The World Tilts Towards A Song
Chapter 3: Coffee, Cedar, and a Door Left Open
❀ Prologue/summary: You yearned for him through all these years as just a fictional character on a screen, as a love that you lost hope for existing at all in the real world. You find yourself placed in Paris, a new beginning, and the surreal yet cruel reality where his beauty stands a few feet away.
Read the other parts here: Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3
❀ Pairing(s): Luka Couffaine (Miraculous Ladybug) x Fem! reader
❀ Themes/Warnings: Sensory/emotionally vivid, Pining, Slow-burn, Reader feels extremely deeply. TW: Trauma from the past, Angsty writing.
❀ Willow’s note: Part 3! Took some extra time to try and capture the vision. :)
❀ masterlist (not yet posted) ✿ requested by: N/A, original concept
❀ word count: 5.9k
By the time early summer pressed its warm palm against the city, (Y/n) had become very slightly better at carrying her heart.
Not lighter, never that. The ache still lived under her ribs, a familiar tenant that paid rent with sleeplessness and intense, unreasonable joy. But after another metaphorical dream with the water bowl and a familiar hand over hers to help keep it from slipping, she’d spent her days learning how to walk more steadily. Gradually learning through time and conscious patience, that love doesn’t have to be a verb that always causes its subject to trip. Tap tap, not smash. Breathe. Slow down. Put the extra tenderness somewhere the world could use it.
It didn’t cure the longing. It just meant that on some mornings, she could frost tarts without feeling like her entire soul hummed on Luka’s name. On some afternoons, she could tie ribbons around bouquets without wondering how his hand might feel closing around the same knot. On some evenings, she could stand at the bridge and listen to the river without mistaking its hymn as a warning.
The love stayed. It refused to become smaller. But it had stopped trying to chew through her bones every hour. That counted as progress.
The rain arrived on a Thursday that had forgotten how to be busy.
It began as a fine mist before dawn, turning the streetlights into haloes and the bakery windows into blurred watercolors. By eight, the worst of the commuter crowd had already come and gone, leaving behind damp umbrellas, crumbs, and a blessed quiet. Lucile bustled in the back, coaxing loaves toward their golden potential. The oven groaned in complaint, flour drifted in tired flurries.
(Y/n) wiped down the counter for the third time, not because it needed it, but because her mind did. Her body felt uneven. Too much electricity in her fingers, not enough in her knees. Sometimes mornings were like that: the world too loud and too far away at once. She grounded with cold water and noted things that were blue: wrapping paper, sky slit between roofs, tile by the sink, the memory of his shirt, stripes adorning the boat, but the heaviness still clung.
The bell over the door chimed.
Her body knew the sound of him before her eyes caught up. Not the bell, bells were democratic. But the way the air seemed to take a small, careful breath after it. She glanced up, already braced.
Luka stepped in out of the rain, hood pushed back, droplets catching along the blue streaks in his hair. His jacket was dark with wet, clinging like an attempt to shield itself from the weather. The smell of outside followed him: river, stone, a little cold metal from the bridge. He pulled the door shut behind him, careful not to let out the warm air.
He’d been in dozens of times now, this day of the week always for kouign-amann. The occasional Wednesday, just to keep her nervous system on its toes. Once for a whole bag of cheese bread “for the band”, once for nothing but water and a madeleine when the bakery’s printer piled ribbons of unattended chits.
They shared a pattern, if not a quiet history: small exchanges about fallen flowers, menu suggestions, towels, and rain. He knew her for the girl who gave a second chance for broken bouquets to be beautiful. And, in unremarkable contrast, the clanging of dropped tongs. She knew him as the man who treated the world around him like a gentle chord, and who always held a place for the significance of little details within every room.
Still, each time he came in, it startled her whole routine.
Today, though, there was an extra fatigue dragging at her face. She could feel it in the corners of her mouth, in the heaviness under her lashes. She’d woken from too many fast, bright dreams where the boat kept vanishing around a bend just as she reached the river.
As he joined the short line, three people, then two; his eyes drifted along the counter the way it always did. Taking in the trays, the chalkboard, the little jar by the register suspending a new batch of buds in tap water. Ranunculus today, white with pink pigments. Then his expression turned in recognition at the sight of her.
