POV: Lily Navarro

Saturday morning arrived wrapped in silence.

No alarms. No studio noise. Just the muted hush of a cold Berlin morning pressing against the windows of her new apartment. Outside, the sky was still tucked into soft gray clouds, and the sun peeked shyly through, casting a pale glow across the rooftops like someone had dimmed the world to its lowest setting.

Lily stood by her tiny balcony, wrapped in her fluffy pink jacket and wool socks, hands cradling a warm mug of tea. Her sketchbook sat open on the windowsill beside her, half-filled with doodles of fairy lights and foggy bookstore windows from the night before.

The city below moved at its own unhurried rhythm—an occasional tram rattling by, bundled-up locals walking dogs with sleepy expressions, the quiet hum of a world that wasn’t rushing for once.

She could’ve stayed inside. Drawn in bed. Caught up on work. Slept, maybe.

But something in her chest whispered, go out.

The café wasn’t planned.

She found it the way you find most good things—by accident, at the end of a street she didn’t recognize, beyond a row of parked bikes and pastel-painted shutters.

Mondlicht.
Moonlight.

The sign hung from a crooked iron rod, tangled in ivy. The windows were fogged, glowing faintly from within. A chalkboard outside leaned slightly to the left and read in curly white handwriting:
“Hot drinks. Warm souls. Window seats available.”

Lily didn’t even hesitate.

Inside, warmth enveloped her like a hug she didn’t know she needed.

The air smelled of cinnamon, roasted hazelnuts, and something like vanilla cream. Low jazz music crackled softly from speakers hidden in the wooden beams. The café was small, with mismatched chairs and chipped mugs that somehow made the place feel less like a business and more like someone’s living room.

Candles flickered on the tables. A little girl sat cross-legged by the bookshelf in the corner, reading a picture book while her dad sipped coffee and tapped away at a laptop. The barista, a girl with lavender hair and tired eyes, offered Lily a small smile as she stepped up to the counter.

“First time here?” she asked in English, with the tiniest German lilt.

Lily nodded, breath still fogging in the air. “Yeah. Just moved here.”

The girl smiled more genuinely. “Then welcome. First drink’s on us if you can name three German pastries.”

Lily blinked. “I… can’t even name one.”

The barista laughed. “Hot chocolate it is.”

She took her hot chocolate with oat milk—too shy to ask for extra whipped cream—and a slice of Apfelkuchen, which the barista promised was “like a hug, but edible.” Then she tucked herself into the corner booth by the window and pulled out her sketchbook.

Her fingers moved slowly at first, distracted by the golden light filtering through the glass, but soon her pencil danced. She drew the café’s chalkboard sign, the little girl by the bookshelf, the tiny candles on each table. Then she started sketching people—the barista’s sleepy smile, a couple sharing a croissant, her own reflection in the window, soft and curled into her pink jacket like a marshmallow with a heartbeat.

She felt warm. For the first time in days, she felt settled.

And then the bell over the door chimed.

She didn’t look up at first. Just heard the low murmur of a new voice.
Male.
Deep.
Soft but clipped. German.

Then the barista answered with a quiet, “As usual?” and the voice replied with a simple, “Ja.”

Something in that voice tugged at her memory. A frayed string in the back of her mind. She looked up.

And froze.

There, standing at the counter in a dark gray coat and black scarf, was Matteo Schäfer.

He looked different outside the studio. Not softened—no, that word didn’t apply to him. But… less guarded, somehow. His hair was slightly tousled, the collar of his coat dusted with light mist from outside. He tapped his fingers once against the counter as he waited—same rhythm as he used with his pencil when thinking.

She didn’t mean to stare. She just... couldn’t not.

He turned.

Their eyes met.

For a heartbeat, the café disappeared.

She thought he’d ignore her. Pretend he hadn’t seen. That would be very him.

But he didn’t.

He walked toward her table.

Each step felt deliberate. Heavy. Like he was walking through fog he didn’t want to disturb.

Lily straightened a little, heart thudding stupidly loud in her chest.

He stopped by her table. Glanced down at her sketchbook. Then at her. His expression unreadable, as always.

“You draw in cafés,” he said, voice low, like gravel laced with velvet.

“Only the cozy ones,” she answered.

He didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth twitched. Barely.

“This one’s decent.”

“Didn’t peg you as the café type,” she added, raising a brow.

“I’m not,” he said. “But I like the quiet.”

He paused. Then looked down at the empty seat across from her.

“I won’t talk,” he said. “Just need the seat.”

Lily tilted her head. “You always this formal with strangers?”

“You’re not a stranger.”

That stunned her for half a second.

“I’m not?” she asked.

“You’re the girl who spilled water on her desk and didn’t realize until her pen floated.”

Her jaw dropped. “You noticed that?”

“I sit across from you, not across the street.”

She laughed. Genuinely.

And then—then—he sat down.

Not like a coworker. Not like someone being polite.

He just… sat.

Like he belonged there. Like he’d done it before. Like this wasn’t a thing.

They didn’t talk after that.
He drank his coffee.
She kept sketching.

But when her pencil moved across the paper, her hand shook just slightly.
And when he glanced up at her for a split second between sips, his gaze lingered.

Not long.

But enough.