Some stories don't begin with fireworks or declarations.
They begin with something smaller, a moment, unplanned,
unforced. The feeling that someone has
just wandered into your life and made it feel a little more
alive. Welcome to Men being too
intimate. An audio story series exploring
what happens when two men blur the emotional lines between
kindness, connection, and something they don't have to
name just yet. 8 episodes, 8 MBTI pairings, 8 moments that
linger longer than expected. In today's story, we meet an
ENFP, bright, spontaneous, always chasing moments he can
feel, and an INFP, rooted, observant, with a heart too
quiet to show itself right away. They meet in Tolland.
One is passing through, the other has never left.
For three days they share something small and quiet and
fleeting. A walk, a breakfast, a night
that stayed longer than it should have.
No promises, no forever. Just the time they had.
This is men being too intimate. The time we had.
Tallinn is quiet in September. Still warm enough to leave the
door open, cool enough that the coffee steams longer in the cup.
Axel is behind the counter. The shop has been his since his
grandfather passed 3 tables by the window.
Not for laptops, only for people who read.
If you buy a book, you get a coffee.
Otherwise, this place isn't for you.
Today is quiet, the way he likes it.
Then the bell chimes. Everyone looks up, just for a
second, and Axel sees him. The man glances at someone
sipping from a ceramic cup by the window, then at the travel
shelf, then at the espresso machine tucked beside a
bookshelf. Axel stays where he is, elbows
on the counter, arms crossed, watching.
Then the man's eyes finally find his.
It's not a stare, not a moment heavy with anything, just a
glance. Hey, where do I order coffee?
You don't, right? Not a cafe.
Nope. Bookshop.
Got it. You buy a book, you get a
coffee. That's the system.
Interesting. Hey, I'll make one on the House.
I appreciate that. He turns away to the small
espresso machine tucked between the shelves.
It hums low as he moves, measured, practiced.
No waste of motion, no small talk, just the quiet sounds of
grinding beans, steam, and something that feels
unexpectedly personal. When he turns back, it's with a
warm ceramic cup in one hand and a slightly worn talent tourist
guidebook in the other. Here, free coffee and a
guidebook. Just pretend you bought it,
locals will complain if you sit around drinking for free.
The man chuckles, broad, easy, takes the book, takes the
coffee, and with a small, deliberate pause, my lips are
sealed. I'm Miles, by the way, I'm Axel.
He says it like it's nothing, but something about the way
Miles repeats it quietly, like he's trying it on, makes it feel
like the beginning of something. Back behind the counter, Axel
runs through the motion. Stock checks register tally a
delivery slip with the corner torn across the room.
Miles is still there, sipping, flipping through the guidebook,
one leg stretched under the table.
He doesn't seem in a rush to leave.
Axel eventually walks over. Miles doesn't look up right
away. Everything good?
Yeah, Thanks for the coffee, by the way, what's Pat Cooley like?
Axel was about to turn, but Miles taps a finger on the
guidebook, the page barely creased.
One question turns into a few more, not just what to see, but
where to eat. Axel answers, not flatly but
with a kind of reluctant ease, naming a hidden bakery, a
gallery down a side street, a dumpling place he claims is a
little dramatic but solid. If you want to go up Pacholi
tonight, I could show you. City looks different after dark.
He said it like it wasn't a big deal, like he hadn't just
offered to walk a stranger through the city at night.
I like that, Miles answered. Just like that, they agree to
meet at 7. Miles stands, closes the
guidebook with a soft thump. Thanks for the loan, he says.
Axel takes it without a word, just a small nod, the kind that
says you're welcome, maybe more than you know.
Miles lingers a second longer at the door, then glances back,
that same look a wink again. By night, the bookstore is
quiet. Golden evening light spills
across worn wood floors. Axel stands behind the counter,
doing absolutely nothing except watching time pass. 7:00 PM.
Still no sign. He rests his hands on the
counter, taps once, then again, waits. 7 O 7:00 PM.
The quiet begins to press in. He exhales slowly, then grabs
the key from its little hook near the register just as he
steps out. Hey, wait.
Axel turns. There's miles jogging into view,
sweat on his brow, shirt clinging slightly at the collar,
but not out of breath. Not even close.
He slows to a walk as he nears, raising a sheepish hand.
Sorry, I swear I left early, but the cobblestone roads around
here are confusing. Axel doesn't answer right away,
He just watches him. Something about it catches him
off guard, the way Miles ran that far, probably the last few
blocks, yet barely winded. Without a word, Axel turns back
into the shop. A moment later, he reemerges,
holding a folded cloth. He offers it, plain and simple,
a white handkerchief, soft for many washes.
