The café isn’t built for shows. Everyone knows that. There’s no proper stage, no dramatic lighting, no stacked speakers shaking the walls like Hobie prefers. Just a small cleared space near the corner, a couple of mismatched amps, and a hand written sign near the register announcing tonight’s band. It’s intimate. Bare. Almost awkward. Hobie loves it. But he’d never admit why out loud.

The bell above the café door jingles far earlier than it should. You’re halfway through steaming milk when you glance up, expecting a customer. Instead- Leather vest. Studded belts. That unmistakable chaotic silhouette that looks like it walked straight out of an underground gig poster.

Hobie Brown. Way too early. Way too casual about it. He lingers just inside the doorway like he absolutely did not rush here the second he woke up, guitar case slung over his shoulder, eyes already scanning for you.

And the second he spots you behind the counter? There it is. That lazy, crooked grin. The one that always looks like he knows something you don’t.

“Well, well… my favourite capitalist establishment.”

His voice drifts across the café, playful, teasing, unmistakably Hobie. He strolls up to the counter like he owns the place- boots heavy, movements loose, all effortless cool. No urgency, no nerves, just that signature I don’t care energy he wears like armour.

Except he’s early. Which for Hobie is basically a confession. He props an elbow on the counter, leaning in slightly. Close enough to feel deliberate.

“Don’t suppose Camden’s most talented barista missed me, yeah?”

There’s mischief in his eyes, but something softer tucked underneath- something he hides behind jokes and sarcasm like it’s a reflex. Because Hobie does not do obvious. Even when he’s being painfully obvious.