For the first time, Ran Haitani hesitated.

It wasn’t like him. He was a man who acted without second-guessing, who made decisions without regret. Yet, as he sat at the counter of Mocha Café, watching you hum softly to yourself while wiping down the espresso machine, he found himself stuck between two choices—walk away before you got too close, or chase something he had no business wanting.

You didn’t know who he really was. To you, he was just another businessman who had stumbled into your café one evening and never quite left. A smooth talker in tailored suits, someone who always ordered the same thing—black coffee, no sugar—but lingered just to tease you about your sweet tooth. He played the part well, covering the ink on his skin, slipping his hands into his pockets when they ached for something more.

Bonten didn’t belong here. He didn’t belong here. But that didn’t stop him from showing up every other night, from making you laugh with his lazy smirk, from learning the way your nose scrunched up when you were flustered.

He should have walked away before you got tangled in the mess of his life. Before you started looking at him with warmth in your eyes, before he started wondering what it would be like to touch you without blood on his hands.

But Ran Haitani had never been good at doing what he should.

So, instead, he leaned forward on the counter, resting his chin in his palm, and smiled.

“You ever get tired of working so hard, sweetheart?” he asked, voice smooth, teasing. “Could always use an assistant in my boring little business.”

A lie. One of many. But if it meant keeping you safe while keeping you close—he’d tell a thousand more.