The landline's loud ring cut through the quiet of *The Bean Grinder*. It clashed with the noise outside, where voices shouted questions and cameras whirred. Elena scowled at her phone screen, lit up by a glaring *Manhattan Post* headline: **"ICE QUEEN MELTDOWN! Disgraced CEO Elena Vance Spotted Serving Coffee in 'Dumpster Apron'!"** Below it, a high-resolution photo showed her frowning. The *Bean Grinder Minion* embroidery stood out against her faded denim, and her wrist was clumsily bandaged from a steamer burn yesterday. The comments felt like a trap:
>*"How the mighty have fallen. Karma's a bitch."*
>*"Desperate PR stunt? Trying to 'relate to the common folk' before her fraud trial?"*
>*"That barista could ruin my credit and I'd say thank you. Look at those forearms."*
Leo yanked the landline receiver off its cradle, his knuckles pale. "No comment," he growled before slamming it down. It rang again, the jarring sound vibrating through the scarred oak counter and into Elena's bones. The pain in her wrist throbbed with the ringing.
"Just unplug the damn thing!" she snapped, the constant noise testing her patience.
"Nope." He tossed a 10-pound bag of bread flour toward her. A cloud of fine white powder erupted, reflecting the weak morning light through the blinds. "You brought this media circus to my door, Vance. Now you get to suffer through it."
She caught the bag awkwardly against her chest, wincing as the movement shot pain through her bandage. "I need five minutes to call my PR team before this spirals into—"
"Rule Six." He slammed a big lump of sourdough starter onto the counter with such force that the espresso cups rattled. "No business calls during shift. Knead this. You're supposed to be tougher than your boardroom friends, but we'll see."
Outside, camera flashes grew brighter, turning the fogged café windows into a flickering strobe light. Paparazzi swarmed like sharks smelling blood. Elena punched her fists into the dough, imagining David Chen's smug face beneath her knuckles. "They're treating us like exhibits in some grotesque human zoo."
Leo scraped charred coffee residue off the group head, the metal screech grating to her ears. "You should've thought about the paparazzi before you took over the coffee shop."
"I didn't *barge* in—"
"You bought my entire quarterly green coffee supply!" Flour erupted like a mini mushroom cloud as he hefted a 50-pound sack of whole wheat onto the counter beside her. "That's not negotiation, Vance. That's economic warfare."
The dough beneath her hands was dense and hard, resisting her efforts. It felt like her own excuses for a decade—hardened, defensive, brittle. She deliberately added a splash of lukewarm water, watching the coarse mixture slowly absorb it, becoming softer. *Harden until the right element softens you.* As she rushed past the stockroom later, hauling beans for the grinder, she nudged one of the heavy burlap sacks partially over the cracked tile she'd found earlier—a temporary fix born of ingrained problem-solving, even within his absurd rules.
The bell jangled, cutting through the tension. A lanky teenager with a chipped skateboard tucked under his arm ducked inside and quickly shut the door against the flashes. His eyes widened in surprise. "Whoa. Leo, dude, you finally snap and murder someone?"
"Nah. Just providing refuge for a dethroned tycoon." Leo nodded toward Elena. "Matty, this is Her Corporate Highness, Elena Vance. Elena, Matty—skateboard philosopher, algebra survivor, and the only customer whose tips don't need a magnifying glass."
Matty's jaw dropped. "No *way*! You're the lady from the Children's Hospital Gala photos! My mom has your *Forbes* '30 Under 30' cover framed above her desk! She says you're terrifying." He blushed instantly. "I mean, impressive! Really impressive!"
Elena forced her polished boardroom smile. "Please tell your mother I—"
"Minions don't network," Leo interrupted, sliding a giant double-chocolate chunk muffin across the counter. "Fuel for the skate park, Matty. Did you conquer that quadratic equation?"
"Barely survived," Matty mumbled around a huge bite, chocolate smearing his lip. Then his gaze landed on Elena's bandaged wrist. "Whoa, what happened? Looks rough."
"Occupational hazard," Leo said flatly. "The Great Oat Milk Eruption of '23. Nearly took her hand off."
Matty laughed until another barrage of camera flashes lit up the window like lightning. "Dude, they're like vultures out there. Seriously creepy."
Leo's expression hardened, the playful spark fading. He vaulted over the counter with surprising grace. "Stay inside." His command was low, menacing.
Elena pressed closer to the window. Leo stalked toward the clustered paparazzi, shoulders squared. David Chen, near the front, grinned. "Leo! Care to comment on Ms. Vance's spectacular fall from grace? Is she really working here, or is this some—"
Leo didn't slow down. He snatched the phone straight out of David's hand while he was still talking and plunged it into a deep puddle of oil. A sickening *glug* echoed faintly.
"Next camera that flashes gets baptized," Leo declared, danger in his tone carrying over the sudden silence.
