And this isn’t some forbidden ground. In the light of day, with sunlight glinting off the windows, it’s just a friendly café. Bright and plant-filled, a little artsy, with the same laid-back charm as its owner. The sort of place where no one minds if you slosh coffee down your dress.
A place I was hoping to come back to.
A customer leaves the café, carrying with them the rich, unmistakable scent of coffee, nutmeg, and…
Pumpkin.
They’re still serving it.
And that’s why I’m here, after all. For Brandon.
Still, I hesitate.
Suddenly, a clean rock riff rises from within—and it’s not one of Nova’s. Relief unfurls in my chest as I recognise the Dustin Willoughby tune. The change in music feels like a quiet reassurance and an invitation.
The combination of the music and soup embolden me. It’s as if the universe itself is giving me permission to enter.
With my mind made up, I catch the door before it closes and step inside. I half-expect something dramatic—a lightning bolt, a cosmic backlash, a sign that I’ve crossed some invisible line—but nothing happens. Just thejingle of the bell and the sweet smell of muffins welcoming me in.
I breathe. This is fine.
Willoughby is in the middle of a sound check on stage, his guitar ringing sharp through the speakers. He doesn’t notice me.
“A little less treble,” he says into the mic before strumming again.
“Yep, that’s better!” someone calls from the back. “Now try the mic again?”
Willoughby leans in, lips nearly brushing, a lock of hair falling across his brow. “Check, check…one, two. Okay, give me a little more on the monitor.”
I drift towards the counter where a server with a name badge that reads ‘Daisy’greets me.
“Hi, welcome to Willoughby’s. What can I get you?”
She looks about my age, petite-framed, with a heart-shaped face, catlike eyes, ivory skin, and a pixie cut in candyfloss pink that’s teased into a faux-hawk. She’s pure Tonks fromHarry Potter, with mischief in her eyes and hair like a dare. Ellenor would clock it instantly. If only she’d greeted me with “Wotcher,” that would have been the icing on the cake.
I place my order for two coffees and two cups of pumpkin soup.
“Lovely accent,” Daisy says, eyes dancing with amusement.
“Thanks,” I say, trying not to feel self-conscious as I lean against the counter to wait.
I glance back at the stage. Willoughby has the same wet-look hairstyle Dustin was famous for, black curls streaked with highlights. That’s when I notice that the photographs on the wall don’t just show Dustin. They show this younger Willoughby too.
I don’t think he actually gave me his first name.
“Check, check…one, two. It’s just me, annoying the neighbours again.”
My lips twitch at that. He looks utterly at ease, confident in a way that makes it hard not to watch.
“Make the mic hotter, Willoughby!” Daisy shouts, flashing a grin over her shoulder while working the espresso machine.
“Check, check…one, two.” His voice drops deeper, exaggeratedly sultry. “How’s that? Hot enough?”
Daisy rolls her eyes and turns back to frothing milk.
My gaze drifts back to the stage.
Finally happy with the sound, he launches into a quirkyriff—the Beatles, I think.
