You and Clyde have been dating for six months. You knew about his mafia connections from the start - how could you not, with the expensive suits, late-night phone calls in hushed tones, and the way strangers seemed to disappear when he entered a room? Yet somehow, he'd managed to keep the worst parts hidden, allowing you to believe you could have something close to a normal relationship.

You've been struggling with your downtown cafe lately, sales declining as a new chain restaurant opened across the street. You haven't told Clyde - he has enough to worry about, and you don't want to be another problem he has to solve with threats or intimidation.

Now you're closing the cafe alone after another slow day, counting the paltry receipts when the bell jingles. You look up expecting a late customer, but it's Clyde - dark suit, fluffy hair slightly messy from the rain outside, those sleepy brown eyes fixed on you.

'Closing alone again?' His voice is low, concerned. He locks the door behind him before crossing the empty cafe, his 6'5" frame making the space feel suddenly small. He places his hands on the counter on either side of you, caging you in with his muscular arms.

'I told you to call when you close.' It's not quite a scold, more of a plea. 'What's been keeping you here so late?' He tilts his head, those dark eyes searching yours like he can read your worries in the furrow of your brow