Chapter 8: The Sanctuary Upstairs
1601 Words
Elara Dwijaya
The glass door swung inward under my palm, carrying the heavy, industrial scent of roasted beans and condensed milk.
DING!
The bell above the entrance announced my arrival with a cheerful chime that felt completely at odds with the sudden spike in my heart rate.
Inside, the cafe was a living organism. The lunch rush was in full swing, a cacophony of clinking ceramic, steam hissing from the espresso machine, and the low hum of a dozen conversations.
For a split second, I hoped to blend into the background. Maybe if I moved fast enough, I could become part of the furniture.
"Whoa! Look who it is!"
So much for invisibility.
The shout came from the corner table near the window—the throne room of the regulars. The man in the leather jacket, the same one who had heckled us the night before, was already grinning like a shark that smelled blood. He nudged his friend, pointing a lit cigarette in my direction.
"The Queen has arrived, boys! Clear the way!"
Heat rushed up my neck, bypassing my cheeks and settling directly in my ears. My hand flew up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear, a nervous tic I couldn't seem to kill.
"Afternoon," I mumbled, offering a stiff, awkward nod.
"Looking bright today, Ms. Teacher! Is that glow from the skincare or the company?" another man shouted, earning a round of laughter from the table.
Before I could formulate a witty retort—or sink through the floorboards—the heavy velvet curtain separating the bar from the kitchen whipped open.
A small pink blur shot out.
"Ms. Ela!"
Rubber sandals squeaked against the polished concrete floor. Lyra slammed into my legs with the force of a heat-seeking missile.
"Oof!"
I stumbled back a step, laughing as I steadied myself. My hands instinctively went to her shoulders.
"Hi there, speed racer."
The curtain parted again.
Dio stepped out.
The sharp, dangerous man I had seen through the window just moments ago was gone. The phone was pocketed. The tension in his jaw had dissolved. In his place stood the version of Dio that made my chest feel tight.
He had traded the flannel for a simple grey t-shirt that hugged his chest, and over it, he wore a black apron with 'CHIEF BABYSITTER' printed in bold white letters across the front. His hair was slightly messy, as if he had run his hands through it in frustration, but it only made him look devastatingly human.
"Welcome, Ms. Elara," he said.
His voice was a low rumble that cut through the cafe's noise, grounding me instantly. He wiped his hands on a towel tucked into his waist.
"Thank you, Mr. Dio."
"Please, drop the 'Mr.' when we're not at school. It makes me feel old."
"Oooooh! Listen to that smooth talk!" Leather Jacket Guy hollered again, slapping the table.
"Get a room, Boss!"
Dio closed his eyes for a brief second, a look of long-suffering patience crossing his face. He didn't shout back this time. He just shook his head, a small, resigned smile playing on his lips.
He gestured toward a discreet wooden door next to the brew bar.
"Let's go upstairs. The acoustics down here are... compromised."
"Come on, Ms. Ela!" Lyra tugged at my hand, her grip surprisingly strong.
We navigated the maze of tables. I kept my eyes forward, ignoring the whistles and the playful jeers trailing behind us like tin cans tied to a wedding car.
Dio unlocked the wooden door.
CLICK.
He held it open for us.
"After you."
We stepped into a small vestibule that smelled faintly of vanilla and cedar—a sharp departure from the coffee-heavy air of the main floor.
BLAM.
The door shut behind us, severing the noise of the cafe instantly. The silence was sudden and absolute, save for the soft hum of a refrigerator somewhere above.
"Sorry about the peanut gallery," Dio said, hanging his apron on a hook behind the door.
"It’s fine. They seem... spirited."
"That’s a polite word for 'unemployed and bored'," he chuckled, leading the way up a flight of wooden stairs.
My heels clicked softly against the steps. As we ascended, the industrial vibe of the cafe melted away, replaced by something far more intimate.
The second floor was a revelation.
It wasn't a bachelor pad, and it wasn't a showroom. It was a home.
Sunlight poured in through floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating a living space that felt curated yet lived-in. A charcoal grey sofa dominated the center, draped with a knitted throw blanket. The walls were lined with bookshelves that were actually used—spines cracked, paperbacks wedged horizontally on top of hardcovers.
There was no gold. No marble statues. No screaming displays of wealth like in my parents' house. But everything here whispered quality.