Miles takes it, surprise but grateful.
Thanks. He dabs his forehead, then looks
up. Come on, it's better before the
light fades and together they begin walking.
They walked side by side, footsteps echoing on the uneven
cobblestones of the Old Town. Around them, the city softened,
shop shutters closing with gentle clacks, flower boxes
spilling over window sills, the distant chime of a bell marking
the hour. Miles took in everything, his
gaze moving like someone trying to memorize it all.
At the top of the climb, the view unfolded all at once.
The city stretched below them in layers, rooftops glowing in the
dusk, windows catching the last of the light.
In the distance, the sea shimmered, still and quiet, like
brushed metal. Miles slowed, and though no one
said anything, the silence between them shifted.
They stopped at the edge of the Pakuli viewing platform, Talon
glowing beneath them. The city felt timeless from
here. Miles let out of breath.
Wow. Axel didn't answer, he just
watched the way the light caught Miles profile, how his eyes
scanned rooftops like they meant something, how he was quiet for
once. Miles turned to him slowly, the
view still shimmering behind them.
Thanks for bringing me up here. He said, voice quieter now.
And for the book, and the list, and just everything today.
Axel gave a small nod, but didn't speak.
Miles smiled, more certain now. I want to return the favor.
Let me buy you dinner. Axel hesitated, not because he
didn't want to, but because he wasn't used to being offered
things. Before he could reply, Miles
reached out and gently took his hand.
Not as a gesture of romance, just insistence.
You're not allowed to say no. Miles added, grin tilted just
enough to make it feel like a challenge.
Axel wasn't used to touch, not like this, and yet something
passed through his chest. Then they left the overlook with
no real plan. The city around them was slowing
down, shops dimming 1 by 1, the air cooling into something more
comfortable. Miles walked lightly, like
someone who hadn't yet decided where the day should end.
He mentioned offhandedly what he hadn't gotten to try yet.
Not just sights, but tastes, local things, comfort food.
He listed dishes he'd heard about, mispronounced a few with
a laugh. Axel listened without
interrupting, and when Miles fell quiet, content just to
stroll, Axel wordlessly shifted their direction.
After listening and taking in all the things Miles wanted to
try and likes, Haxel LED Miles somewhere close.
Not a tourist restaurant or anything dressed up, just a
little place tucked behind a florist's shop where the sign
was half faded and the menu was scribbled and chalk.
Inside, the tables were mismatched wood, the lights soft
and low. Axel ordered without fanfare.
Something simple, something good.
Beetroot salad, black rye bread, hot smoked fish and mushroom
stews served in a clay bowl. Miles grinned when the plates
arrived, already half in love with the scent of dill and warm
butter. He tried everything.
They talked over dinner without urgency or show.
Miles opened up more easily than Axel expected, not in a
performative way, but with the relaxed rhythm of someone used
to crossing paths with strangers, knowing some meetings
stayed longer than others. He was nearing the end of a
three-week trip across Eastern Europe, he said.
Budapest, Prague, Vilnius, Riga, and now Tallinn, his last stop
before flying home in 2 days. He was from California, though
not the loud, sun soaked version people usually imagined a
smaller town up the coast. He lived alone now, after a
breakup last year. It wasn't a story he offered
details on, but it hovered quietly in how he talked about
the freedom of this trip. Axel listened, and when the
moment felt right, he shared just a little in return that
he'd been to Vilnius and Riga. Quick trips, not long stays, but
never Prague, never Budapest, and never California.
He said simply that maybe one day he'd go.
Miles leaned in a little more as the meal went on, not in volume
but in attention. His questions shifted from the
travel friendly what to see, what to try, what to avoid, to
something softer, what it was like to actually live here.
He asked about the rhythm of real days where people bought
their bread, how neighbors treated each other, what Axel
did when he wasn't tucked between pages and coffee cups.
And Axel, who wasn't always used to being asked, answered without
deflecting. Maybe not with everything, but
with enough. He spoke of a quieter side of
the city, the parts beyond the cobblestone charm, the slower
mornings, the neighborhood cafes that didn't translate their
menus, the open markets where old women still brought berries
and Wicker baskets. He told him about his home, a
small flat in one of the rougher concrete apartment blocks just
outside the center post Soviet, boxy, a little Gray, not
beautiful, but real. Axel said simply that Miles
could come by tomorrow if you wanted a better picture of
things. Just morning light and real
life, something more than a story told over Stu.
