The coffee shop was just a few steps from the grocery store—Ivory's favorite little nook. Tucked between a flower shop and a bookstore, it smelled of espresso and cardamom and always played old jazz through a scratched speaker.
Jake didn't belong there. He knew it the second the bell jingled above the door. The place was too soft. Too cozy. Too... inviting.
Ivory led the way with a confident ease that both annoyed and intrigued him. She picked a booth in the corner, tossing her scarf onto the seat as if she came here every other day—which she probably did.
Jake sat across from her, arms crossed over his hoodie, beanie pulled low. His sunglasses were gone, revealing dark eyes that kept scanning the room like someone who didn't trust places with flower-shaped latte art.
"So," Ivory began, glancing up from the menu, "are you always this warm and sunshiney or am I just special?"
He arched a brow, unimpressed. "You stubbed my toe."
"And still earned a coffee date. I must be charming."
Jake didn't smile. But something in his eyes flickered—amusement or annoyance, hard to tell.
The barista came by. Ivory ordered her usual—iced caramel latte with oat milk. Jake gave a stiff nod and asked for a plain Americano.
"Of course you're a black coffee guy," she teased, stirring her straw through the ice. "You look like you've been here before, Jake. Have you?"
Jake rested his arm on the table, fingers tapping. "I was in Iceland two years ago," he said suddenly, voice low. "Only came back today."
Her teasing paused, curiosity piqued. "Really? Welcome back, I guess. Just visiting distant relatives or...?"
"Not visiting." His eyes were steady now. Cold but not cruel. "I came back to be alone."
The word hung heavy between them.
Ivory tilted her head, unfazed. "Well, you're doing a terrible job at it."
Jake let out a soft exhale, something between a sigh and a scoff. "You're unusually persistent."
"I've been told I'm a lot of things," she shrugged. "Persistent. Stubborn. Endearing."
He eyed her like she was some kind of puzzle that didn't quite fit on any shelf he was familiar with.
"Why are you doing this?" he asked plainly.
"Doing what?"
"This." He gestured loosely between them. "Talking to me. Buying coffee. Acting like we're friends."
Ivory leaned forward slightly, resting her chin on her palm. "Because you looked like you needed someone to talk to... and I like doing things that feel right. Even if they don't make sense. Ugh, did that came off cringy?"
He didn't respond immediately. Just stared at her, then out the window, then back at his coffee.
Ivory smiled, soft and unshaken. "Besides, I owe you. For letting me get away with your stubbed toe."
Jake looked down, finally taking a sip of his Americano. It was bitter, just like he liked it.
"...You're strange," he muttered. He wanted to say weird but held back his tongue.
She grinned. "So are you."
***
The next day, when JungKook went for a stroll at the town. He caught glimpse of a particular someone.
She was sitting by the window, laptop open, fingers flying across the keyboard.
He wasn't planning to go in. But something about her—how the glow of the setting sun haloed her silhouette—made him stop.
Before he could talk himself out of it, he pushed the door open.
She looked up. Blinked. Then smiled.
"Oh look, it's the guy I hit with a cart. What are the odds?"
"Slim, if I weren't secretly stalking you."
She grinned. "At least you're honest." She gestured to the seat across from her.
"Wanna sit?"
He sat. He didn't know why. He just did.
"So, Jake... what's your story?" she asked after their drinks arrived.
He shrugged. "Just passing through. Needed a break."
"From?"
He hesitated. Eyes dropping to his mug.
"Everything."
She didn't press. Just nodded like she understood.
"Well, welcome to the middle of nowhere. You picked the right kind of quiet."
Somewhere between her sarcastic remarks and his half-truths, Jungkook realized this girl didn't know who he was.
And strangely enough...
He didn't want her to find out.
She didn't know him.
Jungkook sat back in the wooden chair, letting her words and laughter swirl around him like steam rising from his untouched drink.
It was rare—impossible, even—to meet someone who didn't react. No double takes. No whispered questions. No awkward glances followed by frantic typing under the table.
