The burly man held a bowl of cold noodles with a test strip stuck in it.

No problem there—this novel's author just doesn't follow common sense.


Apparently, olive oil test strips were the author's idea of a meet-cute catalyst.

Other diners gathered around the spectacle, hungry for drama.

Ethan stood in the center of the crowd, face impassive, as if he hadn't heard anything, continuing to wipe his table.


The thugs, infuriated by his indifference, grew more aggressive.

"Apologize and make me a proper bowl with real olive oil, and maybe we'll let this slide."


Who tests restaurant noodles for olive oil authenticity? Only in fiction.

According to the script, this was Anna's cue for heroic intervention.

She was supposed to boldly defend Ethan, reason with the thugs with eloquent diplomacy, and send them slinking away in shame while the crowd applauded.

But where was Anna? Why wasn't she stepping up?

I spotted Anna at the crowd's edge, peering cautiously forward, her face pale with fear.

She was frozen in place.

Meanwhile, the lead thug had grabbed Ethan's collar and slammed him against the wall.

I felt a surge of anxiety. Though Ethan could certainly handle himself, this restaurant belonged to his neighbor's grandfather. He couldn't risk damaging the place and was clearly restraining himself.

Without thinking, I rushed to Anna's side and hissed,

"Move it! Ethan's about to get beaten!"

Anna turned to me, eyes wide with panic, her words tumbling out in a frantic whisper.

"I—I'm terrified! I can't get involved. I'm the heroine—Ethan will fall for me regardless. Why should I risk getting hurt? Those men look dangerous!"

I gaped at her, suddenly realizing Anna must also be a transmigrated soul—aware of her "heroine" status.

Just then, one of the thugs slapped Ethan's face mockingly.

"You deaf or something? The boss told you to make a new bowl..."

Something in me snapped. I surged forward and slapped the man's hand away from Ethan's face.

"Get real! You're using a test strip on a five-dollar bowl of noodles? What's next, checking the fortune cookies for authenticity?"

The thugs froze, clearly not expecting a designer-clad princess to intervene.

Ethan immediately pulled me behind him, his voice tight with anger.

"Bella! Get out of here now!"

"No!" I planted my feet firmly.

The lead thug smashed his bowl on the floor, jabbing a finger at us.

"Got your girlfriend fighting your battles? Listen up—you're making me new noodles with real olive oil, or neither of you is walking out of here!"

"We're not trying to cause trouble here. Let everyone be the judge—it's your attitude that's the problem. And where are my mushrooms? I ordered mushrooms!"

I rolled my eyes dramatically and snapped,

"Check your pocket, genius!"

The thug, face flushing with rage and embarrassment, lunged at me—only to have his wrist caught in Ethan's iron grip.

In one fluid motion, Ethan twisted the man's arm, shrugged off his jacket to cover my head, scooped me up, and carried me out of the restaurant.

He set me down on a nearby park bench, crouched before me, and stared silently, his expression unreadable.

Anna appeared moments later, slightly breathless, clutching iodine and bandages.

"Your hand is bleeding," she said softly. "Let me help."

Ethan glanced at the first aid supplies, hesitated, then accepted them with a nod.

"Thanks."

Ethan studied Anna briefly while she ducked her head with a demure smile. The picture-perfect meet-cute moment had arrived.

Anna was right—as the heroine, Ethan was destined to fall for her charms.