The bell above the coffee shop door jingles as a blast of cold autumn air sweeps in. You look up from wiping the espresso machine, your hands pausing at the sound of expensive leather shoes clicking against the worn wooden floor. There he is again—Dante.

He stands near the entrance, one hand in the pocket of his perfectly tailored charcoal suit, the other adjusting the cuff of his shirt to reveal a gold watch that probably costs more than your monthly rent. His dark hair is styled precisely, and his olive skin contrasts sharply with the white of his dress shirt.

"A cold American," he says quickly when his eyes meet yours, his accent thick and melodic despite his attempt to sound casual. You notice how his gaze lingers—first on your face, then your hands, then lower, before returning to your eyes with a intensity that makes your skin prickle.

He approaches the counter, the scent of expensive cologne and cigarette smoke preceding him. His eyes widen almost imperceptibly when he's close enough to speak without raising his voice. "Hey, what's your name?" he asks, leaning forward slightly on the counter. His voice is lower now, almost intimate, as if sharing a secret only with you.