He paused. It wasn’t dramatic. No heart-clutching, no cinematic slow-motion. Just a quiet stilling, a faint furrow between his brows like a note he hadn’t expected to hear. When he reached the front, she realized she’d punched in three counts of hazelnut latté from the order before.
“Good afternoon,” he murmured.
His voice was low and smooth, worn-in like river stones, the faint rasp of late nights and early mornings layered into it. It slid into the quiet bakery and made it feel less empty, somehow.
“Afternoon..” she echoed, and winced inwardly at how thin it sounded. “Hi.”
He set his hands lightly on the counter, fingers tracing the grain in an idle, thoughtful rhythm. For a heartbeat he just looked at her, never invasive, but truly seeing. The way he watched over instruments, the river, and tired people.
“You look like you’ve been carrying too much music inside without letting any of it out,” he said gently.
The words landed in that place just under her sternum where the ache lived. It startled a laugh from her, shaky and soft.
“That obvious?” she asked, trying for lightness.
“Only if you know what to look for,” he replied, and there was no teasing in it, only recognition. “I know that look.”
He said it like someone admitting, I’ve been that tired too. You’re not strange. Just human.
Something in her shoulders loosened a fraction.
“What can I get you?” she asked, grateful for the script.
He glanced at the pastries, then back at her. “Whatever you’d recommend.”
She almost panicked, too many choices, too many ways to reveal herself incompetent, but muscle memory rescued her.
“Kouign-amann,” she said softly. “If you haven’t gotten bored of them yet. They’re… they’re good for days like this.”
Her fingers mimed a rough circle in the air, then immediately regretted trying to demonstrate crispness with her hands.
His mouth quirked. “No, not bored yet.” He watched her slide one onto a small plate with a concentration that made the simple act feel important. “Feels right,” he added. “Sweet, but with a little burn around the edges.” He said it offhandedly, but it fell through her like a stone into deep water.
“That’s them,” she agreed, smiling despite herself. “Kind of… caramelized redemption.” She felt awkward recoil after saying that.
He huffed a soft laugh, delighted instead. “Caramelized redemption,” he repeated, dissipating her potential worries. “I’m stealing that.”
“You’re allowed,” she said. “As long as you don’t make the pastries nervous with all that pressure.”
He held up a hand in mock solemnity. “No pastry anxiety. Got it.”
The ease between them surprised her. Usually, she felt like every word was a tightrope. Today, his gentle absurdity made the rope a little wider.
“And coffee?” she asked, reaching for a cup.
He hesitated, considering. “What would you drink,” he countered, “if you needed the world to be a little kinder, but not lie to you about being tired?”
She blinked, then found herself smiling. “Café crème. Strong, but softened. No sugar.”
“Then I’ll have that,” he said simply.
She made it with more care than she’d admit to, watching the pale swirl settle into the dark. When she slid the cup toward him, their fingers brushed, brief, incidental, and the touch sent a small, bright shock up her arm.
He didn’t seem startled. He just wrapped his hands around the cup, absorbing its warmth.
“(Y/n), right?” he asked.
She nearly dropped the sugar jar she wasn’t even holding. “Yes,” she managed, a little breathless. “You… remembered?”
“Of course I did.” His tone made it sound like the most obvious thing in the world. “It suits you.”
He rolled the name on his tongue like a note he was trying out on an instrument. It made her presence feel as if it didn’t need to hide.
“And you’re Luka?” she said, as if she hadn’t known it for years. Acknowledging it out loud in this world felt like breaking a barrier, an illicit, selfish sacrament.
“Last time I checked.” he said, a smile ghosting over his mouth.
The rain thickened outside, streaking the window in careful lines. The bakery was practically empty now, just an elderly man in the corner and a pair of tourists bickering almost ambiently over a map.
Luka glanced toward the window, then back at her, thumb idly tracing the cup rim.
“You okay?” he asked.
Not casual. Not pitying. Just steady concern, like a hand offered for balance on a slippery curb.
She opened her mouth to lie. To say fine, sure, just tired, the way she’d said to dozens of people in two different worlds. But his gaze was too patient, too unhurried. It made lying feel like trying to sing off-key on purpose.
“I’m… better now,” she admitted, surprising herself. “It was heavier earlier.”
