Café Night
Chapter 11 – Café Night
It started with a piece of paper.
Not a contract.
Not a sponsorship deal.
Not Minseok’s glossy folder that smelled like control.
Just a small handwritten poster taped to Second Verse’s front window.
Café Night – This Friday, 8PM
Acoustic Set
Limited seats
No filming, please.
No name.
No “former idol.”
No sob story.
Just an invitation.
Just a boundary.
Yuna stared at the poster for a full minute after Joonseo finished taping it.
Her arms were crossed tight.
Her face unreadable.
Joonseo stepped back.
“What do you think?” he asked.
Yuna’s jaw tightened.
“It’s… small,” she said.
“That’s the point,” he replied.
Yuna’s eyes flickered.
“And if nobody comes?” she asked.
Joonseo swallowed.
“Then nobody comes,” he said gently. “And we’ll still clean up and drink tea and go upstairs.”
Yuna stared.
Her throat moved.
“…You make it sound easy,” she muttered.
“It’s not,” he admitted.
Yuna exhaled.
Then she said, voice quieter:
“I’m scared.”
The honesty surprised him.
Joonseo’s chest tightened.
“I know,” he said.
Yuna looked away.
“I haven’t sung in months,” she murmured. “Not without… hearing everything.”
Joonseo didn’t ask what everything was.
He could guess.
The disbandment announcement.
The dead practice room.
The comments.
The silence after.
The way the world moved on.
He kept his voice gentle.
“Then we start with one song,” he said.
Yuna’s gaze flickered.
“One?”
“One,” he repeated. “If you hate it, we stop.”
Yuna stared at him.
Then she scoffed, hiding her fear behind sarcasm.
“And if I cry?” she muttered.
Joonseo’s mouth softened.
“Then we stop,” he said. “Or we keep going. Whatever you choose.”
Yuna swallowed.
Then she nodded once.
Small.
Like she was stepping onto a stage she couldn’t see.
Preparation was ordinary.
Which made it feel unreal.
Joonseo moved the tables to create a small open space near the window.
He borrowed two folding chairs from the neighbor upstairs.
He checked the old speaker system in the storage cabinet and discovered it crackled like it was dying.
He looked at Yuna.
“I can fix it,” he said.
Yuna’s eyes narrowed immediately.
“Fix it how?”
Joonseo paused.
He understood what she was asking.
Not technically.
Morally.
With money?
With power?
With a billionaire shortcut?
He exhaled.
“With my hands,” he promised.
Yuna stared.
Then she nodded.
“…Fine,” she muttered.
So he did.
He opened the speaker casing.
He soldered a loose wire.
He cleaned dust from the connectors.
He tested it until the sound stopped cracking.
When it finally played clean, Yuna stood quietly behind him.
Her voice was small.
“You know how to do everything,” she murmured.
Joonseo’s mouth twitched.
“I’m functional,” he said.
Yuna scoffed.
“That’s not functional,” she muttered. “That’s… suspicious.”
Joonseo smiled faintly.
Yuna looked away, but her lips almost smiled too.
Almost.
On Thursday night, Yuna rehearsed upstairs.
Not loudly.
Not confidently.
Just soft humming drifting down the staircase like a ghost.
Joonseo stayed downstairs, cleaning, pretending his heart wasn’t racing.
Every note made his chest tighten.
Because her voice was different now.
Not polished.
Not stage-bright.
It carried fatigue.
Grief.
Something raw.
And it was still beautiful.
At one point, the humming stopped.
Silence.
Then a muffled sob.
Joonseo froze.
He stood still for a long moment.
He didn’t go upstairs.
Not because he didn’t care.
Because he respected the boundary of her pain.
A few minutes later, Yuna came down.
Her eyes were red.
Her face was stiff with embarrassment.
She didn’t look at him.
“I’m fine,” she muttered.
Joonseo nodded.
“Okay,” he said.
Yuna paused.
Then she added quietly:
“I forgot how hard it is.”
Joonseo’s chest tightened.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said.
