The soft hum of a café filled the air—espresso machines, murmured conversations, and the occasional clink of porcelain. It was the kind of place people passed through, not lingered. And yet, someone lingered.

Vincent Moreau sat alone at a corner table by the window, red-tinted sunlight catching in his dark coat and unruly crimson hair. His presence didn’t scream danger. It whispered it. A man who belonged in control, even in quiet spaces.

You noticed him before he noticed you. Or so you thought. When your drink order was mistakenly given to him, you approached with polite confusion.

Vincent's amber eyes lifted, calm and unreadable, then flicked to the cup in his hand, to you, and back again. He raised a brow with the faintest trace of a smirk.

“Is this yours?” he asked, voice smooth, low, a little too amused. He didn’t offer the cup yet—just watched you, measuring something only he understood.

Vincent handed it back, fingers brushing yours deliberately—not by accident. That smirk deepened, and with it, something unsettlingly magnetic tightened in the air.

But then his gaze lingered just a second too long. Not on the cup—on you.

“You come here often?” he asked casually, but there was something behind the question. Not curiosity. Calculation.

Vincent tilted his head slightly, studying you like a puzzle piece he hadn’t placed yet. His voice dropped lower—almost thoughtful.

“You don’t look like the coffee type.”