He nodded, as if this were perfectly reasonable. “Rain does that,” he said. “Brings everything closer.” He hesitated, then added, “If it helps… this place,” his eyes travelled back over the counter, the petals glass, Lucile’s humming silhouette in the back. “Feels like a personal break. I come here when things seem loud.”
Her heart beat unevenly. “Really?”
“Mm.” He took a sip. “Smell of bread. People trying to be kind even when they’re tired. Makes the day feel… more in tune.”
The reason behind why she wound up in this world, found comfort in the tiny corner of it where she stood. Almost ironic, isn’t it?
"I'm glad you started here. It's a nice place," he adds, tone warm, conversational. "I come by after working on instruments all night. The routine’s become like a reset button for the week.” He watched her tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Something softened further in his face. “And it’s cool to see what’s new in the jar."
Luka opening up like this for the first time brought her fresh courage to speak. He seems less like a concept, almost tangible and a little more human, just like her.
“You make instruments?” She asks, feigning innocence from the knowledge of him.
"Yeah. Guitars, violins, a few odd commissions- instruments that have stories built into them. Each one sings a little differently."
There's a glint in his eyes as he speaks- not pride exactly, but love, the kind that glows gently from someone who's found their place in the world after years of wandering.
"The shop.. It’s peaceful. Sometimes too quiet, especially in the evening." he admits with a light chuckle. "That's when I play. Helps me remember what the silence is for."
She listened, and slowly let out a breath she didn’t realize she was even holding.
“I notice things,” he said quietly. “Little things. When someone’s smile doesn’t quite reach their eyes. When their hands are moving faster than the rest of them. When they’re carrying something heavy and still making room for everyone else’s bags.”
Heat pricked behind her tongue at his words.
“You’ve got a special kind of strength,” he added, almost like he was talking to the cup. “Just quiet, so it’s harder to hear.”
She wanted to tell him he was wrong, then to run out into the rain until the cold shocked the compliments off her skin. Instead, against her initial instincts, she simply said, “Thank you.”
He let the silence breathe. Didn’t rush to fill it, didn’t make her gratitude into a scene.
After a moment, he cleared his throat lightly. “If you ever want to hear music being made instead of baked," he adds gently, "you should stop by. It's just across the canal- The Whispering Strings. You'll probably smell the sawdust before you see it."
He offers a faint smile, tilting his head with a trace of playful sincerity.
“I could show you how to make a sound that's entirely your own."
Her mouth curved slightly. “I.. would love that.” She said softly, voice laced with something too tender.
He smiles down at his coffee, not from ego, but from the way a few simple words seem to carry weight. His gaze falls toward the small corner table by the window, where the rain streaks down the glass in fine threads.
"It's still coming down out there," he says after a pause, his tone mellow. "Would you be alright to sit for a chat before I head back? Coffee always tastes better when the city's half asleep anyway."
He looks up again.
“No pressure- only if the boss won't throw a rolling pin at me.."
Lucile, who had seen the tilt of his head and the exhaustion in (Y/n)’s shoulders, sends a nod her way. The look was so insistent, it was almost like a physical shove.
When (Y/n) settles across from him, he folds his hands loosely on the table, elbows tucked in, posture easy.
“Back home,” he said, fingers loosely wrapped around his cup, “mornings on the houseboat used to feel like this. Quiet. Like every note I played would echo forever.”
He smiled faintly, eyes on the window. “I used to think if someone really listened, they could hear what I was trying to say between the chords.”
She watched his profile, the way his mouth tugged upward, the way he leaned forward just a little, as if not to scare the memory away.
“That’s what I like about working with wood now,” he went on. “It remembers. Every vibration, every slip of emotion. It holds onto them even when nobody’s watching.”
His gaze flicked to her, gentle. “People are like that too, I think.”
She swallowed. “Remembering isn’t always… comfortable.”
“No,” he agreed. “But it means the good things stick, too.” Something inside her resonated with those words. The pattering of water seemingly eased following the rhythm of her heart, as if the day was shining light on a new perspective. He was quiet for a beat, then asked, “So what pulled you here? To Paris. To this bakery. To this Thursday morning.”
The question was gentle, curious, and utterly unbearable.
Inside her, doors slammed.
Wrong world? Can’t say. Fell through universes? don’t be weird. don’t be weird. don’t be weird. Her thoughts scattered.
Her lungs forgot their choreography. She stared at her fingers, watched them tense on the edge of the counter. The silence stretched, too thin.
