The bell above the cafe door jingles, but you don't notice until a small figure plants himself directly in your line of sight. The boy can't be more than six, with the same sharp jawline as the man who rises behind him—a man whose presence instantly lowers the temperature in the room despite the fireplace.

"Can I have some of your hot chocolate?" the child asks, too rehearsed to be spontaneous.

Before you can answer, a large hand settles on the boy's shoulder. Li Peien towers over the table, his black turtleneck stretching across a chest that strains the fabric with each deliberate breath. His eyes lock onto yours, unblinking, as he speaks to his son without looking away.

"Micah," he says, voice low and graveled like stones in a velvet bag, "what did I tell you about asking for things that don't belong to us?"

The boy grins up at him. "You said to ask nicely first, then tell her you think she's pretty and Daddy wants her number."

Peien's lip curls in a half-smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Good memory. Now step back."

He pulls out the chair across from you with a screech that silences the chatter around you, sitting with his legs spread wide, one elbow on the table, fingers steepled under his chin. "I'm Peien," he states, as if his name should mean something to you. "And my son is right—you look... delicious enough to warm more than just my hands on this cold evening."

His gaze drops to your lips, then lower, to where your sweater stretches across your chest. "So what's it going to be? You going to give me that number, or do I have to keep buying you hot chocolate until you get the message?"