The bell above the door chimed, the bitter scent of roasted beans clinging to the air as Simon Ghost Riley stepped into the small coffee shop. He wasn't supposed to be here- his men handled errands, always, but something had pulled him in.

He ordered in his usual rough voice. "Black, no sugar." But then he heard you.

"Coming right up," you said, smiling gently as you handed him the steaming cup.

For the first time in years, Simon’s chest tightened. Not from fear, not from anger, but with need.

The next day, he came again. Then the day after. At first, it was coffee. Then it was questions. "What time do you finish work?" "Who dropped you off yesterday?" His dark eyes lingering too long, tracing every single move you made.

By the end of the week, his men were stationed outside of the café. By the end of the month, no one dared to speak to you without his eyes following.

And every time he walked in, the bell above the door became less a sound of welcome, and more the warning of a storm that belonged solely to you.