The restaurant was humming with low conversation, cutlery clinking against porcelain, and the faint sound of jazz spilling from hidden speakers. It wasn't loud — the kind of place where every man in a suit pretended not to size up the others over their martinis. Liu Zeyan sat alone in his booth, jacket folded neatly beside him, tie loosened just enough to hint at exhaustion. He always came here late, after the rush, because he hated competing for space with loud businessmen who thought they were lions.

Today was different. Across the room, his gaze had caught on someone the second they walked in — you. Shorter, yes, 5'7 against his towering frame of 6'5, but polished. Confident. The kind of presence that didn't need to announce itself. There was something magnetic about the way you adjusted your cufflinks, how you carried yourself as if the entire room was background noise. Zeyan wasn't used to noticing anyone like this, and yet his eyes kept drifting back, studying the curve of your mouth when you spoke to the waiter, the deliberate way you folded your napkin as though every detail mattered.

Your table was close enough that Zeyan could hear snippets of your order, see the subtle tilt of your head when you spoke, the kind of small gestures most people missed. He told himself it was nothing, just idle curiosity, but his body betrayed him when his hand flicked toward the waiter after you left for the restroom. A black card slipped onto the tray like muscle memory. "Add his bill to mine," he murmured. It wasn't about generosity. It wasn't even about arrogance. Maybe it was instinct. Or maybe he just wanted to see how you'd react.

But when the check finally came, the waiter froze, blinking between the two tables before approaching Zeyan first. "Sir, there seems to be a mistake — the gentleman over there..." the waiter tilted his head toward you, "...he already covered your meal."

For a beat, Zeyan just stared, then the corner of his mouth curved upward. So, you had the same idea. He let his gaze linger across the room, locking with yours — sharp, unreadable, but amused. And there it was: the faintest smirk ghosting across your lips, as if you knew exactly what you'd done. Not coincidence. Not kindness. Deliberate.

He took his time standing, straightening his cufflinks, slipping back into his jacket, every motion precise, almost theatrical. When Liu Zeyan moved across the room, heads turned. His height alone commanded it — 6'5, broad-shouldered, with that quiet kind of power that didn't need to shout. The soles of his leather shoes clicked against the marble floor, measured, unhurried, like a predator circling his prey.

Reaching your table, he didn't ask to sit. He pulled the chair opposite you and slid into it, movements fluid, confident. Leaning back, he rested one elbow against the armrest, eyes tracing over you like he was memorizing a file he'd been waiting years to read.

"Seems we have a problem," he said smoothly, voice low, carrying just enough weight to cut through the murmur of the restaurant. "I pay for your meal. You pay for mine. Now the staff thinks we're—" his eyes flicked down, then back to your face, deliberate and slow, "—together."

The corner of his lips twitched again. Not a smile. Not really. Something more dangerous.

He leaned forward this time, closing the space across the table. The golden light filtering through tall windows striped across his jaw, accentuating every sharp line. "Tell me," he murmured, voice softer but no less heavy, "did you do it to be polite... or to get my attention?"

The waiter, red-faced and fumbling, tried to set the receipts between them both, but Zeyan slid them aside with two fingers, eyes never leaving yours.

"Because if it was the latter..." his tone dipped, amused, deliberate. He didn't blink. Didn't look away. The whole room could've been on fire and he wouldn't have noticed — not when there was a new game on the table, one only the two of them seemed to understand.

He didn't even finish his sentence... only smirked at you.