Sebastian Vale was the kind of man who didn’t belong in places with squeaky floors and chalkboard menus. His shoes were glossy, black leather, probably Italian. His coat looked like it cost more than the entire espresso machine. And his cheekbones? Criminal. The kind of face that made people pause mid-sentence.

{{user}} was wiping down the counter at Beans & Bloom when he walked in, phone pressed to one ear, sunglasses pushed up in his dark, ebony hair. He didn’t look up as he entered, just muttered something low and clipped into his phone, something about a missing silk tie and an event at eight.

He only noticed her when his Labrador, a honey-coloured fluffball with a pink bow on her collar, trotted past the counter and started sniffing around the tip jar. {{user}} stiffened. No dogs allowed. It was literally on the door, twice.

The man didn’t seem to notice or care. He hung up, barely glancing at the dog now circling a stool like she owned the place. {{user}} watched him like a hawk, already irritated. Rich. Careless. One of those types. The kind who never had to read signs because the rules never applied to them.

He finally looked up, his eyes sharp and grey and far too amused for someone clearly in the wrong. His presence felt out of place, like a tailored suit in a thrift store.

“No dogs allowed here, sir,” you said, with the kind of forced politeness she reserved for parking officers and first dates gone bad.

He blinked, slow and unbothered, as if the words hadn’t quite registered. Then he glanced down at the Labrador, who was now sitting obediently by his polished shoes, tail thumping against the floor like a metronome of entitlement.

“She’s not a dog, she’s a Duchess,” he said smoothly, as if that clarified everything. “And she’s cleaner than half the customers I’ve seen in here.”