Miles smiled, warm and certain. I'd love to see it.
The bookstore opens at noon. Come by around 9:00, we'll have
breakfast, then head back into town.
Dinner ended without hurry. No check rush, no last minute
confessions. Outside, the street lights had
come on, soft and golden, catching in the puddles between
uneven stone. They walked slowly back to the
corner where their waist split. Miles turned to him, eyes a
little gentler now. Thanks for tonight.
And before Axel could say anything, Miles stepped forward
and gave Axel a quiet hug. Nothing expectant, just a good
night and a see you tomorrow folded into one.
Axel stood there a moment longer after they parted, watching
Miles go. Then he turned the other way,
toward the side of the city that didn't have postcards.
Miles sat in the back of the taxi, watching the windows bead
with water as the familiar charm of Talon faded behind him.
Outside, the city changed, pastel cafes giving way to rain
slicked roads, wires drooping between poles and the concrete
bones of the city's Soviet past. The taxi slowed near a block of
weather worn apartment buildings.
They look tired, Heavy faded green stairwells with steel
doors, balconies stacked like crates.
Rain trickled down the cracked facade, as if the buildings
themselves were still waking up. Inside, the stairwell was dim
and quiet, walls marked by years of patch ups and peeling paint.
But the moment Axel opened his door, the air shifted.
The home was small but full of color.
Woven textiles, potted plants, a calendar with handwritten notes.
In the corner, the warmth of the kitchen spread through the room
like it belonged there. Axel's mother glanced up from
the pan with a knowing smile, no surprise in her eyes.
Only welcome. Miles held up the bag
sheepishly. I brought coffee and bread.
She nodded approvingly and gestured toward the table.
The table was fuller than expected.
A proper Estonian breakfast, not something from habit, but
something prepared. There were boiled eggs, open
faced smoked herring sandwiches, pickled beets, fresh curd cheese
with herbs, cucumber ribbons, homemade jam, potato pancakes
still steaming, and a pot of black tea steeping next to
honeycomb in a small dish. The rye bread Miles brought was
sliced and placed in a woven basket as if it had always been
part of the meal. Conversation was light, mostly
quiet. Axel and his mother exchanged a
few words in Estonian. Miles watched the rain blur the
window and let the stillness settle in.
After the meal, Axel poured more tea and nodded toward the
hallway. Want to see the rest?
Miles followed. The apartment was narrow, but
every corner had something lived in stacked books, wool blankets,
a coat hook shaped like a fish. Axel opened the door to his
room, A small space, A desk with worn edges, a poster peeling at
the corner, a single bed tucked under the window.
In the living room, above an old sideboard, hung a faded
photograph, a black and white portrait of a man standing in
front of a small storefront with books in the window.
That's my grandfather, Axel said.
The shop used to be his, now it's mine.
Miles leaned closer. So it runs in the family.
Axel shrugged. Guess so.
Eventually the sky began to shift.
The rain slowed. Hints of pale light began to
stretch across the clouds. They didn't linger.
The rain had lightened to a hush, and soon they were pulling
on coats again, stepping out into the damp morning.
At the corner they caught the local bus, one of the older ones
still rattling from stop to stop, the kind where the windows
fogged quickly and the seats cracked when you sat.
It was full of everyday life, workers heading in, school kids
yawning. Someone with a small bundle of
rowing branches wrapped in old newspaper miles sat beside Axel,
the smell of city rain and bread drifting in every time the doors
opened. The bus rattled down the wet
streets, breaks sighing at each stop.
When they reached the old city center, the bus hissed to a
stop. They stepped off into the waking
square where puddles shimmered in stone.
Cracks in the rain had softened to mist.
Axel reached into his pocket and pulled out a small folded paper.
He handed it over without ceremony.
It's not much, just a map, some shortcuts and spots worth
seeing. Miles unfolded it.
There were hand drawn arrows, coffee cup doodles, and little
notes like this. Alley smells like fresh bread at
11 AM. Good view here, but bring a
jacket cut through here or you'll get lost.
Thanks. Miles said, running his thumb
along the edge. Axel offered the faintest smile.
Hope you enjoy, Talon. He said.
Miles nodded. No hug, no plan, no see you
later. Just a folded map and the memory
of warm tea curd cheese and a morning that wasn't asking for
anything more. The key turned in the lock with
a low click. Axel pushed the door open and
stepped inside. The bookshop was dim, quiet,
still holding the cold from the night.
