The rain outside had softened into a mist, but the diner still smelled of damp asphalt and old coffee when Amara returned the following night.
She tried not to think about him. About the way those men had looked at Adrian, about the way Adrian had silenced them with nothing but a word. She had replayed it in her mind a hundred times.
He wasn't ordinary. She knew it now.
And yet, when the clock brushed past midnight, the bell chimed and there he was again.
Adrian Cole. Dark coat, sharper gaze, walking as though the city belonged to him. He slipped into the same booth, not even glancing around, as though this corner of her little diner was carved out for him alone.
Amara set her rag down harder than necessary. "Don't you ever get tired of pretending we serve real tea here?"
His lips almost curved. Almost. "Consistency has its merits."
She rolled her eyes and poured the tea anyway. "One of these days, you're going to ask for coffee, and I'll faint."
The quiet between them wasn't awkward anymore. It was something else—an undercurrent she couldn't quite name, both unsettling and magnetic.
She wanted to ask him questions. About his work. About the men from last night. About why his eyes looked like they carried storms. But she didn't. She had promised herself years ago not to pry into lives that weren't hers.
The bell jingled again, snapping her from her thoughts.
Her stomach sank.
The scarred man had returned. This time, without the swagger. This time, with more. Four men followed him inside, filling the small diner with the stink of rain and smoke.
Adrian didn't move.
Amara's pulse stuttered. Her hand slipped on the glass she was holding, nearly dropping it. She forced herself to breathe, to keep her voice steady. "We're closed."
The scarred man's grin stretched. "No, sweetheart. You're open. At least for us."
Amara's chest tightened. She glanced toward Adrian, but he hadn't so much as blinked. He simply set his cup down, gaze steady on the men.
The scarred man leaned on a chair, eyes glittering. "Cole. You think hiding in cheap diners makes you untouchable? You've made a lot of enemies. Some of us are just here to collect."
"Then collect," Adrian said evenly.
The men shifted. They expected him to beg, to explain, to show fear. Instead, his calmness seemed to unnerve them.
The scarred man's grin faltered. His fist clenched. "You don't get it, do you? This city doesn't bend to you anymore. You're not—"
He stopped. Because Adrian stood.
The motion was slow, deliberate. The kind of movement that made the air itself hold its breath. He wasn't tall in the way that intimidated by size—he was tall in the way that carried presence, as though the room bowed to him.
His gaze cut across the men, cold and sharp. "Leave."
Two of them faltered. One actually stepped back.
The scarred man snarled. "Don't think we're scared of you—"
Adrian moved then. Quick, precise. Not a punch, not a brawl. He simply caught the man's wrist as it swung, twisting it with controlled force until the man hissed and dropped to his knees.
"You mistake restraint for weakness," Adrian said quietly. "Don't make me correct you further."
The diner was silent except for the scarred man's sharp breaths.
Amara's heart thundered. She had seen fights before—messy, wild. But this wasn't that. This was something else. Controlled violence. Discipline. Like a man who had done this a thousand times and didn't even break a sweat.
Adrian released him, and the man stumbled back, clutching his wrist.
"Get out," Adrian ordered.
This time, none of them argued. They scrambled for the door, dragging their leader with them. The bell jingled violently as they fled into the night.
The silence that followed rang in Amara's ears.
Her hands shook as she gripped the counter. "What the hell was that?"
Adrian adjusted his coat calmly, as though he hadn't just sent five men running. "Unfinished business."
Her jaw dropped. "Unfinished business? That's what you call nearly getting us killed?"
His gaze met hers. Calm. Steady. "You were never in danger."
Her chest burned. "Don't you dare say that. They came in here ready for blood. If you hadn't—if you hadn't done whatever that was—" She broke off, shaking her head. "You shouldn't be here. Not if you're dragging that kind of trouble with you."
He studied her for a long moment. "Do you want me to stop coming?"
The question hung between them, heavy and strange.
Amara opened her mouth, then closed it. The answer should have been yes. She should have told him to leave and never return. That would be the smart choice.
But the words stuck in her throat.
Her silence was its own betrayal.
Adrian's gaze softened, just a fraction. "Then lock the door behind me. Don't open it for anyone else tonight."
He left without waiting for a reply, his steps measured, his figure swallowed by the rain.
Amara stood frozen in the empty diner, her chest rising and falling too fast.
He was dangerous. She knew it.
But danger had never looked at her with eyes like that.
And for reasons she couldn't explain, she wasn't sure she wanted him to stop.