The rain hadn't stopped by the next night.
It drummed against the diner's roof in a restless rhythm, soaking the city until the streets gleamed like rivers of black glass. Amara wrung out her rag for the hundredth time, fighting the ache in her wrists. Her body begged for rest, but her thoughts refused to settle.
Because she knew he might return.
She told herself she didn't care, but the truth was tangled in her chest. The stranger from the night before lingered in her mind like cigarette smoke—unwanted, impossible to ignore. Adrian Cole. A name too sharp to belong to a man who sat so silently in corners.
The bell over the door jingled, and her rag stilled mid-wipe.
There he was.
Dark coat, unhurried stride, presence that seemed to draw shadows with him. He moved straight to the same booth, as though he owned it. As though he owned the space around him.
"You again," Amara muttered, shoving the rag into her apron.
His gaze met hers, calm and unreadable. "Is that a problem?"
She crossed her arms. "Depends. Planning to leave me another ridiculous tip?"
"Planning to leave you nothing," he replied smoothly. "Except the cost of the tea."
The corner of her mouth betrayed her with a twitch. She huffed, turning away before he noticed.
With practiced motions, she poured the tea and set it before him. "Don't say I didn't warn you. Still tastes like dishwater."
This time, he drank immediately, eyes never leaving her face. The quiet that followed wasn't awkward—it was dense, charged, as though the air between them carried weight.
Amara busied herself with wiping down spotless tables, but every nerve in her body knew where he was.
The bell jingled again.
"Look what we have here."
Her head jerked up. Three men swaggered inside, rain clinging to their clothes. The stench of smoke and cheap liquor clung to them, thick enough to turn her stomach.
One of them—tall, scar slicing across his cheek—spotted Adrian. His grin widened like a knife. "Didn't think we'd find you here."
Amara's stomach plummeted.
Adrian didn't move. He didn't even glance their way. He sat there, calm as stone, sipping tea.
The scarred man's grin twisted. "Ignoring us now? That's rude."
The other two spread out behind him, their gazes sliding over Amara with a hunger that made her skin crawl. One smirked. The other chuckled under his breath, ugly and low.
Fear prickled cold across her spine. Still, she forced her voice steady. "If you're not ordering, you need to leave."
The scarred man turned to her slowly, eyes narrowing. "And who's going to make us? You?"
Adrian set his cup down. The sound of porcelain meeting wood was soft, but the silence that followed made it thunder.
He leaned back, gaze lifting at last. His voice, when it came, was like a blade unsheathed.
"Sit."
One word. Low. Commanding.
The laughter faltered. Even the rain outside seemed to hesitate.
For a heartbeat, no one breathed.
The scarred man's smirk wavered. His companions shifted, exchanging uneasy glances. Something in Adrian's tone—or maybe in his eyes—made them hesitate.
Amara's heart pounded so hard it hurt. Who was this man, to silence danger with a single word?
"Let's go," one of the others muttered, tugging at the scarred man's sleeve. "Not worth it."
The leader's jaw clenched, but after a long pause, he spat on the floor and turned toward the door. "This isn't over, Cole."
The bell chimed as they stormed back into the night.
Amara released the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Her hands shook as she clutched the rag tighter.
She spun on Adrian. "Who were they?"
He lifted the cup again, unbothered. "No one you need to know."
"No one I need to—?" Her voice rose, sharp with anger that barely masked her fear. "They came in here because of you! You brought that into my workplace. If something had happened—"
"Nothing was going to happen." His tone was steady, cool.
"You don't know that."
"I do."
The certainty in his voice left her cold.
They stared at each other, the silence pressing heavier than before. Finally, Adrian laid a bill on the table and slid out of the booth. He adjusted his coat, movements precise.
"Lock the door after I leave," he said.
And then he was gone.
The bell jingled softly in his wake, leaving Amara rooted to the floor, her pulse still racing.
She should feel relieved. The danger had passed.
But instead, one thought coiled tight in her chest.
Adrian Cole wasn't just a stranger. He was something far more dangerous.
And she had just been pulled into his storm.