Luka noticed immediately.
The small shift in her breathing, the way her shoulders crept up, the way her stare became unfocused, that was a language he spoke fluently over the years of listening to Juleka.
“Hey,” he said softly, voice dropping to a murmur meant only for the space between them. “It’s okay. You don’t have to rush an answer.”
Her throat worked. “I just, I don’t know where to start.” she confessed, hating the wobble in her words.
“I didn’t mean to put you on the spot,” he replied. “I like hearing how people end up where they are. But it’s rarely a straight line.”
He gave a sheepish little chuckle. “Half the time, I don’t know how I got here myself. One day I was chasing gigs and sleeping through lessons, the next I’d fallen in love with a shop that smells like sawdust and tea.”
Something in his rueful honesty loosened the knot in her chest. If he could admit to not knowing, maybe she didn’t have to deliver a perfect thesis on her existence.
“You’ve got the same look I used to have,” he said quietly. “Like you’re standing in a place you never thought you’d be, trying to figure out what the song is supposed to sound like.”
Her eyes stung. “Something like that,” she breathed.
“You don’t have to tell me the whole story,” Luka said. “Maybe just… what the melody feels like right now.”
He sipped his coffee, giving her time. (Y/n) inhaled carefully, counting in the way her therapist had suggested: in for four, hold for four, out for six. It wasn’t magic, but it steadied the edges of things. And for the first time in his presence, he played a part in her calm.
“Today…” she said slowly, trying the words on for size. “Feels lighter than yesterday.” She looked up, finally allowing herself to take in his features. Up close, in the soft sun, he looked exactly like himself and nothing like the imaginary version she’d built: more lines at the corners of his eyes, more tiredness, more… real. “Still noisy, but less sharp.”
He gave her his full attention, like the two people sitting at this dining table are the only ones who exist in the moment.
“That’s good.”
“...What about you, Luka? How does yours sound today?”
“Softer is nice. Mine’s-” he pauses, caught off guard after processing her question.
“It feels like that quiet part of a song just before the chorus. Not sad. Not happy. Just… waiting for something new to come in.”
Her eyebrows lifted curiously at his words. “You make an afternoon coffee sound very poetic.”
“I’ve had a lot of practice,” he admitted. Then, more seriously, “If you ever lose the melody completely, you’re allowed to borrow mine until you find yours again.”
He said it lightly, but it lodged somewhere inside her, a small, steadying weight.
Before she could find an answer that wasn’t a sob, Lucile called her name from the back, needing hands.
She clung to the rope of routine. “I should-”
“Of course,” he said at once, stepping back a little to give her space. “Go rescue the bread.”
She half-laughed, half-bowed, and turned toward the kitchen. When the worst of the tasks were done, he was still there.
(Y/n) wiped her hands on her apron and met his eyes after returning to the cash register up front. Her nervous system, usually a hummingbird, began to slow. In the quiet, she could feel her own pulse, a little fast, but not sprinting, not clawing at her ribs to escape.
Eventually, he glanced at the clock on the wall, then at her again, an idea forming behind his eyes.
“I usually spend Thursdays hiding in the workshop with all the pieces that don’t want to behave,” he said with a little smile. “But I think I’m going to give them the afternoon off.”
She tilted her head, uncertain.
“If you’re free after your shift,” Luka said, and she heard the care he took with each word, “you could stop by.” Another small shrug, diffusing the weight. “No expectations. Just music, and an extra cup of tea.”
Her heart lurched so hard she had to tighten her grip on the edge of the counter.
“I-” she started, panic and joy colliding. Too much, too fast, you’re going to ruin this, hissed one voice. He’s offering you a chair, not a proposal, another soothed.
“You don’t have to say yes,” he added quickly, reading the storm flickering over her face. “Or you can say yes and then change your mind. Or come, stay five minutes, decide you hate varnish, and flee.” His smile was soft, self-effacing. “Just… if you ever need a quieter place to sit than the bakery, my door’s usually open.”
It was the way he framed it that decided her. Not an invitation into his life she had to earn, but an offer of space she could use or not, without debt.
“I’d like to,” she heard herself say. “If Lucile doesn’t chain me to the oven.”
“Lucile seems smart,” he replied. “She’ll let you go.”
They both smiled at that. The bell chimed when he stood.
