The café was alive with soft murmurs and the occasional clatter of cups. The air smelled of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries, a comforting blend that welcomed anyone who entered.

The tables were mostly occupied, people chatting softly, typing, flipping pages of novels, or just watching the world pass by from behind their coffee mugs. The gentle chime of the doorbell rang every so often, followed by greetings, warm smiles, and the tapping of shoes against the polished floors.

In the kitchen, though, things were a little busier, more rhythmic, like a heartbeat. The hum of appliances, the soft clink of metal trays, and the sweet fragrance of baked sugar lingered in the air like a lullaby.

Anna stood at the marble counter, completely in her zone, piping delicate swirls of chocolate cream with a look of fierce concentration. Her hands moved like an artist’s, smooth and confident, never a tremble, never a doubt.

Across from her, I stood at my station—or more like leaned into it, really lost in my own cloudy little world while the electric hand blender in my grip whirred its way into overkill.

I was wearing my favorite lilac frock, it swished every time I shifted from foot to foot and my sneakers squeaked occasionally on the tiled floor. My hair was tied up in a lazy bun, though a few rebellious strands kept falling in front of my face. I didn’t bother tucking them back.

Honestly, my hands were going through the motions, but my mind was tangled somewhere between last night and this morning. Breakfast had been peaceful, at least on the surface. Marco had looked down at his plate most of the time, but he had apologized in that quiet, slightly embarrassed way he always did when he knew he went too far.

Dad had apologized too and for a moment, I thought maybe, just maybe, everything would go back to normal.

But it hadn’t. Something still felt wrong.

Dad’s outburst the night before had been... violent. Not just the slap, but the look in his eyes. I’d never seen that kind of fear or fury twist across his face. It wasn’t like him. He’d always been firm, sure, but joyful too the kind of man who would whistle while he chopped vegetables or hum old songs when he cleaned the garage.

What did Ronan ever do to him? I kept asking myself that. My stomach twisted a little. The image of Marco’s tearful face wouldn’t leave me alone. Neither would the memory of how Dad had stared at him when he said Ronan's name.

There was something deep-rooted, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that it went far beyond Marco’s relationship.

“Aria, stop blending it now.” Anna’s voice cut through the low hum of the hand blender. Her eyes flicked to my hands.

I could feel her gaze lingering on the cream in the bowl—a sad, deflated mess that had gone way past perfect. The sound of her tools being set down came next, the light thud of the piping bag hitting the counter, the soft crinkle of gloves being pulled off.

I barely registered it until I felt her presence next to me. Her hand on my shoulder pulled me back to earth. “Aria.” Her voice was firmer now, closer, filled with concern.

I blinked, my breath catching just slightly. My fingers finally moved, switching off the blender with a gentle click. The silence that followed felt heavier than the noise had been. My eyes met hers—and ugh, the guilt hit me instantly. I gave her a sheepish smile, weak and wobbly around the edges. “Oh, sorry.. I didn’t realize..”

Anna’s brows pulled together in that quiet, worried way. It wasn’t judgment. It never was with her. Just that tender way she looked at people like she was trying to see straight into their soul, not to scold it, but to sit with it for a while.

“Are you okay?” She asked gently, and the way she said it… it was like she was offering me a seat beside her in some emotional safe space.

I nodded too quickly, my smile trying too hard. “I’m fine. I was just thinking about something.” My voice gave me away—wavery and fragile.

Anna’s sigh was soft, but full of that quiet understanding she was so good at. Her hand moved to the top of my head and patted it, just once, like a mom or a big sister would.

“Look, Aria. I can tell something’s bothering you.” She said, her tone now wrapped in gentleness. “You can share it with me if you want. I’m here to listen.”

My hands—traitors that they were—started to fidget with the edge of my apron. A nervous tic I didn’t even try to hide anymore. I wanted to speak, I really did. My mouth opened and then closed again.

But finally, I let the words out, soft and unsure. “I actually… it’s about my Dad…” I whispered, but the words hit a knot inside my throat.

I looked down at the floor, staring at a random tile. My thoughts felt like they were spun too tightly together—messy threads of worry, confusion, and a sadness I didn’t quite know where to place.

Anna didn’t push. She just gave my shoulder a light squeeze, and smiled. “It’s okay,” she said softly. “I won’t push you. You can talk to me when you’re ready.”

I nodded at her, but before I could even open my mouth to reply, she stepped back, her expression shifting into something more practical—that quiet kind of authority she wore so well.

“Here’s what we’ll do.” She said gently, but with that unmistakable firmness that left no room for debate. “Why don’t you handle the counter today? Take a break from the kitchen. Send Sasha in to help me here. She’s more than capable of managing.”

“No, I’m fine—” I started, quickly shaking my head, the words spilling out almost automatically.

But Anna only gave me that small, knowing smile—the one that always made me feel like she could see right through the brave face I was trying to wear.

“Aria.” She interrupted softly. “You’re overworking yourself, and I can see you’re not in the right headspace. Let Sasha take over. Trust me, the kitchen will survive without you for one day.” Her voice was calm, but there was no mistaking the quiet strength behind it.

