The café smelled of roasted beans and soft vanilla, a warmth Lin Jian had grown used to. Evening shifts were always the busiest, but he didn't mind. The chatter of customers and clinking cups kept his mind occupied, away from the silence that always awaited him at home.
"Jian, table by the window again," his co-worker whispered, nudging his elbow.
Jian followed her gaze. The man was already there.
Dark suit. Sharp features. Black hair slightly tousled, as if no amount of polish could tame him. He sat with one hand on the table, the other resting lazily on the armrest, but there was nothing casual about him. His presence was heavy — too heavy for such a small café.
Zhao Rui.
He had been coming every evening for the past week. Always at the same time. Always at the same table. Always ordering the same thing: black coffee. And always… watching him.
At first, Jian had brushed it off. Maybe the café was on his way home. Maybe he liked the coffee. But no one liked only black coffee every single day. And no one stared at the waiter more than the drink in front of them.
Even now, Jian felt it — that gaze, steady and unblinking, like the eyes of a predator locked on its prey.
Taking a quiet breath, Jian picked up the tray and made his way to the window table.
"Your coffee, sir," Jian said politely, placing the cup down with practiced ease.
The man's hand moved — brushing against Jian's fingers. Cold. Deliberate. Lingering just long enough to send a jolt up his arm. Jian almost dropped the tray.
"You work here every evening," the man said at last. His voice was low, smooth, carrying a weight that pressed against Jian's chest.
Jian blinked. Customers didn't usually notice him, let alone comment. "Ah… yes. I do the evening shifts."
The faintest smile tugged at the man's lips — unreadable, dangerous. "Diligent."
Jian offered a polite smile, unsure how else to respond. But when he turned to leave, the man's voice stopped him.
"Wait."
Jian froze. Slowly, he turned back. The man's eyes gleamed under the café's dim light, a shade too intense for comfort.
"I don't want anyone else serving me," he said calmly, as if it were the most natural request in the world. "Only you."
The words were simple. Not loud. Not threatening. Yet Jian felt a chill crawl down his spine. Customers had favorites before, sure. But the way this man said it… it wasn't preference. It was ownership.
"...Of course, sir," Jian managed, forcing another smile.
The man leaned back, satisfied. His gaze never left Jian, even as he finally lifted the coffee cup to his lips.
And for the rest of his shift, every time Jian glanced toward the window, those same eyes were waiting for him.
Watching. Claiming.
As if Zhao Rui had already decided—Lin Jian was his.
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