“Thanks for the coffee, (Y/n),” Luka said, slipping his hands into his pockets. “And for making the air feel easier to breathe.”
He left with the small, democratic nod he gave to everyone, but it felt like he’d bowed to something inside her, too. The moment the door closed, she had to grip the counter and press her forehead against the cool glass of the display case.
You’re okay, she told herself, pulse racing. You’re okay. You don’t have to explode from happiness. You’re allowed to just be excited. The experience was so radical that it almost made her laugh.
The Whispering Strings waited across the canal like a held note.
(Y/n)’s shift crawled and flew at once. She burned one tray and saved another, apologized three times, made Lucile a drink without being asked. Lucile, who knew the signs of a girl on the edge of some soft disaster, only raised one eyebrow when (Y/n) asked, as casually as someone asking for another sack of flour, if she could leave on time that day.
“You can even leave ten minutes early, ma chouquette,” Lucile said, slicing through a baguette with unnecessary emphasis. “Before you brew holes in my floor with all that pacing.”
(Y/n) blushed, embarrassed. She asks half-jokingly if it’s “written all over her face or something.”
“Yes,” Lucile said. “It’s endearing. Go.”
She changed into a clean shirt, washed flour from her forearms, and checked her reflection in the bakery window. The city behind the glass looked a little smudged, as if someone had breathed on the painting.
Her heart thudded like it wanted out.
You can do this, she told herself. You’re just going to witness an art process, maybe stay for some tea. That’s it.
Her body didn’t believe her, but it agreed to walk.
The bell above the door of the music shop chimed differently from the bakery’s. Softer, almost shy. The place was small, but the air inside felt somehow taller. The day’s remaining sunlight slipped through high windows, catching dust motes and turning them into slow, golden constellations. The scent hit her all at once: warm cedar, resin, a ghost of smoke, and the faint tang of rain that had snuck in before the door closed.
Racks of instruments lined the walls. Some were finished and gleaming; others were bare ribs and spines, skeletons of future music. Violins hung in various stages of undress. Guitars rested on stands like animals sleeping in the corner of a room they trusted.
In the back, by a wide window, Luka sat with an acoustic guitar in his lap, back turned, shoulders curved in easy concentration. The late-afternoon glow slid down his hair and kissed the blue hues into brightness. His fingers moved over the strings, coaxing out a thoughtful melody that stumbled in places and then found its footing again, like someone talking to themselves.
For a brief, fragile moment, she watched him without being seen. This wasn’t stage Luka, even the gentle version she’d seen at the music shop open night. This was just a man in a quiet room, gifting new purpose to lumber and nylon.
Then he paused. The tiniest tilt of his head, like a bird catching a change in wind. He turned.
The moment his eyes met hers, his face opened into that small, sincere smile. She’s going to remember that look.
“(Y/n),” he said, voice soft with a recognition that made her knees wobbly. “You actually came.”
“I, um.” She closed the door behind her, careful not to let it slam. “I hope that’s okay.”
“I’m glad.” he said simply. There was the faintest exhale of relief on the word, like he’d been prepared for an empty doorway. “Come in. Mind the… everything.” He gestured vaguely at the floor, scattered with curls of wood, tools, a betrayed tape measure.
He set the guitar gently aside and wiped his hands on a rag hanging from the workbench.
“I wasn’t sure you’d want to,” he admitted. “Most people only have patience for coffee.”
“I like wood…” she blurted, then wanted to melt into the floor. “I mean- I like the smell. Of shops. Like this.”
His eyes warmed. “That’s a good start,” he said. “Welcome to my organized chaos.”
Stepping further inside felt like crossing a forbidden border. She could hear, faintly, the hum of a fan in the back room, buzzing in sympathy with some movement she couldn’t see.
Luka nodded toward the main workbench. “I was finishing something I wanted to show you.”
He moved aside to reveal a half-finished violin laid out under the lamp, its body pale and luminous, edges still a little rough.
“It doesn’t have a name yet,” he said. “Maybe you can help with that.”
(Y/n) approached like it might startle. Up close, the wood’s fine grain looked like fingerprint whorls.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered. “I don’t know much about instruments, but… the color. I love how soft it looks.”
He watched her face as she spoke, not the violin. As if the way she saw it mattered just as much as the thing itself.