He moved through the usual routine without thought, lights
on one row at a time. The space slowly warmed, not
just in temperature but in mood. Axel pause behind the counter,
glanced out at the empty street. By midday the clouds had cleared
and Tolland stretched out in quiet rhythm.
Miles moved through its cobbled streets with Axel's map folded
in his coat pocket, saw from use.
He didn't follow it exactly. That wasn't the point, but he
kept finding the places marked with little sketches.
A crooked alley that smelled faintly of bread.
A bench near quiet overlook. An archway that felt like the
entrance to another world. There was a note beside one
turn. Don't walk too fast here.
Just don't. Miles slowed.
The alley opened into a quiet square flanked by an old church.
It's stone, worn soft by time. Above, a bell began to chime.
He stood still until the bell stopped.
As night hit, Axel moved through the aisle slowly.
He folded the linen cloth that had covered the window display,
then turned toward the back. Axel grabbed his coat, half
shrugging into it. Then, through the pane of the
door, he saw someone standing across the street.
The street lamp behind Miles cast a golden wash onto the wet
stones, and for a second neither of them said anything.
Miles had one hand tucked into his jacket pocket.
In the other he held a small paper bag, slightly damp at the
corners. I brought something.
Axel blinked. Miles smiled, lifting the paper
bag. Red wine, cheese I couldn't
pronounce something. Smoke that might be ham and a
warm paper cone of honey. Peanuts from a street cart.
Couldn't resist. Smelled like childhood.
Axel blinked. Like whose childhood?
Miles grinned. Not mine, but I figured
someone's. Axel looked at him for a long
moment, then stepped aside. Come in.
The shop door creaked gently as it shut behind them, muffling
the outside world. Inside, the shelves leaned like
old friends. The room was warm with the hush
of unread stories. Axel flicked on only the small
desk lamp near the register. Miles placed the bag on the
counter and began unpacking it without instruction.
They ended up sitting on the wooden floor between the travel
section and Baltic poetry. The wine was opened with an old
Corkscrew axle kept behind the counter.
There were no wine glasses, only two chipped ceramic mugs, one
with a faded gurda quote. They pass the food between them,
slices torn from the loaf, a piece of cheese balanced on top,
a curl of smoked meat folded over like ribbon.
No music played, just the soft sounds of chewing, the quiet sip
of wine and their voices as the night began to unspool.
Their legs stretched out in opposite directions like the
arms of a crooked compass. Between them, the wine bottle
sat uncorked, sweating slightly. The cheese and ham were half
eaten. The candied peanuts had vanished
within minutes. Axel shared stories of the
shop's earliest days, of his grandfather's rules.
No loud music, no pens on the register, no politics at the
front door. Miles talked about cities he
didn't quite belong to, jobs that almost made sense.
People who stayed too long or not long enough.
They traded little truths like coins, music they liked, books
they never finished, the exact number of heart breaks that
still ached when named. Outside, the last light slipped
out of the sky. Inside, something else was
settling. The laughter came less often
now, but when it did, it lingered.
Silences began to hold their own shape.
Not awkward, not unsure, just quieter, closer.
Axel looked over. Miles had gone still.
His expression was unreadable, not distant, just waiting.
Not for permission, not for a sign, just for the moment to
finish unfolding. So Axel let it.
He leaned in slowly, and Miles didn't move.
Not forward, not away. Their mouths met like a closing
parenthesis. The kiss deepened, but nothing
rushed. Miles's hand rose to Axel's jaw,
fingers brushing along the edge of his neck.
Axel exhaled into the contact, his own hand trailing down to
the fabric just above Miles's knee.
Neither of them moved to stand. The floor beneath them was old
wood, creaking faintly beneath shifting weight.
The bookshop around them stayed quiet, cloaked in the warmth of
amber lamplight, in the faint scent of paper and pine oil.
They kissed again, the kind of kiss that knows it's being
remembered. Eventually, they did rise, not
to leave, but to shift. They moved behind the counter,
into the little nook near the storage alcove, where a worn rug
and low set tea sat unused most days.
There, with hands tugging and buttons and cotton, with breath
catching against collarbones and fingertips slipping under
waistbands, they let the quiet space carry them.
It wasn't hurried. It wasn't performative.
It was clumsy at times, a laugh muffled against skin, a book
knocked from the edge of the seat, but neither pulled away.
