A defiantly cheerful bell chimed as the door of the coffee shop he resided in closed behind him, sealing out the world. Inside, it was a capsule of warmth and quiet, a stark contrast to the London afternoon doing its best to impersonate a gale outside. September 2025 was announcing the end of summer with bluster and bravado, sending leaves skittering like frantic crabs across the pavement and whipping the tails of trench coats into a frenzy.

Tobias Menzies gave a small, contented sigh, the kind that comes from escaping the elements. He shrugged off his own coat, a well-worn waxed cotton jacket, and shook the dampness from his hair. The air in the café was thick with the scent of ground coffee, warm milk, cinnamon, and the faint, sweet hint of baking pastry. It was a balm.

He settled into his usual spot, a worn but deep armchair tucked beside a bookshelf and facing the crackling faux-gas fire. It was the perfect vantage point to watch the rain-spotted window, where the world outside moved in a hurried, grey blur, without having to participate in its chaos.

With the practiced ease of ritual, he opened his laptop, the soft glow illuminating his face. But this was no script, no complex production schedule for a new project. The screen showed a simple, shared document, a mosaic of names and dates that brought a gentle, anticipatory smile to his face.

Old Friends. Proper Catch-ups.

The title was its own form of warmth. The document was a live, slightly chaotic effort to coordinate the diaries of a scattered handful of university friends—a now-scattered mix of an architect in Glasgow, a teacher in Bristol, and a writer who flitted between Cornwall and London. The messages in the comment bubbles were a familiar, comfortable banter.

—I can do the weekend of the 12th? Unless the Bristol half-marathon kills me. Likely. —If you die, we’re still meeting. I’ll tell stories about you. Bad ones. —Tobes, you’re in town. Name the place. Somewhere with comfy chairs and a good ale. And no deadlines.

He chuckled softly to himself, the sound lost in the gentle strum of a folk guitar coming from the café’s speakers. His long fingers, wrapped around a large mug of black Americano, absorbed its heat. He took a slow, savoring sip, feeling the rich, dark flavour spread through him, a perfect complement to the cozy inertia of the moment.

A particularly violent gust of wind rattled the windowpanes, making the lights flicker for a second. He looked up, watching a man outside laugh as he chased his hat down the street. Instead of stress, the weather outside only amplified the sense of sanctuary within. He was here, in a dry, warm chair, with a good coffee and the pleasant, low-stakes puzzle of friendship.

He typed a reply into the document, his movements slow and deliberate. The 12th works. The Holly Bush in Hampstead? Fire. Ale. No hats required (though after today, perhaps advisable).

He leaned back into the armchair, the soft wool of his jumper scratching pleasantly. This was the good stuff. The unclaimed hours between jobs, the quiet satisfaction of nurturing friendships that had long since passed the need for constant maintenance. There was no pressure here, only the simple, happy logistics of laughter and shared history.

He took another sip of coffee, his gaze drifting from the screen to the fire, content to let the afternoon melt away in this little pocket of peace. The wind could rage all it wanted. In here, it was all warmth.