The rain in Belfast didn't just fall; it haunted.
It had been drumming against the café's windows for two days straight, a relentless,
static that matched the rhythm of Irene's headache.
"Table six, Irene! Move it before the coffee grows a pulse!"
Her manager's voice snapped through the steam and the scent of coffee beans.
Irene didn't flinch. She was too tired for adrenaline. Her sensible work shoes felt like lead weights, and the damp hem of her apron clung to her thighs, cold and irritating.
She swiped a rag over the counter, staring at the door. Every chime of the entrance bell felt like a threat: another person to smile at, another person to apologize to for the heating being broken.
Just six more hours, she told herself. Six hours, then the walk home in the dark. Then the bills on the kitchen table.
She was twenty-four, and her entire world was the size of a postage stamp: a tiny flat she couldn't afford, a best friend who was the only person who knew her middle name, and a bank account that hit zero ten days before payday.
No safety net. No parents to call when the landlord knocked. Just the rain and the grind.
The door groaned open.
Irene didn't look up at first. She was busy stacking plastic trays, the clatter loud in the drafty room. But the air changed. The frantic, cheap energy of the midday rush seemed to hit a wall and die.
She lifted her eyes.
He was shrugging off a heavy dark coat, the fabric dark with rain. He was tall, the kind of tall that made the café's low ceiling feel claustrophobic.
Deep, messy hair, and shoulders that looked like they were built to carry a lot more than just a jacket.
Irene's hand hovered over a tray, her pulse skipping a beat for no reason she could name. He wasn't looking at the menu. He was looking at her. His eyes were a sharp, liquid brown, scanning her face with a terrifying intensity that felt like he was reading the fine print of her soul.
She looked down, her heart thudding a panicked rhythm against her ribs. Just a customer. Get a grip, she told herself.
"Table six, Irene! Are you deaf as well as slow?" the manager barked.
"On it," she bit out, her voice rasping. She grabbed the tray. She tried to move past the new arrival, tried to keep her head down, but the air around him felt thick, like a physical pressure.
"Coffee please."
The voice was low, a deep vibration that seemed to hum right through the floorboards and into her boots.
Irene stopped. She didn't turn fully, just enough to see him leaning against the counter. "I'll be with you in a second, sir."
"Black. Two sugars. Cream," he said, ignoring her timeline.
She nodded, her throat suddenly dry. "Right. Give me a moment."
She delivered the order to table six with shaking hands, the customer's complaint about the cold milk barely registering.
When she walked back to the counter, he was still there. Still watching. He hadn't moved an inch, and the calm in his posture felt more dangerous than the manager's screaming.
She prepped the cup: black, two sugars, a splash of cream. Her movements were serrated, uncoordinated.
She walked it over to Table 8, the aisle seat by the window where he had claimed his territory.
"That'll be two pounds," she said, her voice barely a whisper.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a freshly minted twenty-pound note. He placed it on the table, his fingers lingering on the paper for a second too long.
"Keep the change," he said.
Irene stared at the note. That was more than she made in three hours of scrubbing tables. "That's… I can't. It's too much sir."
"Consider it a good first impression." He said smirking.
The way he said it stopped her breath. It was a statement of fact.
He leaned back, the old wooden chair creaking under his weight. He looked at the way her fingers were twitching against the plastic tray.
"You look nervous," he noted. His voice was steady, conversational, but it felt like a trap.
Irene swallowed hard, forcing her shoulders to drop. "I'm not. I'm just busy."
The corner of his mouth twitched; not a full smile, just a hint of one. A shadow of amusement. "You are."
She gripped the tray so hard the plastic groaned. "Is there anything else, sir? I would like to get back to work."
He tilted his head, his gaze dropping to the name tag pinned to her chest, then back to her eyes. He was studying her like a puzzle he had all day to solve.
"You shouldn't be," he added softly.
Irene didn't wait for a rebuttal. She spun on her heel, her face burning, and headed for the safety of the kitchen. She needed a wall between them. She needed to breathe.
"Irene."
The sound of her name in his mouth was different. It sounded like a claim.
She froze. Every muscle in her back locked tight. Slowly, as if her body were working against her will, she turned back.