They moved together in a rhythm not dictated by time but by
trust, and when it ended, they stayed curled against each
other, breath mingling, bodies warm for more than just the ACT
itself. Axel glanced up, eyes tracing
the shelves that lined the room. It still looked like his shop
still smelled of pine oil and memory, but now it held
something else. A moment, a night, a man 1 you
wasn't ready to let go of. They held each other for a long
while after, not speaking, just breathing.
Skin to skin, warmth shared in the quiet space between the
shelves. Axel's fingers trace slow,
absent lines across Miles back. Miles stirred just enough to
press a kiss to Axel's shoulder. Then he sat up slowly, reaching
for his scattered clothes. Axel followed quietly, their
glances meeting in the half light.
Miles pulled on his sweater and looked toward the door.
My hotel's close, he said, not with urgency, but as an
invitation. Axel didn't answer right away,
but he stood, and when Miles extended his hand, Axel took it,
No hesitation this time. They left the shop together,
locking the door behind them. The air was cold, the street
lights hummed, and as they walked through Talon's old
streets, hand in hand, something unspoken settled between them,
something that didn't need to be named.
The next morning, Axel and Miles lay side by side, close but not
tangled. Axel stirred first.
He turned his head toward Miles, watching the soft rise and fall
of his breath. Then, carefully, he slipped from
under the sheets, walked to the bathroom, and closed the door
behind him. The sound of running water
filled the quiet. Miles blinked awake.
He stayed still for a moment, grounding himself, the weight of
goodbye already stirring in his chest.
His bag sat half packed by the chair.
His phone blinked with the time. It was almost real now, the end
of this chapter. He got up slowly, began folding
his clothes, putting things back where they belonged, everywhere
except his heart. Axel steps out, fully dressed,
and adjusts the collar of his shirt.
He gives Miles a small smile, the kind that tries to be casual
but can't quite hide everything beneath it.
I'll be quick. Miles says, rising to finally
take his turn in the shower. Axel nods, doesn't say much,
just pulls his shoes on and grabs his phone from the night
stand. When the bathroom door closes
behind Miles, the room feels different.
And when Miles comes out, hair still damp, towel slung around
his shoulders, Axel is gone. Just the open curtain, the quiet
hum of the heater, the smell of soap still clinging to the air.
For a breath, Miles froze. He thought he left.
Then the soft buzz of the hotel door.
He opened it. Axel stood there with two paper
coffee cups in hand, croissant tucked inside.
His coat was barely zipped. He looked a little winded, like
he had run down and back just to catch the morning.
Miles smiled, relief so obvious it hurt a little.
Axel handed him the coffee. I didn't want you flying without
breakfast, he said. Miles took it.
Not much more was said, but taxi came too soon.
They stood outside the entrance as the driver loaded his bag.
The wind had picked up, crisp and clear.
Axel looked at him. Miles looked back.
No speeches, no promises, just a kiss, warm and full, and then a
hug, tighter than either of them expected.
When they stepped back, they were still smiling.
Take care, Axel said. Miles opened the taxi door,
paused. Thank you, he said, for
everything. And then he got in.
The car, pulled away, turning the corner.
Axel stood there until the taxi was gone.
Then, quietly, he turned back toward the city.
The city felt too loud, too fast, But the walk helped, and
by the time he reached the shop, the silence was waiting.
He unlocked the door, stepped inside.
No lights yet, just the soft hush of pages and dust and
something unspoken. The air still held traces of the
night before. Axel walks in and sees the mess
they left behind. The wine bottle near the
counter, two cups, rings dried at the bottom where the red had
settled. Roasted honey peanuts on the
floor. Evidence of something that felt
too brief to be real. He doesn't rush to clean it.
He moves slowly, like each item holds a memory he doesn't want
to wipe away too fast. Then silence again.
He wipes the table, stacks the cups, folds the napkin.
Miles, crumpled, puts the peanuts in the trash.
The shop feels emptier than it should.
He turns toward the travel section, that little lane Miles
lingered in. Fingers trail the spines, then
stop. He pulls one book from the
shelf. California.
A pause, then a soft smile. The spark and the stillness.
One who lives for what's unfolding, the other who feels
it before it begins. Together they found a rhythm.
Not rushed, not planned, just felt.
The ENFP, full of wonder, always looking forward.
The INFP, full of meaning, quietly holding the now.
Neither asked for forever, but neither will forget.
That's what happens when men are too intimate, when a kiss says
more than a promise ever could. This was Axel and Miles, a story
of timing, of quiet rooms, slow mornings and something soft
they'll carry long after goodbye.
Being too intimate.