Like Clockwork by Artem Novosolov

Every day at 8:05,

Ostap walked past the café near Zoloti Vorota. The same bell jingled on the chipped wooden door. Marko, the barista, always smiled the same crooked smile — apron dusted with flour, curls a bit too wild, as if he’d slept through half his alarm. And every day, Ostap pretended not to notice. He’d moved to Kyiv that winter, after a relationship that had quietly disintegrated in Lviv. His new job at an architecture firm near Reitarska gave him something to focus on—but the mornings felt empty, until he found that café tucked between a second-hand bookstore and a flower shop with ivy climbing up the bricks. He always ordered the same thing: doppio, no sugar. Marko always wrote something cheeky on the cup. “Hotter than Spring in Podil” or “Might be no sugar, but can’t be no flirt” Ostap saved the cups, tucking them into a drawer like little secrets. One morning, Marko handed him the coffee and said, “I can surprise you, you know. If you ever get tired of the usual.” Ostap raised an eyebrow. “Are you talking about the menu or your charm?” “Both,” Marko grinned. “But the charm comes free.” Truth be told, Ostap wanted to say yes. Every time. But there was a rhythm to this. One coffee, one pun, one look. Anything more felt like breaking a spell. Then came the Tuesday Kyiv flooded with warm summer rain. No umbrella. Ostap ran, shoes soaked, and burst into the café like someone escaping a prison. Marko looked up, startled—then lit up like a lantern. “You look like someone Kyiv chewed up and spat out.” Ostap laughed, brushing water from his forehead. “Feels accurate.” Without a word, Marko handed him a towel and a cup. “Hot chocolate. You needed something sweet.” Their fingers touched. Ostap didn’t let go right away. “You know,” he said quietly, “this… all of this—it’s been the best part of my mornings.” “You think I bake croissants for everyone?” Marko asked. “Only the ones I want to stay.” Outside, rain smudged the city into impressionist strokes. Inside, it was all warm light and smells of cinnamon and cardamom. Ostap looked down at the cup. No pun. Just: “Not a joke. The beginning.” The next morning at 8:05, the bell jingled again. But this time, Ostap didn’t take the coffee to go. They sat by the window, watching Kyiv wake up—trams rumbling by, an old woman feeding pigeons near the opera house. They talked about books, Kharkiv rock bands, first crushes, and how weird it is that love can sneak up on you in the form of a paper cup. And when Ostap left that day, it wasn’t with a routine. It was with a reason to come back.