Bailey Dofen believed mornings should be quiet—no drama, no people, and absolutely no strangers yelling in alleys.

So of course, this morning had all three.

She was halfway through her walk to the training center, soy milk in hand, when a deep voice cut through the street:  

“Hey! Give that back!”

She turned. A tall man in a perfectly tailored suit had cornered a teenage boy.  

Bailey didn’t hesitate. “Let him go!”

Both turned to her, equally confused. The boy blinked once, then bolted, phone in hand.  

The man stared after him, speechless, then turned his glare on Bailey.  

“Fantastic,” he said. “You just assisted grand theft in broad daylight.”

Bailey squared her shoulders. “You looked like you were attacking him.”

“I was retrieving my phone.”

“Well, now you’re not retrieving anything.” She gestured toward the empty street.  

He exhaled, slow and disbelieving. “Do you do this often? Randomly defend strangers?”

“Only before breakfast,” she said. “After that I get selective.”  

The corner of his mouth twitched. “And yet you still managed to spill your drink.”

Bailey followed his gaze—soy milk dripping down her sleeve, forming tragic little polka dots.  

“Great.” She sighed. “Now I’m calcium-deficient *and* wrong.”

He chuckled, crouching to pick up the crushed carton. “You’re a walking public service announcement.”

“For what? Poor judgment?”

“For early-morning entertainment.”  

She frowned. “You find this funny?”

“A little. Mostly you.”  

“Perfect. I’ll add that to my resume—‘accidental comedian.’”  

He stood, offering her a handkerchief. “At least let me help. You saved my phone thief; it’s only fair I save your dignity.”  

She took the handkerchief, wiping the sleeve carefully. “Too late. That ship has sunk.”  

“Maybe I can build a new one.”  

“Do you ever stop talking?”  

“Rarely,” he said. “I get bored easily.”

“Then you’ll love yourself.”  

He laughed, a genuine sound that made her look up despite herself.  

He had the kind of smile that felt expensive—like it had cost someone else patience.

“Name?” he asked.

“Why?”

“So I know who to send the dry-cleaning bill to.”

“Bailey,” she said. “You?”  

“Man.”  

She blinked. “As in… man?”  

“As in *Man Olid.* It’s a family thing. We like simplicity.”  

“I call it laziness.”  

He grinned. “We call it branding.”

At the training center, the world returned to order—sweat, rhythm, repetition.  

Bailey changed shoes, stretched, and tried to forget the absurd man and his smug smile.  

Coach Lin’s whistle pierced the air—or maybe it didn’t.  

For a few seconds, sound dipped away, soft and distant.  

Bailey’s throat tightened. *Not now.*  

She forced a serve. The shuttle sliced clean, landed perfect. The silence lifted.  

She exhaled, pretending nothing happened.  

Then: clap, clap, clap.  

Slow, deliberate. Familiar.  

She turned—and there he was again.  

Same suit, new grin, holding two coffees like a peace offering.  

“Nice shot,” he said. “I’d rate it a nine, but your dramatic entrance this morning still wins.”

Bailey closed her eyes. “You’re stalking me.”

“Technically, I’m sponsoring you.”

“What?”  

“My company’s reviewing athletes for endorsement. Congratulations—you made the shortlist.”  

“Because I yelled at you?”  

“Because you’re memorable. Most people ignore chaos. You walk straight into it.”  

She crossed her arms. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I get that a lot.”  

He offered the cup again. “It’s decaf. I asked around.”

“You talked to my coach?”  

“Briefly. He likes me.”

“He likes donations,” she muttered.  

Man leaned closer, voice lowering just enough. “Do you always sound like you’re about to insult someone, or is that just for me?”  

“Just for you,” she said, sweetly.  

He laughed. “Flattered.”

“Don’t be. It’s not a compliment.”

“Still sounds like one.”  

Bailey sighed. “You have an answer for everything, don’t you?”

“Only when I’m trying to impress someone.”

She blinked. “You’re trying to impress me?”

He smiled. “I’m succeeding, a little.”  

“Delusional,” she said.  

“Optimistic,” he countered.  

She shook her head, half smiling despite herself. “You’re trouble.”

“I prefer the word ‘adventure.’”  

“Same thing.”  

“Exactly.”  

He watched her serve again, that quiet focus returning. Something in her precision intrigued him;  

it was like watching someone hold the world still with muscle memory.  

When she finally looked his way, he lifted the second coffee slightly. “For later,” he said.  

“I don’t drink coffee before training.”

“Then I’ll save it. Timing’s everything.”  

She rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched.  

For the first time that morning, the noise around them faded—not because she lost it,  

but because neither of them needed it anymore.