I opened my mouth to argue, not because I didn’t appreciate her concern, but because I hated feeling like I was stepping away. But before I could say a word, she gently took the gloves from my hands, set them neatly aside, and turned me toward the kitchen door with the sweetest little push.

“Go,” she said with a smile that was more love than command. “Handle the counter and send Sasha in here. No cooking for you today. That’s an order.”

I let out a small sigh, the kind that carried reluctant gratitude. She wasn’t going to budge. I knew that. And deep down, I was kind of thankful she didn’t.

“Fine,” I muttered, unable to hide the faint smile tugging at my lips as I walked out of the kitchen.

The aroma of coffee and pastries wrapped around me like a hug the moment I stepped out. The morning rush had softened into a steady rhythm—quiet conversations, light footsteps, and the comforting sounds of steam hissing from the espresso machine.

I spotted Sasha at the coffee machine, her back straight, her hand graceful and sure as she poured steaming coffee into a paper cup. I leaned against the counter beside her, resting my palm lightly as I waited.

There was something so peaceful about just watching her work. Focused, calm, in her own rhythm.

She didn’t notice me at first, her attention fully on securing the lid onto the cup before handing it to the man waiting patiently on the other side of the counter.

“Here you go,” she said with a pleasant smile. The customer nodded in thanks, slipping her a dollar before walking off. “Thank you, and have a great day!” Sasha chirped after him, the cheer in her voice so effortlessly genuine.

Then she turned back to me, one brow lifting playfully. “What are you doing here?” She asked, her tone light as she wiped her hands on her apron.

I gave her a soft smile in return, my voice gentle and casual, “Can you handle the kitchen today?”

Her expression shifted instantly, the lightness in her gaze softening into something closer to concern. “Why so? Not that I mind, but.. are you okay?” She asked, her voice careful, laced with curiosity and care.

I nodded quickly, brushing off Sasha’s concern with one of those easy smiles I’d perfected over the years. “Yup, I’m fine. Just wanted a change of pace today, that’s all.” I said, my voice light.

Sasha tilted her head, her eyes narrowing just a little as if she were trying to scan for hidden signals beneath my casual tone.

A second passed—maybe two—and then she gave a tiny nod, like she was mentally shrugging it off. “Okay then. See you later.” She muttered, pushing herself off the counter.

As she turned, she threw a casual smile over her shoulder before disappearing through the kitchen door.

When the door settled behind her, I let out a breath I didn’t even realize I was holding. Relief trickled me, quiet and fleeting. I turned to the counter, resting my hands on its smooth surface. My fingers tapped absently, and I took a second to soak in the buzz around me.

And then.. Ding.

The bell above the café door chimed with that delicate little sound that always made my heart flutter a bit. I looked up instinctively, my eyes flicking toward the entrance, and just like that, the soft warmth of the café felt like it dropped a few degrees.

A man stepped in, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit that practically whispered, I’m important, don’t waste my time.

His long overcoat moved with him, brushing his legs with every measured step, sleek and precise. His black shoes gleamed against the wooden floor, reflecting the golden café lights.

The sunglasses he wore added a sharp and secretive edge, and when he took them off with one fluid motion and slipped them into his coat pocket, it felt like the whole room subtly shifted.

My breath caught. His cold, calculating eyes locked onto mine. A slow chill ran down my spine.

Ronan.

His steps were deliberate and steady as he approached like he owned every inch of ground between the entrance and my counter.

“What are you doing here?” I blurted, my tone snapping through the air with a frustration I didn’t even try to hide. I wasn’t in the mood to sugarcoat anything, especially not for him.

Ronan's unreadable expression didn’t falter. “Why was your café closed yesterday?” He asked instead, steamrolling right past my question like it didn’t deserve space in the air.

His hands pressed against the counter, solid and unmoving, his voice flat and stripped of anything resembling kindness.

I stared at him, stunned by the sheer audacity. Did he actually show up here? Yesterday? The thought slid through my head like a stray breeze, cool and unwanted. But.. why?

I snapped myself back to the moment, forcing the swirl of questions into a neat little mental box labeled do not open. My gaze sharpened, lips tightening as I glared at him, not even bothering to pretend anymore.

“None of your business. Get out.” The words came out like little blades—sharp enough to make a point. I threw a hand toward the door, the gesture brisk and loud in its own way.

But Ronan didn’t so much as flinch. Not even a twitch of his jaw. His eyes stayed locked on me, cool and stubborn. “I’m not leaving.” He said with that same blank frost in his tone. “You can’t just push your customers out like that.”

I scoffed, loud and completely unbothered. “I can, and I will!” My voice was rising now, no longer sweet and bubbly. “Didn’t I make it clear last time that you’re not welcome here?”

His sharp gaze narrowed as he leaned in ever so slightly, and though the counter still separated us, it suddenly felt like there wasn’t enough space in the room. “And why, exactly, am I not allowed here?” His words were smooth, laced with that biting chill that never quite left his voice.

