Dahlia Hale was finishing her nightly clean-up at Sweet Haven Café, humming softly as she wiped down a table. The city outside was quiet, the hum of distant traffic a lullaby for the night. She glanced at the clock—almost time to close.
A soft chime echoed as the door opened. Without looking, she said, "We're closing in a few minutes."
No response. The air shifted. She froze mid-wipe and finally looked up.
He was stunning—tall, impeccably dressed, with sharp features that could cut glass. But something about him was off. Pain. And blood.
"I need coffee… and a phone," he said calmly, though his eyes betrayed exhaustion and hurt.
Dahlia's brow furrowed. She noticed the blood on his left hand before anything else. Her instinct kicked in. She handed him her phone.
"Sit. I'll get you something," she said, disappearing into the kitchen.
A few minutes later, she returned with a steaming cup of coffee, a small cupcake, and a first-aid kit. She placed them carefully on the table and sat opposite him.
" I didn't request this," he said, raising a brow at the cupcake.
"Of course not," Dahlia replied, her voice calm. "You look like a black-coffee, no-sugar kind of man. But you're hurt… so a little sweetness won't hurt. And you might need care."
He scoffed. "If you think I'm that kind of man, why bother?"
Dahlia gasped, noticing the bullet wound on his side. His sharp eyes caught her reaction, and he let out a low scoff.
"You've never seen a bullet wound before?" he asked, half amused, half incredulous.
"I have," she said, keeping her voice steady. "But you went through Tane Avenue, didn't you? That's Blackthorn territory. Very dangerous."
"The Blackthorn?" he echoed, tilting his head.
"Yes," she said. "You probably don't know, but they're… notorious. Some people say they're a mafia family. Dangerous to be around."
"And what do you think?"
Dahlia shrugged. "I don't care. As long as they don't bother me. You've taken out the bullet yourself—that's good—but you still need to go to a hospital for a proper check."
"Scared?" he asked, eyes glinting.
"Of what? You?" she replied coolly. "Why would I be?"
"The Blackthorn family… they're after me," he said quietly, leaning back. "Don't you think helping me could get you involved?"
"No," she said, calm and measured. "Whatever you had with them isn't my business. I only helped with the wound. And honestly, after today, I doubt I'll ever see you again."
He let out a soft, almost dangerous chuckle. "I doubt that."
For a moment, the café was silent, the tension between them thicker than the night outside. Dahlia studied him—so calm, but she clearly hadn't heard what he said.
Dahlia Hale nodded, trying to steady her racing heart. "Okay… you're good to go. Make sure to go to a hospital, got it?"
Lorenzo's hand tightened slightly around her phone. "I used your phone to make a call. They'll be here soon."
"Okay… that's good," she replied, relief washing over her. She turned to leave, but the café doors suddenly burst open.
A group of men, dressed entirely in black, strode in. Dahlia froze.
"Who…" she started, her voice trembling.
All of them bowed deeply before Lorenzo.
One man walked straight toward him, purposeful and confident.
"Boss," he said, bowing again, "the perimeter has been secured."
Dahlia's eyes widened. Who was this man? Who were these people?
Lorenzo simply nodded, his expression unreadable. Then, almost casually, he stepped toward Dahlia. His gloved fingers lifted her chin, forcing her gaze to meet his piercing eyes.
"Sweet," he murmured, voice low and commanding, "we'll meet again. I'll make sure of it. Just… make sure you don't forget me. You're mine now."
Before she could respond, his thin lips brushed hers in a sudden, precise kiss. Dahlia's mind went blank—shock, confusion, and a strange flutter of panic all at once. How had it escalated from her helping with his wound to this?
Lorenzo pulled back, just enough to smirk at her, his eyes glinting with dangerous amusement.
"I'll see you again… sweet," he whispered, and then turned, walking past his men with effortless authority.
The moment they disappeared, the café seemed impossibly quiet. Dahlia blinked, dazed. Her hands trembled slightly as she realized she had been standing frozen, daydreaming after serving dozens of coffees that day.