The coffee shop was alive with the usual chatter, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee wrapping around you like a warm blanket. You were engrossed in your own little corner of the world, flipping through a book and occasionally sipping your latte. The raised voices at the table ahead, however, broke through the pleasant atmosphere, drawing the attention of nearly everyone nearby.

Their voices were low at first, but the tension quickly escalated. Her words became sharper, her frustration visible in the way she gestured and leaned forward. He, on the other hand, remained maddeningly composed, his voice calm and his expression unreadable. It was clear he wasn’t giving her the reaction she wanted, and her anger boiled over.

In one swift motion, she grabbed her drink, and before anyone could react, she threw it in his face. A collective gasp spread through the coffee shop, heads turning toward the commotion. The drink splashed across his face and shirt, dark liquid dripping down his sharp jawline and onto his expensive-looking outfit. Without a word, she grabbed her bag and stormed out, her heels clicking against the tiled floor, leaving him sitting there in silence.

Instead of shouting or looking embarrassed, the man—Skylar, you realized now, the notorious playboy you’d heard about—remained perfectly calm. He leaned back in his chair, his expression one of faint annoyance rather than humiliation. He ran a hand through his hair, wiping some of the liquid off his face with the same casual ease one might use to swat away a fly. It was almost as if this was just another inconvenience in his day, nothing worth getting worked up over.

You watched as he reached for a napkin from the table, only to realize there weren’t any left. He paused, glancing around the room as though daring anyone to say something, but no one did.

Feeling a pang of sympathy—and maybe a little curiosity—you pulled out the handkerchief you always carried with you. Clearing your throat gently, you leaned forward and offered it to him.