Like he already knew the answer, and just wanted to watch me squirm trying to say it out loud.

I faltered. Just for a beat. “Because.. I—I have my own personal reasons.” I said, my voice tripping over itself. My fingers clenched against the wood of the counter, my nails pressing into my palm in quiet rebellion.

I hated that he got to me. Hated that he was standing here like this didn’t affect me. Like I was just a line on his schedule, not a person with boundaries.

Ronan's mouth curled at the corner, a smirk flickering across his face. But his eyes were still ice. “When did I become your personal reason, café girl?” He asked, the mockery bleeding into every word like ink in water. “Shouldn’t you treat me as a customer?”

My patience snapped like a brittle cracker in a soup I didn’t ask for. I leaned forward, my voice sharp enough to slice through glass. “Shut up, you stupid Casanova!”

The smirk that had been hanging lazily on Ronan’s face vanished like smoke in the wind. His features hardened instantly—that cold, no-nonsense glare back in full force.

His voice dipped an octave lower, harsh and laced with an edge that made the air feel ten degrees cooler. “What did you just call me? Take that back.”

I crossed my arms, the heat in my chest burning through any trace of hesitation. “I won’t!” I bit back, loading each word with sweet mockery. “And if you have a problem with that, then leave. Mr. Casanova.”

Ronan’s eyes narrowed. “Take that back right now, or I’ll shove that Casanova title right down your throat, and I bet you won’t like me doing that, especially in public.”

The words that left his mouth were barely a whisper, but they slithered through the air with a venom that made my spine lock.

I froze. My cheeks lit up like a neon sign in a blackout. He wasn’t joking. His voice wasn’t teasing. There was no smug glint in his eyes—just something colder, heavier, that made my brain short-circuit for a moment.

Before I could say anything—before I could even gather the scrambled mess that used to be my thoughts—he spoke again, his voice firm and venom-laced, like a wolf growling through its teeth.

“Shall I just tell everyone here how you’re trying to throw me out? Don’t forget, I hold the power to ruin this café with just one bad review. Do you want that?”

My sass caught in my throat. A flicker of fear cracked through the armor. I blinked fast, my eyes darting to the side for a second before snapping back to him. I swallowed the heat in my throat and asked, much smaller now, “What do you want?”

“You.” His voice was blunt. Empty. As if the word wasn’t supposed to carry weight, but somehow crushed air between us anyway.

I stared at him. “Excuse me?” It came out as a whisper, barely there, and my face was definitely hotter than it should’ve been.

He didn’t flinch. “Tell me your name.” He said. It wasn’t a question. It was a command. No smile. No tilt of the head. Just that icy gaze pinning me down like a bug in a display case.

I clenched my jaw. “Why would I do that?” I shot back, though it came out more defensive than bold.

“Tell me your name, café girl.” His tone didn’t change. Just repeated itself, patient in the most menacing way.

I snapped. My fists hit the counter, not hard, just enough to punctuate every inch of my exasperation. “Don’t. Call me. That!”

“Then tell me your name.” Ronan said again, his voice as steady as stone, not even flinching in the silence that followed.

Before I could throw another sarcastic gem his way or just flat-out ignore him like I wanted to, Cassie’s voice pierced through the thick air between us. “Aria, have you—” She stopped dead in her tracks.

I saw her eyes narrow in a split second like a hawk that spotted a rat. The change in her tone was instant. “What the hell is he doing here?” Her steps were quick, and she looked like she was seconds away from launching herself over the counter and tackling him.

I moved fast, stepping between her and Ronan like some low-budget peacekeeper, placing a gentle but firm hand on her shoulder. “Cassie, not now.” I kept my voice low but urgent. My fingers gave her shoulder a little push, a silent warning to stand down.

“But—” She started again, her eyes practically throwing daggers.

“Cassie, please.” I said through clenched teeth, nudging her a bit more forcefully this time. I didn’t need another war exploding in front of the muffins.

She let out a dramatic sigh, rolled her eyes with a grunt, and gave Ronan one last, blazing glare like she was memorizing his face for a hit list. Then she stomped off, muttering something under her breath that I deliberately chose to ignore.

When I turned back to Ronan, I caught him mid-expression, something unreadable flickering across his face. His eyes met mine, and I swear for a second, there was something softer there. Almost curious. Almost.. human.

And then—there. The corners of his lips twitched, not quite a smile, just something brief and confusing that I didn’t ask for. Before I could demand he wipe that look off his face, and turned without a word.

I watched him walk out, calm and composed like this was some boring board meeting he just got through. No rush. No dramatics. Just a man walking like he owned every inch of sidewalk under his shoes.

Through the front window, I saw the black car still idling by the curb. He opened the back door like it had been waiting for him all along. No driver came out. No words were exchanged. He slid in, back straight.

The door shut with a dull thud, and the car eased away from the curb, disappearing into traffic with the same quiet arrogance he walked in with.

And me? I just stood there behind the counter, jaw clenched, and a hundred new questions rolling around in my head like dice.

No one talks about how annoying it is when someone doesn’t give you a proper exit line to yell after them.