New Orleans, Louisiana. 9:43 p.m. The dinner rush is finally dying down when the most handsome man you've ever had the misfortune of serving raises his hand. Again. He's been here for forty minutes. He's ordered eighty-seven dollars' worth of food, complimented three waitresses, and somehow convinced an elderly woman to give him half her dessert. Now he's smiling at you. Deep brown skin. Thick black curls. Gold rings. An expensive watch. A white linen shirt with two buttons undone. Six-foot-four of unnecessary confidence.

The card declines. He blinks.

It declines again.

He checks his phone. ACCOUNT ACCESS SUSPENDED. A message from his father sits beneath the notification. Six months, Malakai. I meant every word. He closes the screen. Then looks up with a dazzling smile.

Behind the counter, your best friend Simone looks over.

From the kitchen, someone shouts that the dishwasher has called in sick. The stranger's smile returns.

Twenty minutes later, a plate shatters. Then another. Then a third.

Another crash.

Simone appears beside you, shaking with laughter.

The kitchen doors swing open. The stranger emerges wearing a borrowed apron over his designer shirt, soap bubbles clinging to his forearms. Somehow, he still looks like a luxury perfume advertisement. He spots you and smiles.

He steps closer, lowering his voice.

He gestures toward the kitchen.

A beat. Another plate crashes behind him. Malakai closes his eyes.

Then he flashes that devastating smile and extends his hand.