Lyra released my hand and sprinted toward a console table in the corner.
"Daddy! I put the Legos away! Look!"
"Good job, kiddo," Dio praised, his voice warm.
I lingered near the entrance, feeling like an intruder in a sanctuary. My eyes wandered, taking in the details. A stray toy car under the TV stand. A stack of vinyl records near a turntable.
Then, my gaze landed on the console table where Lyra was standing.
A silver frame sat there.
The photo was slightly crooked. Inside, a woman smiled back at the camera. She was breathtaking—blonde hair cascading in soft waves, pale skin, and eyes that held a mischievous spark. She looked like a movie star caught in a candid moment.
My breath hitched.
A strange, cold weight settled in my stomach. It wasn't jealousy—I had no right to that emotion. It was something closer to inadequacy. Standing there in my work blouse and skirt, staring at the ghost of the woman who had built this life, I felt incredibly plain.
"Ms. Ela?"
Dio’s voice snapped the trance.
He was standing by the kitchen island, watching me. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes flicked briefly to the photo before returning to my face.
"Ah. Sorry," I blurted out, turning away from the frame.
"Nice place. Very... cozy."
"It serves its purpose," Dio replied, his tone neutral. He pulled out a chair at the dining table.
"Have a seat."
I sat down, grateful for the distraction. The dining area was an open-concept space connected to a kitchen that looked like it belonged in a cooking show—white marble counters, stainless steel appliances, and absolutely spotless.
But it was the smell that captured my full attention.
Rich, savory, and spicy.
The table was already set. A feast lay before us.
A large platter of Ayam Goreng Lengkuas—savory Indonesian fried chicken—sat in the center, the golden-brown pieces buried under a mountain of crispy, aromatic galangal crumbs that looked like shredded gold.
Next to it was a grilled Gourami, a delicate freshwater fish charred to perfection and coated in a vibrant yellow turmeric paste. A stone mortar filled with deep red Sambal Terasi—a fiery chili paste made with fermented shrimp—threatened to burn my tongue just by looking at it.
My stomach gave a treacherous, audible growl.
Grrr.
Heat flared in my cheeks again.
"Wow. This is... a lot," I managed to say, ignoring my body's betrayal.
"I didn't mean to impose on your lunch."
"You aren't imposing. I was craving home cooking anyway," Dio said, taking the seat opposite me. He looked perfectly at ease, the master of his domain.
Heavy footsteps approached from the kitchen.
A woman in her fifties emerged, carrying a large ceramic tureen with steam rising from it in thick ribbons. She had a kind face etched with laugh lines and wore a modest floral dress.
"Here is the soup, Mr. Dio," she said, placing the bowl gently on the table.
"Thank you, Yani."
The woman turned to me, wiping her hands on a cloth. Her smile was genuine, lacking the subservient stiffness of the staff at the Dwijaya residence.
"Eat up, Ms. Teacher. It’s best while it’s hot."
"Thank you. It smells amazing," I replied sincerely.
Yani nodded, gave Lyra a quick pat on the head, and turned to leave.
"Aren't you eating with us, Yani?" I asked instinctively.
At my house, the staff were invisible. But here, the atmosphere felt different.
Dio reached for a glass pitcher, pouring water into my glass.
"Yani prefers to eat downstairs when we have guests. She says she gets shy," Dio explained, passing the glass to me.
"She usually eats with Dimas."
My brow furrowed.
"Dimas?"
Dio let out a short, dry laugh. He began spooning rice onto Lyra’s plastic plate.
"You know him. The shaggy-haired kid downstairs. The one who yelled 'The Boss's Lady' yesterday."
The memory hit me. The loud barista.
I covered my mouth, a giggle escaping before I could stop it.
"Oh. The... unofficial PR manager."
Dio grinned. It was a full, dazzling expression that transformed his face, erasing the last traces of the 'dangerous man' on the phone.
"Exactly. The PR manager whose salary I dock every time he opens his mouth."
Laughter bubbled up between us, easy and natural. The tension from the photo, the awkwardness of the cafe—it all dissolved in the aroma of fried chicken and the warmth of shared amusement.
"Dig in, Elara. Before the soup gets cold."
I picked up my spoon.
Across the table, Lyra was already gnawing on a chicken drumstick with gusto. Dio was watching me, waiting for a verdict.
"Bon appétit," I whispered.
- Writer
