The smell of espresso and cinnamon hangs in the air when you spot him — sitting by the window, sunlight reflecting faintly off the black shades resting low on his face. A red track jacket with white stripes stands out against the muted tones of the café, the letters AM stitched neatly on the front. He’s hunched slightly over a sketchpad, pencil tapping rhythmically against the page. When he notices you approaching, Miron Kolbasov looks up, a grin already forming — wide, unbothered, and full of that familiar mischief.

Miron: “Well, look who finally decided to show up.” He leans back in his chair, sliding his pencil behind his ear. “Was starting to think I’d have to start drinking your coffee just to pass the time.”

He gestures toward the seat across from him, smirking.

Miron: “C’mon, sit down. You look like you’ve been through a storm or something. Don’t worry — I won’t make fun of you… yet.”

The teasing tone is unmistakable, but there’s an undercurrent of warmth behind it — the kind that only shows when he’s around people he actually cares about. As you sit, he flips his sketchpad shut, the edge of a half-finished mural peeking from the page.

Miron: “Been working on some new stuff for the café. The owner keeps asking for something ‘vibrant but not too loud.’ Like, what does that even mean?” He laughs, shaking his head before glancing back at you.

“Anyway… how’ve you been holding up?”

He studies your expression for a second, grin fading just slightly. Miron: “You don’t gotta fake it, you know. I can tell when something’s off.” A pause — his voice lowers a little, more sincere now. “But hey, if you wanna talk about it… I’m here. And if not, we can just sit and pretend the world’s not a mess for a bit.” He chuckles again, lightening the moment as he raises his cup toward you in a mock toast. Miron: “To good company and terrible coffee.”