The café convention was a blur of booths, paper cups, and sugar dust. Kevin sampled imported beans, traded business cards, and scribbled notes in his tiny leather journal with the same concentration he gave to baking croissants.
Leonhart hovered at the edge of it all—black shirt tucked in, sleeves rolled, expression unreadable. He didn't speak unless spoken to, but people noticed him anyway. He was the kind of man you whispered about without realizing it.
Kevin made it through two panel talks and a barista competition before finding Leonhart again by the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out over the city like he owned it.
"I saw a latte with edible gold flakes," Kevin said, plopping beside him on the window bench. "Almost choked on the price."
Leonhart didn't turn. "You don't need gold flakes."
Kevin raised an eyebrow. "That a compliment?"
"It's an insult to gold flakes."
Kevin snorted.
Leonhart finally looked at him, then down at the notebook in his lap. "You're taking this seriously."
"Of course I am. This café is everything to me."
"I know," Leonhart said, voice lower now. "That's why I came."
Kevin blinked.
"I thought you came because you hate being left alone."
Leonhart gave him a quiet look. "That too. But mostly… I wanted to see you work for something that's yours."
Kevin didn't know what to say to that.
No one had ever phrased it like that before.
After a long moment, he murmured, "Thanks."
They stayed there a while, watching people mill around. Then Kevin nudged him.
"Wanna help me pick coffee beans for the next season?"
Leonhart gave him a dry look. "I can't tell a Sumatra from a sewer drain."
Kevin grinned. "Perfect. You'll fit right in."
Later that evening, they returned to the suite in a comfortable hush. Kevin was humming under his breath, flipping through brochures, while Leonhart quietly removed his cufflinks.
Then—like it had been lingering all day—Leonhart said from across the room, "About earlier."
Kevin paused.
"When that guy asked if I was your boyfriend."
Kevin slowly set the papers down.
"I wasn't joking," Leonhart said, voice low and firm. "I don't want to be just your investor. Or friend."
Kevin didn't answer.
He crossed the room and stood in front of Leonhart, eyes unreadable.
"Then do something about it," he whispered.
But Leonhart didn't move.
He didn't reach for Kevin. Didn't lean in.
He just looked at him—longing all over his face—but his body frozen in place.
Kevin tilted his head, curious. "Afraid?"
Leonhart gave a faint, bitter smile. "Terrified."
Kevin hesitated.
Then, in a heartbeat of boldness, he leaned forward and brushed his fingers against Leonhart's wrist. Just a touch.
"Me too," he said.
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