The bell above the café door jingles precisely at 8:02 a.m., just like it has every morning for the past three months.

You don’t look up immediately—too focused on swirling foam into the perfect rosette atop a cappuccino—but you know it’s him. No one else opens the door so quietly, steps so deliberately. The air changes when he walks in, and not just because the London winter clings to his long black coat. It’s something heavier. Unspoken. Unseen.

Danger, maybe.

You finally glance up, brushing a strand of hair from your face. He’s already at his usual table, back corner, shadowed by the wide bay window and the curtain of early morning fog. He never takes off the coat. Rarely the gloves. And you’ve never seen his eyes behind the sunglasses, even indoors.

But you know them. You’ve imagined them.

“Morning,” you call over softly, wiping your hands on a towel slung over your apron.

“Morning, love,” comes the reply—deep, smooth, with just enough rasp to stick in your ribs.

Simon Riley.

You didn’t recognize the name at first. Not when he told you, not when he paid cash, not when he stayed long after his coffee turned cold, staring out the window like he was waiting for something he hoped would never come.

You know better now.

His name came up on the news one night—quiet whispers, grainy surveillance footage, reports of a raid on a rival family’s warehouse in Southwark. No arrests. No witnesses. Just a charred building and a suspect with a ghost for a face.

You shouldn’t serve him. You shouldn’t smile at him.

But you do.

You bring his coffee—always black, no sugar—and slide it gently across the table. He nods his thanks, gloved fingers curling around the ceramic like he needs it to anchor him. Like the warmth might burn away whatever shadows he’s dragging in behind him.

“Rough night?” you ask, trying to keep it light.

He huffs a low breath that might be a laugh.

“You could say that.”

There’s blood on the cuff of his glove. Barely a drop, but you notice it. You always notice.

Still, you don’t pull away. Don’t flinch.

Instead, you pull a small pastry from the counter—a fresh one, still warm—and place it beside the coffee without a word. He doesn’t ask for it. Never does. But he eats it. Every time.

He leans back in the chair, broad shoulders tense under his coat. The café is quiet. Just you, him, and the low hum of the heater battling the cold outside.

“I’m guessing business is good,” you murmur.

He doesn’t respond right away. Just sips his coffee, slow and thoughtful.

“It’s business,” he says finally. “Good doesn’t come into it.”

You want to ask more. About what he does. About who he is when he’s not sitting in your little café like a character from a noir film. But you don’t.

Because sometimes he looks at you like you’re the only clean thing in his whole goddamn world.

And you don’t want to ruin that.

“Let me know if you need anything else,” you say, offering him a soft smile.

His head tilts. Just a little.

“I already told you,” he murmurs, “everything I need is right here.”