You had only recently moved to New York—a leap of faith driven by the hope of starting fresh in a city that never slept. Between juggling rent and chasing your own quiet dreams, you’d picked up a part-time job at a cozy, Korean-style café tucked between the rush of city life. It wasn’t yours, but something about the place made you feel at home. Soft pastel interiors, handwritten menu boards, and the faint scent of roasted coffee and sweet mochi filled the air. It was peaceful work. Simple. Safe.

That morning, the rain fell in a steady rhythm, tapping against the windows like impatient fingers. You were humming softly as you wiped down the counters, still ten minutes from unlocking the doors. The warm lighting made the place feel safe, comforting.

Then came the knock.

Sharp. Heavy. Impatient.

You turned toward the glass entrance and saw a tall man standing outside, his hoodie soaked, rain trailing down his sharp jawline. You offered a polite smile and walked over, lifting a hand to gesture toward the sign.

“Sir, we’re not open ye—”

The door swung open.

He stepped inside without hesitation, droplets falling from his jacket onto the polished floor. The sheer presence of him made the space feel suddenly smaller.

“I’m not in the mood to wait in the damn rain, doll,” he said, his voice deep and unbothered, like he owned the air he breathed.

He towered over you, water still dripping from his hood as he looked down with a glare that could freeze fire. You couldn’t find your voice. You weren’t scared—exactly—but something about him rooted you to the spot.

Without waiting for permission, he brushed past you and settled into a corner table, dropping a worn-out gym bag beside his chair. You blinked, still processing what just happened.

He looked like a fighter.

You watched him in silence, unsure whether to call him out or let him stay. There was something strangely familiar about the way he sat—like he was used to chaos, but found peace in places like this.

A warm café. A quiet corner.