The tiny bell above the café door jingled sharply as Eleanor pushed it open. The morning air still clung to her clothes, but the scent of coffee, pastries, and old wood swallowed it whole. It was cozy...quaint even. A little too bright for her mood, but she didn't mind. It was a job.
She tucked her long blonde hair behind her ear, exhaled, and stepped behind the counter.
"You're early," her manager, Miss Carla, said without looking up from her clipboard. She had the voice of someone who'd been disappointed too many times. "Let's hope you're worth the chance."
"I'll work hard," Eleanor replied quickly.
She did. She moved fast, cleaned thoroughly, remembered orders, smiled when it hurt to. She ignored the whispers of the other workers and stayed focused.
Then, just after noon, the door swung open with more force than necessary. She heard squirms from the female coworkers..
"Who is that?" one breathed out, practically swooning.
"He's gorgeous... I swear, I'd commit a crime just to spend one night with him," another giggled.
"That body? Damn. I'm already scripting fantasies in my head," someone else added, fanning herself dramatically.
The man who walked in didn't belong. Not here. Not in daylight.
He wore a fitted black coat, dark jeans, and a scowl that could cut through concrete. His eyes scanned the café like he owned it. Cold. Controlled. And completely unforgettable.
Her breath caught.
Night Angel.
"Americano. Extra strong. No sugar," he said, his voice deep and smooth like poisoned honey as he strode past the other female workers without so much as a glance, his gaze fixed only on Eleanor.
Eleanor blinked. "Excuse me?"
He looked up now. Their eyes locked.
"I said," he repeated, slowly, mockingly, "Americano. Extra. Strong. No sugar. Got that or do I need to draw it?"
Her jaw tightened. "Got it," she said sharply, turning her back to him and preparing the drink.
"You don't look like you belong here," he muttered under his breath.
She ignored him, handed over the cup. "Don't spill it on your ego."
He smirked, not expecting the jab. But before he could say anything else...
BANG.
The café door slammed open again. Two masked men burst in, guns raised.
"Everybody on the ground! Now!"
Eleanor froze mid-step. Time slowed. The air turned thick. Someone screamed behind her. Lucien, eerily calm, took a slow step back, placing himself near a wall.
Her hands trembled. She hit the floor. Just like everyone else.
The robbery didn't last long. They took the register, knocked over shelves and chairs, pushed an old man trying to hide his wallet.
And just like that, they were gone.
Sirens didn't come until ten minutes later. Too late. Always too late.
Miss Carla stood silently behind the counter, eyes blazing.
She turned to Eleanor. "You. Come with me."
Eleanor followed her into the back room.
"I've run this café for five years," Carla snapped. "Not once have I ever had anything like this happen."
Eleanor's eyes widened. "You think I...?"
"I'm not saying anything." Carla raised a brow. "But you walked in and, hours later, I get robbed. Maybe I'm crazy. Maybe it's just... bad luck."
Eleanor bit the inside of her cheek. "I didn't bring anything with me but my self. I had no hand in what happened Mrs Carla."
Carla studied her. "Fine. You can stay. But I'm watching you. One wrong step, and you're gone."
Eleanor nodded, swallowing the heat of anger crawling up her throat. "Understood."
As she stepped out of the back room, Lucien was already gone. But a paper napkin with something scribbled on it sat on the counter where he'd been.
She picked it up.
Two words, written in sharp, messy strokes:
"You okay?"
Her fingers tightened around the note, unsure if it was a threat… or something else entirely.
The store was a mess...shattered glass, overturned chairs, half the shelves ransacked. The manager was on the phone with the police while Eleanor and her colleagues quietly gathered ceramic shards from a broken mug near the espresso bar. Her hands trembled, her breath short.
Lucien was long gone.
Oddly, he'd barely reacted during the robbery. He had stood completely still, as if the gunmen were just flies in the room. Not a single flinch. No fear. Just cold, calculating silence.
A sharp piece of porcelain pricked her thumb, and she hissed then noticed something black beneath the counter, half-tucked under the baseboard.
A glove.
Black leather. Men's size. She hesitated, heart racing.
It smelled faintly of cigar smoke and spiced cologne.
Lucien.
She tucked it into her bag without even thinking. She didn't know why she did it but something told her it wasn't meant to be left behind by mistake.
Later That Evening...
The police had come and gone, reviewing footage with the manager while Eleanor and her colleagues quietly finished cleaning. Curiosity pulled her toward the break room monitor where backup footage was still looping.
She leaned in.
The footage was grainy. One of the robbers had a tattoo under his eye. Another seemed nervous, barely holding the gun right. But it wasn't them she was watching.
It was Lucien.
He walked in before the chaos, ordered sharply, and stood by the register. The strange thing was he never once looked up at the security camera. Not even when the shouting started. Every time his face should have shown clearly... he turned or shifted, perfectly avoiding the angle.
As if he knew exactly where the blind spots were.
Her stomach twisted. That wasn't just confidence. That was awareness. Training.
She rewound it again.
Same thing. Calm. Deliberate. Controlled.
A chill ran down her spine.
She glanced at her bag, the glove still hidden deep inside.
What the hell had she just gotten herself into?
Eleanor reached home just after sundown, her legs heavy from hours of standing, her mind still trapped in the freeze-frame image of Lucien...Night Angel...on the store's surveillance footage.
She ran the bath hotter than usual, letting steam fill the tiny bathroom as she soaked in silence. The glove sat on the sink counter, taunting her. She didn't look at it. Didn't touch it.
After drying off and pulling on an oversized hoodie and socks, she padded into the living room, rubbing her damp hair with a towel. She just wanted to melt into the couch, maybe watch something dumb and feel... normal again.
She stepped into the living room drying her hair with a towel ...
...and froze.
He was there.
Lucien.
Sitting on her couch like he belonged there, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, the other holding a glass of water like this was some casual visit.
"Nice place," he said, without looking at her. His voice was smooth. Mocking. Icy.
Her heart jumped into her throat. "W-What the hell are you doing in my house?"
He finally turned to her, that smirk on his lips not quite reaching his cold eyes.
"Relax... I'm only here for a little visit. And to take back what you slipped away with, Eleanor."