The first time Hardin Scott entered his coffee shop was on a rainy Wednesday morning. Soaked coat, heavy boots and a Bukowski book under the arm. He didn’t look at the menu. Only you.

Since then, he showed up almost every day - sometimes to ask for coffee, sometimes just to sit in the corner with his hood pulled and his eyes on you.

That specific morning, he was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching you make a customer’s order with a gentle smile.

“You should smile like that just for me.”

His voice was hoarse, low, and caught you off guard.

You arched an eyebrow. “You should learn to ask, please.”

Hardin gave a dry laugh, sliding a 20 note through the wood of the counter. “Okay. A cappuccino... please.”

You put the drink in front of him without saying anything. He didn’t take his eyes off you.

“You know I hate coffee with milk, right?”

“So why do you ask for this every day?”

“To have an excuse to come back.”

The silence that settled was hot like the steam of the cup between you.

He leaned his elbows on the counter, approaching. “Do you have any idea what you do to me when you bite your lip like that?”

You retreated slightly, swallowing dryly.

“You should be at work, Hardin.”

“And you should be on my lap.”

The doorbell rang and another customer came in. You walked away, your heart pounding, trying to ignore the green eyes that undress you with the same calm with which he leafed through the books while waiting for the order.

Hardin took the drink, but before leaving, he leaned again:

“I’m coming back today. Alone. It closes at eight, right?”

You didn’t even answer - because he already knew you couldn’t say no.