Without missing a beat, he reaches for the apron mounted nearby, tugging it off the hook in one fluid motion before slipping it over his head. He ties the strings behind his back with the practiced ease of someone who’s done this a hundred times over—not just here, but across countless versions of here.
With Dove’s order settled, Akira steps into motion.
He pulls out the house blend beans from their designated spot, the jar labeled with a careful, almost too-perfect script—Sojiro’s work, obviously. Popping the lid open, he inhales deeply, letting the rich, earthy aroma flood his senses before pouring a measured amount into the grinder. The beans are a medium roast, carrying notes of citrus and a delicate sweetness beneath the robust body.
A moment later, the quiet hum of the grinder fills the air, punctuating the lingering silence between them.
Dove’s voice cuts through it, bringing the conversation back to the other reason they’re here.
Concerning doesn't even begin to make up with what he knows.
Akira hums in acknowledgment, reaching for the kettle as he listens. He fills it with fresh water and sets it to the perfect temperature—not too hot, just enough to bloom the flavors properly.
The regret in Dove’s voice doesn’t go unnoticed. Akira tosses him a glance before he starts prepping the filter. He scoffs, shaking his head.
"Yeah, tell me about it. It’d be nice if they at least came with some kind of tag, y'know? Like, hey, heads up, these five random people now know your tragic backstory—congrats!" He waves his hand in mock celebration before carefully spooning the freshly ground coffee into the filter. "Or hell, we could organize a damn search party. ‘Hey, whose trauma is this? Please claim your baggage at the front desk.’”
His voice is flippant, but there’s a sharpness beneath it, an edge to his humor that makes it clear he isn’t just joking.
He picks up the kettle as the water finishes heating and begins the slow pour-over process, spiraling outward to evenly saturate the grounds. The rich, fragrant aroma intensifies, filling the café with warmth. His gaze flicks toward Dove, thoughtful.
"...I hate this," he mutters suddenly, voice quieter.
His fingers grip the kettle just a bit tighter as he watches the dark liquid bloom, the slow drip of coffee into the carafe below almost hypnotic.
"People’s memories, photos—video tapes... They reveal too much about a single person."
no subject
With Dove’s order settled, Akira steps into motion.
He pulls out the house blend beans from their designated spot, the jar labeled with a careful, almost too-perfect script—Sojiro’s work, obviously. Popping the lid open, he inhales deeply, letting the rich, earthy aroma flood his senses before pouring a measured amount into the grinder. The beans are a medium roast, carrying notes of citrus and a delicate sweetness beneath the robust body.
A moment later, the quiet hum of the grinder fills the air, punctuating the lingering silence between them.
Dove’s voice cuts through it, bringing the conversation back to the other reason they’re here.
Concerning doesn't even begin to make up with what he knows.
Akira hums in acknowledgment, reaching for the kettle as he listens. He fills it with fresh water and sets it to the perfect temperature—not too hot, just enough to bloom the flavors properly.
The regret in Dove’s voice doesn’t go unnoticed. Akira tosses him a glance before he starts prepping the filter. He scoffs, shaking his head.
"Yeah, tell me about it. It’d be nice if they at least came with some kind of tag, y'know? Like, hey, heads up, these five random people now know your tragic backstory—congrats!" He waves his hand in mock celebration before carefully spooning the freshly ground coffee into the filter. "Or hell, we could organize a damn search party. ‘Hey, whose trauma is this? Please claim your baggage at the front desk.’”
His voice is flippant, but there’s a sharpness beneath it, an edge to his humor that makes it clear he isn’t just joking.
He picks up the kettle as the water finishes heating and begins the slow pour-over process, spiraling outward to evenly saturate the grounds. The rich, fragrant aroma intensifies, filling the café with warmth. His gaze flicks toward Dove, thoughtful.
"...I hate this," he mutters suddenly, voice quieter.
His fingers grip the kettle just a bit tighter as he watches the dark liquid bloom, the slow drip of coffee into the carafe below almost hypnotic.
"People’s memories, photos—video tapes... They reveal too much about a single person."
His voice isn’t as playful now.