Yuna’s jaw trembled.
“…I want to,” she whispered.
The sentence was small.
But it was a choice.
And choices mattered.
Joonseo nodded.
“Then I’ll be here,” he said.
Yuna didn’t respond.
But she didn’t tell him to stop saying that anymore.
Friday arrived too quickly.
The café smelled like cinnamon because Yuna baked cookies again.
Not heart-shaped this time.
Simple rounds.
No mistakes.
No symbolism.
Joonseo set out cups.
Water.
Tea.
A small tray of cookies offered for free, with a handwritten sign:
Please take one.
At 7:30PM, the café was empty.
Yuna stood behind the counter, hands shaking.
Her hair was down–soft waves framing her face.
She wore a simple cream sweater and jeans.
Not an idol outfit.
Just Yuna.
She looked like she might throw up.
Joonseo kept his voice calm.
“One song,” he reminded.
Yuna nodded.
Her throat moved.
At 7:45PM, the bell rang.
A woman stepped in.
Then another.
Two university girls, giggling nervously.
They looked at the sign and whispered.
Then they saw Yuna.
Their eyes widened.
One of them covered her mouth.
“…Is that–”
Yuna bowed politely.
“Welcome,” she said.
Her voice trembled.
The girls sat down, eyes bright.
At 7:50PM, three more people arrived.
Then two.
Then a couple.
At 7:55PM, Hana walked in.
Mask and beanie.
But her eyes were smiling.
Yuna saw her and froze.
Hana waved softly.
Yuna’s eyes shimmered.
Hana sat in the front row.
Then–at 7:58PM–someone else arrived.
A man with a camera.
Not a phone.
A camera.
Yuna went pale.
Her hands tightened.
Joonseo felt his chest go cold.
The man glanced around, lifted the camera slightly.
Yuna’s voice shook.
“No filming,” she said quickly. “Please.”
The man smiled.
“I’m not filming,” he said. “Just taking some photos.”
Yuna’s face tightened.
“I said no,” she repeated.
The man shrugged.
“It’s a public place,” he said.
Joonseo stepped forward.
He kept his voice steady.
“It’s a private business,” he corrected. “And she asked you not to.”
The man’s eyes narrowed.
“And you are?”
Joonseo didn’t blink.
“Staff,” he said.
The man scoffed.
Then he turned the camera toward Yuna again.
Yuna’s breath hitched.
Joonseo moved.
Not aggressive.
Not loud.
Just firm.
He stepped between the lens and Yuna.
He held out his hand.
“Leave,” he said.
The man’s jaw tightened.
“Are you threatening me?”
Joonseo’s voice stayed calm.
“No,” he said. “I’m asking you to respect her boundary. If you can’t, you can’t stay.”
The café went quiet.
Everyone was watching.
Yuna’s hands shook.
Hana’s eyes were sharp.
The man looked around and realized he wasn’t in control.
He scoffed.
“Fine,” he muttered.
He turned and left.
The bell rang.
The door closed.
The air in the café slowly loosened.
Yuna’s breath came out shaky.
Joonseo turned back.
His voice softened.
“You okay?” he asked.
Yuna stared at him.
Her eyes were wet.
She nodded once.
“…Thank you,” she whispered.
Joonseo nodded.
“Always,” he murmured.
Then he caught himself.
And added quickly:
“I mean… I’m here.”
Yuna’s lips almost smiled.
Almost.
At 8:05PM, Joonseo dimmed the lights.
The café looked smaller.
Warmer.
The crowd–fifteen people–felt impossibly large to Yuna.
Yuna stood near the window with a small acoustic guitar.
Her fingers trembled on the strings.
Joonseo sat at the side, near the counter.
Not in front.
Not center.
Just present.
Yuna looked at the audience.
Her throat moved.
Her eyes landed on Hana.
Hana smiled and nodded.
Then Yuna’s gaze flicked–briefly–to Joonseo.
He didn’t smile.
He didn’t cheer.
He just looked at her like she was allowed to be human.
