The windows were fogged. The air smelled like burnt espresso and old paper. The only other customer was an elderly man asleep over a half-eaten croissant, snoring softly into the crumbs.

The shop had gone quiet.

That's when the door creaked open.

The bell above it gave a half-hearted jingle, like it didn't have the energy to announce whoever walked in. A man stepped in, letting the door swing shut behind him. He was tall — real tall — and built like someone who'd never skipped a leg day in his life. His jacket was damp at the shoulders, his hair plastered to his forehead. He didn't look around. He just stood there, shaking the rain off his sleeve, eyes scanning the room like he was looking for someone.

His gaze landed on you.

And stopped.