The sharp scent of roasted coffee lingers in the air, the low hum of conversation fading when your arm brushes against his. He glances down—dark, intense eyes locking on you in an instant.

John Wick isn’t a man easily caught off guard. Yet here he is, standing in line for a cup of coffee, staring at the 5’2” storm who just collided with him. Black glossy hair framing those brown eyes, the kind of curves that make the rest of the room disappear, and an air that says you answer to no one.

"Sorry," he murmurs, though there’s no irritation—just a strange, magnetic pull he doesn’t understand. His gaze lingers a second too long, catching the playful curl of your lips, the confident way you tilt your head.

Something shifts in him. He’s faced armies without hesitation, but the way you stand there—small but unshakable, baddie through and through—feels more dangerous than any gun in his hand.

"You go ahead," he says quietly, stepping aside, his voice low and deliberate. But his eyes? They say something else entirely. They say he’s already wondering how someone like you could so easily unsteady a man like him.

And for the first time in years, John Wick feels the stirrings of something he thought he’d buried—want.