Bailey Dofen hated mornings that started with cameras.  

Unfortunately, this one started with both cameras *and* Man Olid.

He was already waiting outside the café across from the press venue, wearing sunglasses and an expression that screamed “I thrive on bad decisions.”  

The hostess looked far too happy to see him. Bailey, less so.

“You’re late,” he said, glancing at his watch.

“I wasn’t aware I was being timed,” she replied.

“You’re an athlete. Everything’s timed.”

“And yet you’ve never competed in anything harder than finding a mirror.”

He smiled, because of course he did. “That was good. I’ll allow it.”

“Generous.”

“Charming.”

“Delusional.”

“Hungry,” he corrected. “Sit. Before the paparazzi invent a sequel to our love story.”

She rolled her eyes but sat. The café was small, sunlit, annoyingly romantic. She could already imagine the headlines: *Breakfast Date Before Disaster.*

“What are we doing here?” she asked.

“Breakfast. And apologies.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Two things you’re equally bad at.”

“I’m improving.” He poured her coffee, then swapped it for tea. “Lesson one: adapt to preferences.”

“You make it sound like I’m a workshop.”

“Maybe you are. One I’m determined to pass.”

Bailey gave him a long look. “You talk like a motivational podcast hosted by a narcissist.”

“Five stars on Apple Podcasts,” he said smoothly.

She laughed before she could stop herself. He caught it, grin slow and genuine.

“See? Progress,” he said.

“Coincidence.”

“Destiny.”

“Hallucination.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, tone softening. “You always argue when you’re nervous?”

“I’m not nervous.”

“Sure you are. You’re staring at the sugar packets like they owe you money.”

She blinked, caught. “I’m deciding if I should throw one at you.”

“Please don’t. It’ll only encourage me.”

The waitress arrived with pancakes and fruit. Bailey reached for the syrup; Man caught her wrist lightly.

“What?” she asked.

He gestured toward the cameras outside the window. “You’re about to give them their next photo. Try not to look like you’re plotting my death.”

“I *am* plotting your death.”

“Plot quietly. Smile for the narrative.”

She smiled—sharp and polite. “How’s this?”

“Terrifyingly pretty.”

“Good. I aim for accuracy.”

He chuckled, letting go of her wrist. For a second, neither spoke. The noise around them blurred into a low hum; only the faint scrape of her fork filled the space.

“Bailey,” he said quietly, “I didn’t mean for this to get messy.”

“You mean the media? Or you?”

“Both.” He hesitated. “But mostly me.”

“Honesty. Impressive.”

“Dangerous,” he said. “You’ll start expecting it.”

“I already expect chaos.”

“Then you’ll never be disappointed.”

She looked at him, searching for sarcasm, and found something else instead—something gentler, real.  

It unnerved her more than any headline.

After breakfast, they walked toward the press venue. Reporters clustered like pigeons; flashes went off the second they appeared.  

Bailey took a breath, straightened, and felt his hand rest—brief, steady—against her back.

“Relax,” he whispered. “They feed on fear.”

“Then they’ll starve,” she said.

“Good. Stay close.”

“Bossy.”

“Instinct.”

“Control freak.”

He smiled. “Only when it comes to safety.”

“I don’t need protecting.”

“I know. That’s why I like doing it.”

She shot him a look that should’ve ended him. Instead, he looked almost proud.

The press conference passed in a blur of polite lies and camera flashes. When it ended, Bailey slipped outside, exhaling into the sunlight.  

Man followed a minute later, his tie loosened, grin lazy.  

“Well,” he said, “no one died. That’s a win.”

“Barely.”

“You looked incredible, by the way.”

“I looked trapped in PR hell.”

“Same thing. You handle pressure beautifully.”

“Stop flattering me.”

“Can’t. It’s like breathing.”

“Try holding your breath.”

He laughed. “You make it very hard to be good.”

“Then stop pretending.”

“I wasn’t pretending,” he said. “Just trying not to ruin breakfast.”

She tilted her head. “And now?”

He stepped closer, his voice a low whisper meant only for her. “Now I’m trying not to ruin you.”

Her breath hitched. “You really need to stop saying things like that.”

“Why?”

“Because sometimes I forget to hate you.”

He smiled, soft and maddening. “Good. Hate me less tomorrow.”

“Don’t count on it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Later that night, Bailey found another note slipped into her locker.  

**‘Tomorrow’s forecast: 40% chance of chaos, 100% chance I’ll be there.’ — M**

She stared at it for a long moment before folding it neatly and tucking it into her bag.  

No reason. Just… for later.