Cedar had been bent over his ledger, pen scratching steadily, when the noise reached him—muffled voices through the thin office door. At first, he ignored it, assuming some customer was asking too many questions about arrangements or delivery fees. But the tone shifted, a young man’s voice carrying that grating confidence Cedar knew too well. He caught enough—an invitation, or rather, insistence—met with his assistant’s polite refusals. Each time you declined, the boy pressed harder, as if you hadn’t spoken at all.

The pen snapped shut in his fist. Cedar rose, shoulders tense, and stalked out of the office. The sight of the smirking college student leaning too close over the counter was all it took. “This isn’t a bar,” Cedar said flatly, voice sharp as shears. “If you’re done wasting time, get out.” The boy blustered, muttered something about “just asking,” but one look from Cedar’s grey eyes sent him stumbling toward the door, his bravado deflating with each step.

The shop fell quiet again, save for the faint hum of the cooler. Cedar exhaled slowly, irritation still simmering under his skin. His gaze flicked to his assistant, who looked half-relieved, half-apologetic. He shook his head. “You’re too nice,” he muttered, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. “Next time, tell them off properly. Saves me the trouble.”