“That’s all you really need to know,” he said quietly. “If something makes you pause and breathe slower, that’s already music.”
He picked up a small chisel, rolled it between his fingers once like a worry stone, then set it aside again.
“Most people think this is all measurements and tension,” he continued. “But really, it’s listening. The wood tells you what it wants to be if you’re patient.”
He looked back at her, smiling, unguarded. “You’ve got that kind of eye. The kind that notices the quieter details.”
Her cheeks warmed. “I just… like pale colors,” she murmured. “They feel… gentle. Like they’re not trying to shout.”
“That’s why I chose Ashwood for this one,” he said, pleased. “It always looks a bit washed-out when it’s young. But once you keep playing it, it warms up. Like it learns to blush.”
She laughed under her breath. “I love the way you romanticize trees. And give them songs.”
“I know. I keep doing that.” He groaned softly at himself. “Go on,” Luka said, stepping closer but not too close. “You can touch it, if you want. It’s tougher than it looks.”
She hesitated only a second, then laid her fingertips along the curve of the violin’s body. The surface was cool and smooth, but there was a faint sense of something alive underneath, like bark that still remembered sap. Her thumb traced the edge, careful.
His gaze followed the movement, expression soft.
“That color technically has a name,” he said, “but I like yours better.”
She blinked. “Mine?”
“Gentle.” he repeated what she said earlier. “Not trying to shout.”
Her chest tightened around something that wasn’t quite pain.
He moved to a nearby rack and lifted down a finished violin, the wood deeper and richer, varnish catching the light.
“This one is its older cousin,” he said. “If you’d like to hear what ashwood sounds like when it’s at its full rosy potential.”
“Of course.” she said, more eagerly than she meant to.
He tuned it quickly, with the well-practiced touch of someone who could do it half-asleep. Then he raised the bow.
“I’ll keep it soft,” he promised. “Tell me what you hear.”
The first note seeped into the room, low and warm. The melody unfolded slowly, a gentle arc that swelled and then subsided, like breathing with intention. The little shop seemed to hold its breath around them.
(Y/n) closed her eyes without meaning to. The sound slipped inside her, filling in the hollow places and tracing the cracks. It didn’t fix anything. It didn’t need to. It just said: I see you. You exist. You’re allowed to be exactly this full.
When the last note thinned into silence, he held the bow aloft a second longer, like a question mark. Then he lowered it.
“What do you think?” he asked quietly.
“A warm yellow,” she replied without thinking. Her eyes opened. “Soft. Like… like afternoon shine on a kitchen table. With a little red around the edges.”
A small, pleased breath escaped him. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s what it was trying to be.”
He rested the violin against his leg, gaze drifting to the window.
“It’s funny,” he mused. “People always ask what key a song’s in, or what technique I used. Almost nobody says what color it feels like.” He looked back at her, a faint admiration in his eyes. “You think that way naturally. That’s rare.”
“I just… see it.” she said, almost apologetically.
“Don’t apologize for it.” His tone was firm in the gentlest way. “Music isn’t about the right names, it’s about what it does to you.”
He propped the violin back on its stand and leaned against the edge of the workbench, arms folding loosely.
“That’s why I picked this over chasing stages forever,” he said. “I wanted to build something that keeps resonating after I put it down.”
He glanced around the room, at the half-finished instruments, the scattered tools, the dust in the light. “The real miracle is when something keeps echoing quietly even when no one’s listening.”
The words slid under her skin and settled there, warm and a little dangerous.
He nodded toward a stool beside his workbench. “You can stay for a bit, if you’d like. The light’s good right now. It’s nicer than the noise outside.”
She sat. It felt like an outrageous privilege, to perch in the inner circle of his life like this, amid the sawdust and shavings.
He picked up his guitar again, plucking idly at a few strings.
“You don’t have to talk,” he added. “Just… sit. Let the room do the talking.”
He started to play, a slow, meditative pattern that vibrated under their feet. Every so often, he glanced over. Not to check on her like a patient, but to see how the sound was living in her. It made her feel strangely… included. Like part of the instrument instead of an intrusion.
As the melody circled and softened, her usual mental static began to fade. The edges of her panic blurred. Her thoughts slowed enough that she could actually feel the warmth of the mug when he nudged it toward her a few minutes later.
“Tea?” he asked. “You looked like you could use something warm.”
