intention long before the touch.
His lips brushed hers once, testing, before he pressed in deeper, a warm, steady kiss.
His other hand slid up the wall beside her head, forearm brushing her shoulder as he guided the angle of the kiss just slightly, just enough.
His hand dropped to her waist, pulling her flush against him.
His mouth met hers hungry, deep, like he’d been holding this one back for too long.
A surprised, thrilled, gasp escaped her throat and Theo swallowed it, pressing closer.
Her hands traced his beard, fingers brushing warm skin.
Theo groaned — a low, broken sound he couldn’t hide — and pressed her harder into the wall.
“Fuck,” he breathed against her lips, forehead nearly touching hers. “You’re gonna kill me.”
She laughed and kissed him again, hands sliding behind his neck.
His thumb traced the curve of her waist, slow, reverent, like he was memorizing every inch.
When he finally pulled back, it wasn’t because he wanted to.
It was because he had to.
His chest was rising fast.
Her lipstick smeared slightly at the corner of his mouth.
His hand was still on her waist like he forgot to move it.
“Noey…” he whispered, voice frayed.
He swallowed hard. “I shouldn’t have—”
She cut him off, brushing her thumb along his jaw.
“You should’ve,” she breathed.
Theo closed his eyes for a second. He was pained, undone, trying to pull himself back together in the narrow heat of the pantry.
But when he opened his eyes again, they were darker.
The copper pans swayed above them, clinking softly like they knew what happened.
His hand found the wall beside her head, bracing himself as if he needed it.
Theo’s thumb brushed the fabric at her hip, a slow drag he didn’t seem aware he was doing.
His voice was barely there.
“Dinner,” he murmured, whispering against her cheek, low and regretful in the best way.
He stepped back a single step, giving her space to breathe again.
Then he led her into the golden room, sleeves rolled, breath uneven, pretending nothing had happened while his lips were still pink from her mouth.
And when she brushed his chest on her way out, he inhaled sharply and followed her like he couldn’t help it.
Song for You by Rhye
Theo’s Restaurant, Dua, Zagreb — Dinner & Walk Home
Theo led her out of the pantry with that one-step distance he gave himself, sleeves pushed to his elbows, breath still uneven, pretending he hadn’t just had her pinned against the pantry wall with his mouth on hers.
He reached the entryway to the back room first and paused like he needed one extra second to force his pulse down.
“Go ahead,” he murmured, palm lifting toward the doorway.
Noa stepped through.
The room glowed immediately, low golden bulbs, low ceilings, a banquette stretched along the back wall, fabric still unsteamed. Theo watched her take it all in. He didn’t even try to hide it, watched how she absorbed the space, watched her face soften. He didn’t mean to stand that close to her, but he couldn’t help it.
“This is…” she started, turning slowly.
He braced a hand on the doorframe, voice low. “Yeah?”
“Actually really beautiful, Theo.”
Theo cleared his throat once, dragging his palm down his face. “I, uh— your wine. I didn’t… we left it.” His voice cracked on the word. “Shit.”
He glanced back toward the pantry like he needed a task to get his sanity back in order.
Noa laughed under her breath, covering it with her hand. “You’re falling apart, chef. No Michelin star for you.”
“Mm. You did that, not me.”
He moved past her towards the bar. His fingertips grazed the slit near the side of her thigh. The jolt made his hand twitch — right when her soft moan slipped out.
At the counter, he grabbed her glass and a bottle from the stone alcove, pouring with hands that weren’t quite steady. The wine hit the glass with a soft glug-glug before he steadied his wrist.
He slipped her wine into her hand carefully, fingers brushing hers for a fraction of a second too long. She accepted it without moving her eyes from him.
Theo cleared his throat hard and grabbed two water glasses and headed to the table.
The table in the center was raw oak, uneven leg, candle stub in a cloudy glass, salt cellar with no spoon, knives that didn’t match.
“This is homey as hell,” Noa blurted out, taking a sip of wine.
Theo’s eyebrow shot up.
“In the good way,” she added quickly.
Theo burst out laughing, a low, deep rumble that shook the glasses, a tiny clink-clink as they bumped together in his hands, as he set one in front of her.
“I thought this place wasn’t open,” she said.
“It’s not,” Theo answered. “But it’s close enough. This is a special room. I haven’t decided what I am going to do with it yet, but I figured you’d like some privacy.”
The candle flickered between them.
“You hungry?” he asked, sliding into a seat across from her.
“A little,” she said, sitting down and smoothing out her dress. The fabric whispered against her legs. Theo’s eyes flicked down and snapped away just as quickly.
A small smile tugged at her mouth despite herself.
A man who was clearly not a server, probably a contractor conscripted into playing one, carried out two plates. Handmade pasta, tomatoes blistered from the pan, basil torn on top.
Theo nodded, “Grazie,” as the man disappeared like a ghost.
Noa twirled a forkful and took a bite.
The groan that escaped her throat was soft and unintentional. “Oh my god….”
