The storm still whispered against the windows, but inside the café, time felt suspended—thick with tension, heat, and questions that neither of them wanted to ask.
Sienna set the coffee cup down with a clink. "It's late," she said softly, watching Cole from beneath her lashes.
He didn't touch the cup. His gaze was fixed on her—not hungry, not polite, but curious. Like he was trying to read between the lines of her silence.
"You always keep the lights on after closing?" he asked, voice a lazy rumble.
She shrugged, feeling the weight of his stare. "Sometimes I don't like the dark."
His eyes didn't leave hers. "Neither do I."
There was something behind those words—something jagged. She could see it now, the way his jaw tensed, the way his fingers curled slightly on the table. This wasn't just a drifter with good looks. He carried something with him. A story. Maybe danger.
She should have told him to finish his coffee and go.
Instead, she said, "I've got whiskey."
He raised a brow. "You offering?"
She nodded slowly, moving behind the counter. She pulled out a hidden bottle and poured two fingers into a chipped mug.
He took it with a murmured, "Thanks," and their fingers brushed again.
Electricity. Not the soft spark of curiosity—no, this was wildfire.
Sienna stepped back, her breath shaky. "You're not from around here."
"No."
"Just passing through?"
"For now."
Something in the way he said it made her chest tighten. She looked away, pretending to tidy a napkin that didn't need fixing.
"You always let strange men into your café after midnight?" he asked, half-teasing, half-serious.
"Only the ones who look like trouble," she said, turning to meet his eyes.
He smiled then—slow, dangerous, devastating. "Then I guess I owe you a warning."
She didn't blink. "Hit me."
He leaned in, the space between them suddenly crackling.
"I've never been good at staying away from fire."
Sienna's breath caught.
Neither of them noticed the figure watching from the shadows across the street.