"That's destruction of property!" David shouted, gingerly pulling the dripping device out. "You'll hear from my lawyer!"
"Ex-lawyer," Leo corrected, his smile dangerously polite. "Countersuit: harassment, emotional distress, trespassing, violating the privacy of a minor." He gestured toward the café window where Matty's wide-eyed face was pressed against the glass. "Discovery will be *fascinating*, Chen. Bring it."
The crowd retreated. Cameras dropped. In seconds, the sidewalk cleared, leaving a sputtering David Chen. Leo turned, snatched the ruined phone from his grasp, and tossed it into the industrial trash bin with a decisive *thunk*.
Matty cheered. "That. Was. EPIC! You totally John Wick'd his phone!"
A warm flutter stirred beneath Elena's ribs. That fierce protectiveness—she remembered it. At sixteen, walking home, a senior snapped her bra strap. Leo shoved him hard into lockers. *"Touch her again, and breathing becomes optional."* The intensity hadn't changed. *'Our own,'* he'd said. Did that include her? The warmth grew, confused with the ache in her wrist.
"Rule Seven," Leo muttered, wiping flour off the espresso machine while avoiding her gaze. "We protect our own, even minions."
Closing time brought exhaustion. Elena scrubbed milk crust off the steam wand, the rough sponge brushing against her frayed bandage. Leo counted the day's meager earnings. The silence was heavy, charged with the day's unspoken intensity and the flicker of their bond from earlier.
"Why did you quit law?" She blurted out the question, raw and sudden.
His hands froze over the bills. The silence stretched. Finally, his voice came out low and stripped bare: "After you vanished… Needed a win. Took a job at Sterling & Vane. Corporate defense." He let out a humorless chuckle. "First big case? Defended OmniCorp's CEO. Got him a slap-on-the-wrist fine for knowingly dumping carcinogenic sludge into a neighborhood's water supply for a decade. Kids got sick. Livestock died." He looked up, disgust darkening his eyes. "We *celebrated*. Champagne at a dive. Saw a drunk harassing a waitress, grabbing her arm…" He touched the vicious scar above his eyebrow. "Stepped in. Woke up in an alley with this, a concussion, and the crystal-clear realization I'd become the monster I was paid to protect." He swept the cash into the register. "Coffee doesn't lie. People pay for what they get. No ethical twists. No betrayals."
Her throat tightened. The weight of his disillusionment felt physical. "So you built this place?"
He tossed her the heavy brass keys. They landed cold in her flour-dusted palm. "Lock up. Trash needs taking." He grabbed the overflowing bin, the ruined phone visible on top, and vanished.
Alone in the quiet, Elena leaned against the counter, her eyes catching the knife marks near the register—a scar on his sanctuary. Her fingers found a recipe saved ten years ago: *Mom's Lemon Sunshine Bars.* She worked with quiet focus. Zesting lemons released sharp citrus. Creaming butter and sugar by hand felt like therapy. Squeezing lemons stung her cut thumb. She poured the bright yellow filling over the crust, the scent transforming the kitchen into memories of sunlit afternoons.
When Leo returned, the tang of lemon and baked butter filled the air warmly. She slid a perfect square toward him. Golden crust, bright curd dusted with sugar.
He halted. His gaze moved from the bar to her face. "You remember."
"After your dad's funeral," she said softly. She'd fed him three pieces, one by one, on her porch steps.
He picked up the square. Took a deliberate bite. Chewed slowly. For one brief moment, every wall shattered. Raw emotion washed over his face—grief, remembrance, tenderness. "Still perfect," he whispered.
Warmth exploded in Elena's chest—tangible, radiant heat spreading outwards. The soulmate bond roared back to life. It surged down her arm in a wave of electric tingles. Across the counter, Leo gasped, his hand flying to his chest. The connection flared, a tangible current humming.
He stumbled back, vulnerability quickly masked by a scowl. "Rule Eight," he rasped, his voice thick. "No bribes." But his hand reached for the small tray. His fingers brushed hers. The bond flared again, hotter, brighter. A shared gasp escaped them.
Outside, a single camera flash went off. Elena didn't flinch. She met the unseen photographer's direction, chin held high.
"Let them watch," she said, the warmth of the bond a steady pulse beneath her skin. "I'm earning these thirty days. Fair and square."
For the first time, a genuine flicker of a smile touched Leo's lips, warming his eyes. It vanished, replaced by familiar grumbling. "Good. Start by tackling the fryer, minion. The grease in there could qualify as a biological hazard. Gloves are tough. Try not to lose a finger."
Elena glanced at the intimidating fryer, then back at Leo. The bond's warmth pulsed in her veins. She had faced hostile boards. A fryer was just… a very greasy problem. She pulled on the thick gloves, the scent of lemon still lingering beneath the inevitable old oil. The cameras disappeared in her mind. Here, now, with the imprint of his smile and the electric hum of their revived connection, even a grease trap felt like a challenge she could conquer.