Theo didn’t move at first, like he was waiting for a harshest judgment then he exhaled, quiet and relieved. “Yeah? Good. Pasta—”
“Pomodoro,” she finished. “The first dish you learned to cook when you moved to Italy,” she didn’t look up from her plate, “I watched an interview.”
Theo smirked, but he kept quiet.
He stabbed a tomato, paused, then finally ate it, like that made it official.
They ate in that quiet stretching silence for a while. Even made it halfway through the meal before Noa nudged him with her foot.
“So. Are you gonna ask me what I thought of dinner,” she said, “or are you just assuming you nailed it?”
Theo glanced sideways, eyes warm. “You liked it.”
“That’s not a question.”
“It’s all I needed.” He shrugged lightly. “If you hated it, you would’ve said something.”
Noa scoffed. “Bold of you to assume I’d spare your feelings.”
Theo smirked; slow, one-sided. “You didn’t spare them in Venice.”
She opened her mouth to counter, but her phone buzzed in her bag. She frowned and pulled it out.
Mom.
Her thumb hovered.
Theo watched her expression shift. “You okay?” he asked quietly.
Noa exhaled through her nose. “My mom. I forgot to call her back.”
Theo looked back toward the restaurant, then to her.
“She’s with my mum,” he said softly.
Noa looked up, phone still clutched in her hand, brow furrowed.
“What?”
“My mum called earlier,” he said. “Asking about some restaurant she wanted your mum to take her to?”
“So this is, like, a regular thing?,” Noa asked, silencing her phone and dropping it back into her bag.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Didn’t ask.”
Noa stared at him. “You could’ve fooled me. GQ seemed to know. So clearly you could’ve told me.”
“I was busy,” he said, lips pulling into a crooked line, his gaze trailing her body from head to toe. “You were… distracting,” he reached his hand under the table and dragged his fingers painstakingly slow along Noa’s buttery-smooth thigh,” he smirked.
Noa ignored him even though her breath hitched with each movement.
“So what about your day,” Noa asked, tilting her wine-filled warmth toward him. “Or did you forget how to talk unless we’re pressed against a wall?”
Theo groaned under his breath. “Jesus, Noey—”
“I’m just saying,” she teased, “this is the thing you came here for.”
“One of them,” he replied.
She glanced up.
He was watching her, serious, steady, not trying to impress her just letting her see how serious he was. Her knee brushed his under the table as he continued to stroke her thigh.
He ran a hand over his jaw, clearly trying to reset. “Fine. Today? I had three contractors quit, two deliveries show up late, and a health inspector threaten to report me because of a wobbly stair.”
“Which stair?”
Theo pointed behind them.
She gasped. “So it was dangerous.”
Theo snorted. “You were staring at my shirt. Not the stairs.”
She opened her mouth and then closed it, she was caught.
A man walking his dog passed them, leash scraping the concrete, oblivious.
“Well,” she murmured, “your shirt is open an unnecessary amount.”
Theo shrugged without denying it.
Noa regained her composure with a dramatic exhale.
“I like this place… but I need to try the other 1700 restaurants you have,” she teased, trying to change the subject.
Theo looked down at his plate, then back at her. “You should.”
His shoe nudged the uneven table leg to stop its tiny wobble.
A light breeze whispered in from the terrace door and the lights flickered once somewhere in the back, when a contractor hammered a cabinet back into place.
Noa rested her elbow on the table. “You circled something on the menu.”
Theo’s mouth twitched. “That wasn’t for tonight.”
“For what then?”
He shook his head. “Later.”
She watched him too long. His fingers curled once around the stem of his wine glass, like he needed something to hold.
The man returned with dessert, two spoons, one bowl, something whipped and citrusy.
“We’re… splitting?” she asked.
“It’s the only one they finished testing,” Theo said. “Unless you want your own.”
She shook her head. “This is fine.”
She reached for the bowl at the same time he did.
Clink.
Her spoon tapped the back of his.
She froze but he didn’t. Her fingers brushed his knuckle as she adjusted her grip but neither one of them said anything.
She tasted.
He followed.
The soft scrape of spoon against ceramic filled the room instead of their voices. Once, their hands met again, when they both reached toward the same side of the dish but neither or them moved their hands or moved away.
When they finished, Theo wiped his thumb along the edge of the dish, inspecting the glaze, then pushed it aside.
“You want coffee?” he asked.
“No. If I drink it, I’ll be up all night.”
Theo’s eyes flicked up fast, his breath caught in his throat before he forced his gaze away.
“I’ll walk you,” he said.
She opened her mouth to argue, but he was already reaching for his jacket.
He held the door for her again, hand braced on the frame, waiting for her to step out first.
When she did, the cool night air hit both of them at the same time, carrying the tail end of the dinner hour, the distant sound of trams, the clatter of late-night cafés closing.
Theo locked the restaurant door behind them.
The street outside was a had strip of light and a bunch of rumbling from the tram. Theo stood there for a second, like he wasn’t sure the night should keep going but he also wasn’t ready for it to end.
