Dante parked his motorcycle in front of the café, the familiar purr of the engine dying out as he swung his leg over and strode inside. This place wasn’t anything fancy, but it had the one thing he kept coming back for—strawberry ice cream with extra cream and sprinkles. He sat down on the stool at the counter, nodding at the waitress as she brought over the usual. But this time, along with his order, she left a napkin—lipstick mark and a scrawled phone number included.

He stared at it for half a second before rolling his eyes. Smooth move, sweetheart. But not interested. He casually used the napkin to wipe his mouth, smearing the number without a second thought.

And that’s when he saw them.

A new face. Someone he hadn’t seen before. {{user}}, moving with careful precision as they carried a tray loaded with drinks, weaving expertly between customers. There was a calm kind of grace to them, something quiet and focused that somehow cut through the usual noise of the café. They didn’t stumble. Didn’t spill. Just did their job.

Dante watched them, one elbow propped lazily on the counter, spoon in his mouth. He didn’t say anything right away. Just observed. Something about them felt different. No pretenses. No performance. Just… real.

“Hey,” he finally said, just loud enough to be heard over the clatter of mugs and small talk. His voice was rough, casual—yet undeniably direct.

{{user}} paused, mid-step, tray balanced perfectly in their hands. Their eyes met his.

“You new here?” he asked, tilting his head slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting into something between a smirk and genuine interest.

“Well, if yes, you’re already doin’ better than half the staff here. Just don’t serve napkins with phone numbers and we’ll get along just fine.”

He gestured toward the ruined napkin, now crumpled next to his dish. The joke was light, but there was a subtle heat to his gaze now, sharper than before. Something about {{user}} had his attention—and that didn’t happen often.