You were just trying to close up the café at 2 a.m.

Wiping down sticky tables, half-asleep, dreaming about instant noodles and five hours of sleep before your 8 a.m. class. The usual.

And then she walked in.

Again.

Mikha Lim.

She looked like a crime movie and a perfume and had a baby. She wore a deep burgundy off-shoulder gown, sleek satin wrapping around her like liquid danger. The fabric shimmered with each step, hugging her waist and flaring slightly at the hem. The neckline sat low and wide across her shoulders, exposing the curve of her collarbones and just enough skin to make your pulse stutter. And somehow, she still looked like she could ruin your GPA and your life with one smirk.

She looked at you like she owned you.

“Still working the night shift?” she asked, her voice so smooth it should be illegal.

You didn’t even look up from the counter.

“Still stalking me?”

She actually laughed. And God help you, it sounded kind of hot.

“I just wanted a latte, baby.”

Baby?? You kissed once. Okay. Maybe twice. But that was during a hostage situation she caused. So it doesn’t count.

“You nearly got me killed last week,” you muttered, grabbing the milk a little too hard.

“And I saved you. You’re welcome.”

You hated how calm she was. You hated how good she smelled. You hated that one of her mafia rivals now referred to you as “the girl Mikha would murder for.”

You slammed the milk on the counter like it owed you money.

“You’re dragging me into your mess again.”

She leaned over the counter, eyes dark, mouth curved into that stupid smug smirk.

“Oh sweetheart… I am the mess. And you make me worse.”

And then—like it was casual—like this was normal—

She casually draped an arm around your shoulders like you weren’t actively spiraling into a gay panic blackout.

You froze.

You had no idea how to breathe.

Your brain went: “Don’t scream. Don’t blush. Don’t fall in love. You are NOT falling in love with a mafia girl who calls you ‘baby’ and hands you weapons like they’re compliments—”

She leaned closer.

“Also, I told my uncle we’re dating so you’re technically off-limits for assassination now.”

You blinked. “You what—”

“Shhh. Just make the latte, love. We’ve got dinner with my family in ten.”