Ivory had looked at him and seen... a guy.
Not Jungkook. Not the idol. Not the scandal.
Just a guy named Jake who got hit by a rogue grocery cart and wandered into her favorite café.
And God, he didn't realize how much he missed that.
"You look like you're thinking really hard," she said suddenly, tilting her head. "Did I break your ribs or something?"
He snapped out of it, offering her a lopsided smile. "Only a couple. I'll bill you."
She laughed again, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her fingers were smudged with ink. Pen ink. Not something you saw often anymore.
"You a writer or something?" he asked, nodding toward her laptop and notebook.
"Journalist-slash-photographer," she replied. "Small town stuff. Events, local stories, people. It pays the bills and lets me snoop legally, so win-win."
"Snoop legally. That's comforting."
"Don't worry, Jake," she said, eyes gleaming. "You seem boring enough. Not worth the front page."
Boring. That was new.
No one had called him boring in... a decade?
He leaned in slightly, resting his elbow on the table. "What if I told you I've got secrets, Ivory?"
She raised a brow. "Everyone does. But unless yours involve stealing baby puffins or secretly being a prince, I'm not impressed."
He smirked. "What about secretly being a popstar?"
She snorted. "Right. And I'm secretly Beyoncé's Icelandic cousin."
He laughed then—really laughed—and it felt foreign and familiar all at once.
No pressure to perform. No need to edit himself.
She wasn't looking for fame. She wasn't trying to dig. She was just her, sitting across from him, sipping her cream colored coffee and judging his sense of humor.
He could breathe around her.
And maybe... maybe that was exactly what he needed.
"I think I like this town," he murmured.
She grinned. "Give it a week. You'll be begging for Wi-Fi and daylight."
"Maybe." He tilted his cup toward her. "Or maybe I'll stay."
Their eyes met. Just for a second. Long enough for her smile to falter—just a flicker.
But she recovered quickly, raising her cup in return.
"Well then... welcome to Akureyri, Jake. Try not to get run over again."
***
Ivory's POV
He had that kind of face.
The kind you didn't forget after a glance. Strong jawline, soft mouth, eyes too dark to be safe—but too honest to be a threat. There was a quiet sadness to them, like he'd seen too much but wasn't ready to talk about it.
Ivory leaned against the doorway of the café, watching "Jake" disappear into the snowfall, hands tucked into his coat, shoulders slightly hunched like he was still carrying something heavy, even now.
She tugged her scarf tighter, her cheeks burning—not from the cold, but from the way she'd definitely stared at his lip ring too long.
And the tattoos. God, the tattoos.
They weren't obnoxious. Not the flashy, overcompensating kind. No, his were intentional. Some peeked from beneath his sleeves, dark ink curling along his veins like vines wrapping around secrets—and it made her want to ask what it meant.
Journalistic curiosity, she told herself. Totally professional.
She turned back toward her table and scoffed softly. Professional? Please. She'd just spent an hour sipping coffee with a walking contradiction—someone who looked like a rockstar but talked like he'd never seen a spotlight in his life.
And he let her believe it. Didn't correct her when she poked fun. Didn't drop hints about who he was or what he did.
If anything, he looked relieved. Like being a nobody—even for a little while—was exactly what he wanted.
Jake, he'd said, like it was the only part of himself he was willing to share.
It didn't feel like a lie... but it didn't feel like the whole truth either.
Still, she liked the way he said her name. Like he'd tasted it once and wanted to roll it around on his tongue again.
She bit her lip.
This wasn't her style—getting flustered by some guy she just met, much less one who barely gave her anything real.
But something about him... it felt unfinished. Like a story she'd accidentally stumbled into and wasn't sure she was meant to read yet.
And maybe that was why she'd offered to let him stay. Not because he looked like he needed rescuing—but because she wanted to know what page he was on.
She grabbed her camera bag and keys, shaking off the feeling.
He was probably a runaway musician or some city guy licking his wounds from a failed start-up or a messy breakup. Iceland attracted those types.
Still... those eyes.
There was nothing failed about those.