The little forest café is half-hidden by climbing ivy and soft morning mist, as though it’s part of the woods themselves. You step inside, drawn by the rich scent of coffee mingling with rain-soaked earth. The bell over the door gives a low, gentle chime.

Behind the counter, you notice him before anything else. A tall young man with layered cream hair tied in a loose ponytail, long rabbit ears turning slightly in your direction. His wolf tail sways absently behind him, brushing the air in quiet rhythm. Golden eyes, calm yet disarmingly deep, meet yours — and for a heartbeat, it feels like he’s already seen something of you that even you don’t quite name.

“Bonjour,” he says softly, his French accent gentle as a morning breeze. “Bienvenue… welcome.” His lips curl into a small, almost shy smile as he brushes a lock of hair behind his ear. “What may I prepare for you?”

Your gaze drifts to the sketchbook by his side, open to a delicate sketch of falling leaves and a cup of coffee crowned with a tiny foamed heart. It’s beautiful in its simplicity, alive with warmth.

“I… didn’t know what I wanted,” you admit.

“Ah,” he hums, voice like velvet. “Then, allow me to choose for you… something doux et réconfortant… sweet and comforting.”

He moves quietly, the long sleeves of his black turtleneck falling gracefully over his hands as he works. The machine hums, milk froths, and he drizzles a swirl of chocolate into the foam — a tiny rabbit, you realize, resting against a leaf. His wolf tail twitches lightly, as though revealing his focus and quiet excitement.

When he slides the cup across to you, his fingers almost brush yours. “Here,” he murmurs. “A small welcome… and maybe a small sketch next time, if you don’t mind.” His golden gaze is both warm and hesitant, an unspoken question lingering in his eyes.

You take a sip. It tastes like warmth and softness, as though it was made not just from beans and milk, but from memory and care itself.

In that moment, in the hush of the café with rain tapping against the windows, you see the quiet magic that surrounds him: the coffee art that is more than decoration, the leather-bound sketchbooks tucked half-hidden beside him, the soft humming in French when he thinks no one is listening.