Noa lifted her brows.
“What?” she teased. “Didn’t expect me to be the best part of Zagreb?”
Theo huffed a quiet laugh and shook his head.
“Come on,” he said, voice lower now. “Walk with me.”
He didn’t make the mistake of touching her back this time. He let her lead, but his steps matched hers perfectly.
Shops lined the path — a stationery store with its door propped open, a seamstress pinning a dress in the window, a tiny market where a cashier scanned peaches while chatting to a woman digging for coins in her bag. Theo walked half a step beside her, hands in his pockets, pace matching hers without thinking.
At the intersection with Ilica, the city noise got louder. A tram rattled toward the stop, brakes squealing as it slowed. People crowded forward trying to enter. One man stuck his arm in the closing doors and forced them back open, nodding at the driver as he squeezed inside.
A woman beside Noa lifted her toddler onto her hip and said, “Drži se [Hold on],” before weaving through the crowd.
Theo glanced at the toddler, then at Noa, a tiny breath of a laugh escaping him. “Chaos,” he murmured. She didn’t answer, but the corner of her mouth lifted.
They reached the crosswalk. The green light glowed on their skin as traffic zoomed by. A cyclist zipped past with a muttered, “Pardon!”
Theo stepped closer, just close enough that Noa felt the shift of heat. He looked down at her, eyes lingering at her mouth for one second too long.
“Noey?”
The light flipped red.
Noa waited for the cars to stop, then they crossed Ilica with a group of tourists clumped around a guide holding a little red flag. He pointed toward the Funicular and said, “Oldest in the world still running,” and half the group raised their phones at once.
On the other side, a man sold bags of cherries from a folding table. He held one up by the stems toward a passerby and said, “Slatke, slatke, probaj [Sweet, sweet, try it],” before popping one into his own mouth.
Theo slowed for half a second, eyeing the cherries, then leaned toward her, “Bet those stains are worse than wine.” It wasn’t a joke, not really, it was terrible, but she bumped his arm lightly with hers, in acknowledgment.
They turned down a narrower street that angled slightly uphill. The chatter from Ilica faded, as buildings rose closer together, balconies hung with laundry, and café chairs scraped against stone as staff set up for lunch.
A waiter wiped down a table and greeted an older couple walking past with a “Dobar večer [Good night].” The woman answered back and squeezed her husband’s arm as they continued on.
Theo’s hand brushed Noa’s but they kept walking.
Farther ahead, two teenage boys leaned against a wall sharing a plate of cevapi from a takeaway container, picking at the onions with plastic forks and arguing quietly over who should get the last piece.
Theo watched them for a minute. “Some things are universal,” he said. “Sisters. Best friends. Fighting over food.”
Noa hummed in agreement, her eyes forward, following the street until it opened into a small square. A man tuned a tamburica under the shade of an umbrella, plucking the same note twice, then adjusting the peg with a frown. A group of British tourists stood nearby debating directions, one tapping Google Maps and saying, “It should be right here… somewhere.”
“He’s close,” Theo said quietly, listening.
“Almost,” she murmured.
Near the base of the cathedral stairs, a woman in a floral dress adjusted the lace mantilla covering her hair before posing for a photo. Her friend stepped back, framed the shot, and said, “Okay, smile. No, hold on, one more.”
A priest walked past them carrying a stack of bulletins, pages shifting in the breeze, he pressed them down with and continued toward the side entrance.
Theo exhaled, slow. “Long day?”
She nodded once. “Yeah.”
Theo nodded too, like he’d expected that.
“Alright.”
He didn’t push. He just kept walking beside her, shoes hitting the stone in the same quiet rhythm as hers, the city noise thinning as they approached the hotel block.
As they reached the hotel entrance, Theo stopped just before the steps.
“Noey… I’m really glad you texted.”
Noa held his gaze for a second, unsure what to do. A car rolled past behind him, headlights sweeping briefly across his face — and for a second she caught something in his expression, she wasn’t exactly sure, but it was quick and unguarded, before he looked away.
“You didn’t have to come.”
“I know,” she said.
“But…thank you. For coming.”
The sincerity in it dropped somewhere inside her chest.
She swallowed. “You asked me to.”
Theo looked at her, like he was memorizing the night in case it was the only one he got.
“Are you sure you want to go up alone?”
“Yes,” she said. “ — I should.”
Theo nodded immediately. “Okay.”
He stepped back, giving her space, hands sliding into his pockets like he didn’t trust them not to reach for her.
Noa hesitated.
“Theo…”
His gaze narrowed and he raised his eyebrow.
“I ended things with Julian.”
He froze.
Noa noticed the tiny lift of one eyebrow, a slow, measured inhale, how his throat worked once as he swallowed.
But he didn’t look away.... and that was his tell.
“Okay,” he said quietly.
She noticed the slight flex of his jaw, as she pushed the revolving hotel door.
Theo didn’t follow her. He stayed there on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, watching until she disappeared into the lobby.
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