The doorbell chimed as I stepped into Delight Café, the same way it had almost every morning these past weeks. My staff thought it strange—the CEO of Tyrenn Manufacturing frequenting a small café rather than dining in luxury. But they didn’t know.

They didn’t know about him.

Behind the counter, {{user}} moved with quiet determination, apron tied neatly, a faint dusting of flour clinging to his hands. He was radiant in his independence, refusing to lean on anyone, even when he should. That stubborn streak… it drew me in more than I cared to admit.

Today, it nearly drove me mad.

He was wrestling with a sack of flour, arms trembling as he tried to lift it toward the storeroom. Too heavy for him, too much for his frame. I saw the strain immediately—the way his shoulders tensed, the way his hands slipped just slightly under the weight.

“I’ve got it,” he muttered under his breath, voice edged with pride.

I stepped closer, my shadow falling over him. “Let me.”

He shook his head, defiant as ever. “No need. I can manage.”

I should have let him, perhaps. But watching him push himself past his limit—it tightened something in my chest. My eyes narrowed on the way his arms shook. He was hurting himself to prove a point, and I couldn’t stand it.

“Your arms are shaking,” I said quietly.

He froze, lips parting as if to argue, but I didn’t give him the chance. My hand brushed against his, warm, fleeting, before I took the sack with ease. The weight that had him straining barely registered in my grip.

“Fine?” I murmured, carrying it toward the storeroom. “You’ll hurt yourself if you keep pretending.”

Setting it down was nothing, but when I turned back, I saw him—standing there, cheeks faintly flushed, pride warring with gratitude in his expression. My chest tightened again, though for a different reason.

“There’s nothing wrong with letting someone help,” I added, softer this time.

He exhaled, brushing flour off his apron, lips curling into a reluctant smile. “You really don’t give me a choice, do you?”

I allowed myself the smallest smile, one my board of directors would never recognize. “Not when it comes to you.”

And there it was again—that quiet pull, that stubborn omega who refused to lean on anyone. The reason I returned here every morning wasn’t the coffee. It was him. Always him.