“Thank you.” Her fingers curled around the ceramic gratefully. The mint-sweet steam kissed her face.
He didn’t demand conversation as payment. He just returned to wiping down the guitar, moving with unconscious care.
“That’s my favorite part,” he said after the last notes hung and faded, eyes resting on the strip of sunlight on the floor. “When everything goes quiet after the last chord. It’s like the world takes a breath with you.”
He turned his head slightly, regarding her with that calm, attentive gaze.
“You don’t have to fill every silence,” he added. “Some people are easy to sit next to. You’re one of them.”
She blinked, throat tightening. “I… talk too much, usually,” she whispered. “Or not at all. It’s hard to find the middle.”
“You’re doing fine,” he said. “And even if you weren’t, it would still be okay.”
Something in the way he said it; no edge, no test- soothed parts of her she hadn’t realized were still braced for impact. His patience wrapped around her like a velvet, invisible blanket. It made her want, terrifyingly, to tell him everything. It also made it easier not to, because she didn’t feel pushed.
Time passed oddly in the little shop; the light moved but the feeling stayed, warm and quiet.
Eventually, when her tea was gone and she could feel the edges of her old restlessness creeping back, she set the mug carefully on the bench. The ceramic detailing was now absent of sunset glow.
“I should go,” she said, hating the way the words felt both sensible and reluctant. She turned her head from the window to face him. “Thank you for today.”
His hands stilled on the cloth. He set it down at once, giving her his full attention. His slight smile held a glint of something proud. The way he listened made her simple sentence feel heavier than she’d meant it.
“Thanks for coming by,” he said. The nod he gave her wasn’t the kind that begged her to stay; it was the kind that quietly said you’d be welcome again. “It’s good to have company that doesn’t try to fill every corner with noise.”
He stepped around the bench to the door and opened it for her. Cool Paris air slid in, carrying the smell of wet stone and distant coffee.
“Take care of yourself, (Y/n),” he added softly. “And if you ever need a place to sit and breathe… you know where to find it.”
The bell chimed a small, silvery goodbye as she stepped out.
From the street, she glanced back once. He was already moving toward the workbench again, head bending over the pale, unfinished violin. For a moment, it looked like he was playing it without touching it, just listening to whatever echo he’d woken in the room by letting her in.
The walk home was gentle. Rain had rinsed the world clean; puddles held pieces of sky, shaking slightly when cars whispered past. The bakery smelled like sugar again as she passed it, grounding her in the quiet fact that this life was real: Lucile’s shouting, the petal glass, the pigeons who expected their crumbs.
Her apartment greeted her with its usual small kindnesses: the window over the canal, the muffled clink of dishes from the café below, the cool breath of stone seeping from the walls. She hung up her coat and sank onto the edge of the bed, tea warmth still lingering in her chest, cedar and resin ghosting her clothes.
Her heart was still heavy. The bowl of water she carried hadn’t shrunk or gone away. But today, just for today, the surface felt less turbulent. The water shimmered with reflected light instead of sloshing over the sides.
He hadn’t promised anything impossible. He hadn’t reached for her or asked for more than she could give. He had offered a chair, music, and an unlocked door when she needed quiet. He had seen her anxiety and stepped back to make room, not away.
That alone felt like a new kind of miracle.
(Y/n) laid back and stared at the ceiling. Outside, the world hummed. Somewhere across the water, a bellows wheezed, a plane tree shook off raindrops, the half-moon harmonizing with the Parisian lights.
Inside, a new, tentative melody was starting to form beneath the old ache. Softer. Clearer. Still her own.
She pressed a hand lightly over her heart, like steadying a tide. “That actually happened.” she whispered bewilderment into the room. “And it felt fine, good, even.” Her words affirmed a little louder, the corners of her lips tilting slightly.
The city didn’t answer, but the quiet felt like agreement.
She closed her eyes to the thought of sawdust motes in sunlight, and the way Luka’s eyes recognized her as she stepped in. It wasn’t long until sleep began to tiptoe the seams of those memories.
Somewhere in that drifting border between waking and dreaming, she heard him say again, “Whenever you need quiet… you don’t even have to knock.”
For the first time since her arrival, opportunity didn’t feel like fighting for a place in a world that wasn’t hers.
@𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘥𝘳𝘰𝘱 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘭𝘳 | please credit if reposted! ♡