Yuna took a breath.
“Hi,” she said.
Her voice cracked.
A nervous laugh rippled.
Yuna swallowed.
“Thank you for coming,” she whispered. “I… haven’t done this in a while.”
Someone murmured, “It’s okay.”
Yuna’s eyes shimmered.
She looked down at the guitar.
“I’m going to sing one song,” she said. “If I mess up… please pretend you didn’t hear.”
Soft laughter.
Then she played the first chord.
Her fingers were shaky.
The sound was raw.
Not perfect.
Not stage-polished.
But it was real.
And when Yuna opened her mouth–
her voice filled the café like warmth.
A hush fell.
Even the espresso machine seemed to hold its breath.
Joonseo’s chest tightened.
Because this voice had once been trapped behind screens.
And now it was here.
In a small café.
In a second verse.
Yuna sang.
About loss.
About beginnings.
About waiting.
Her voice trembled on certain notes.
And she didn’t hide it.
Halfway through, her eyes filled.
Her voice cracked.
She stopped.
Silence.
Her fingers hovered above the strings.
Her shoulders shook.
Yuna’s lips trembled.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
The room stayed quiet.
Not awkward.
Tender.
Then Hana spoke softly from the front:
“Unnie,” she said. “Keep going.”
Yuna’s breath hitched.
Someone else murmured:
“It’s okay.”
Another voice:
“We’re here.”
Yuna blinked hard.
She wiped her cheek quickly.
Then she looked toward the side.
Joonseo didn’t say anything.
He just nodded once.
A small nod.
Not pressure.
Permission.
Yuna inhaled.
Then she played again.
This time, her voice was steadier.
Not because the grief disappeared.
Because she let it exist inside the song.
When she finished, the café was silent for a beat.
Then applause.
Not loud.
Not screaming.
Just warm hands clapping like a heartbeat.
Yuna bowed, eyes wet.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Her voice cracked again.
But she didn’t run.
She stayed.
After the song, people ordered drinks.
Not many.
But enough.
Enough to make the register sound different.
Not coins.
Bills.
Some people left small tips.
Not dramatic.
Just quiet kindness.
Hana came to the counter.
She pulled down her mask slightly and smiled.
“You did well,” she whispered.
Yuna’s eyes filled.
“You came,” she breathed.
Hana nodded.
“Of course.”
Yuna swallowed.
“…Thank you,” she whispered.
Hana’s eyes flicked to Joonseo.
Then back to Yuna.
“You have someone here,” Hana said softly.
Yuna went still.
Hana didn’t push.
She simply squeezed Yuna’s hand.
Then she ordered tea and sat down.
Joonseo watched from behind the counter.
His chest tightened.
Because the café was alive.
Because Yuna had sung.
Because the first verse had returned.
When the last customer left and the chairs were stacked again, Yuna stood by the window.
Her fingers were still trembling from the guitar.
Joonseo turned off the lights.
He kept his movements calm.
Like he didn’t want to scare the moment away.
Yuna spoke without turning.
“I thought nobody would come,” she whispered.
Joonseo’s voice was soft.
“They came,” he replied.
Yuna’s throat moved.
“I thought… I was forgotten,” she said.
Joonseo’s chest tightened.
“You weren’t,” he said.
Yuna finally turned.
Her eyes were wet.
Her smile was small.
Real.
“…Thank you,” she whispered.
Joonseo swallowed.
“For what?”
Yuna’s voice trembled.
“For making me sing again,” she said.
Joonseo’s throat tightened.
“I didn’t make you,” he said gently. “You chose it.”
Yuna stared at him.
Her mouth trembled.
Then she whispered, almost like she hated herself for saying it:
“I’m glad you stayed.”
The sentence hit him like a chord.
Joonseo’s chest cracked.
He didn’t move.
He didn’t touch.
He only looked at her and breathed.
“…Me too,” he whispered.
In the quiet café, after the first verse returned, something softer began.
Not a rescue.
Not a deal.
Just two people–
standing in the warm light,
learning how to stay.