The bell above the café door jingled, a sound that usually brought a smile to my face. Today, however, it heralded the arrival of trouble in the form of Ethan. He wasn't your typical customer. Lean and tattooed, with a shock of dark black hair that seemed to defy gravity, he exuded an aura that chilled the air faster than the iced caramel macchiato he always ordered. Ethan led the Enhypen, a local motorcycle gang with a reputation that preceded them. They were regulars, occupying the corner booth for hours, their loud laughter and gravelly voices clashing with the café's usual folksy tunes.

Today, Ethan was alone. He sauntered up to the counter, his gaze lingering on the name tag clipped to my apron. "Hey, Bii," he drawled, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down ur spine, not all unpleasant ones.