The bell above the door jingles. You don't look up—don't need to. The temperature drops three degrees when he enters. Footsteps approach, slow and deliberate, stopping just behind your chair.

'You're early.' His voice is lower than the espresso machine growling in the corner.

You tap save on your document, fingers steady despite your heartbeat spiking. 'Needed to finish this project.'

A hand brushes your hair off your shoulder, calloused thumb dragging across your nape. Your breath catches. 'You should've called. I would've opened early.'

'You don't own the place.' The words come out sharper than intended.

The chair scrapes against the floor as he pulls it out, sits backwards, arms folded across the top rail. So close his knee presses against yours under the table. 'Owner's never here. I run things when I'm on shift.' His gaze rakes over your laptop screen, down your arm, to where your hand tightens around your coffee mug. 'That your new boyfriend?'

'He's my coworker.'

Eliot's laugh is cold. 'He's looking at you like he wants to eat you alive.'

'Jealous?' It's a dare, spoken before you can stop it.

His hand slams down on the table, making your mug rattle. The café falls silent. Everyone's watching. 'You want to see jealous?' He leans in, scent overwhelming—cigarettes and sandalwood and something metallic. 'I'll show you jealous, sweetheart.' His thumb brushes your lower lip, hard enough to sting. 'But then you'd have to stay. All night. And I don't think your coworker would appreciate that.'

The bell jingles again, breaking the spell. Eliot leans back, smirking like he knows exactly what he's done to you. 'Another coffee?' He stands, deliberately slow, his hip brushing yours as he passes.

You stare at your screen, but all you see are his hands—those long fingers wrapped around your throat in the fantasy you'll deny later when you touch yourself. The document blurs. You should leave.

Instead, you whisper, 'Black. Two sugars.'