Cynthia
I sat on the edge of the leather couch, legs crossed, watching rain trace faint, crooked lines down the window. The city hummed softly beyond the glass—distant engines, muted horns, the low breath of a place that never truly slept. Each droplet hitting the pane seemed like a tiny percussion, steady, persistent, reminding me the world kept moving while I was frozen here.
My phone was dead. Completely useless.
I twisted the corner of my cardigan between my fingers, trying not to think about what the men had said earlier. Trying—and failing.
The words had stayed with me all day, lodged somewhere between my ribs. I told myself it was nothing. Just intimidation. Just noise. But memory has a way of sharpening fear long after the danger has passed.
The alley came back to me anyway.
My hands flexed in my lap.
I had been rushing home, heels clicking sharply against the pavement, my mind still tangled in work—unfinished emails, deadlines, the promise of a hot shower. I hadn't noticed the shift in the air until it was too late.
I'd been reaching for the taxi door when shadows peeled themselves from the walls.
Three of them.
They didn't hesitate.
"Well, well," one said, stepping forward with a grin that made my stomach tighten. "Look who's wandering alone."
"Excuse me?" My voice came out thinner than I wanted, but steady enough to hold.
Another laughed, low and humorless. "Guess somebody doesn't like you getting too close to what's hers."
I froze. Completely.
"I—I don't understand," I said.
"You will."
The blade caught the streetlight when he drew it, silver and deliberate. My heart slammed hard enough to make my vision blur.
Then—a sharp crack split the air.
The men flinched, spinning around, and from the far end of the alley, someone stepped forward. Dark clothes. Controlled movements. A presence that shifted the space itself.
"Stay behind me."
His voice was calm. Not loud. Not rushed. I obeyed without thinking.
The fight was fast. Efficient. One man went down hard. Another lost his weapon. The third stumbled back into the wet stone, swearing under his breath. I barely processed the movement—only the certainty that I was no longer alone.
He lifted a hand.
The men froze.
Slowly, he raised his mask just enough for them to see his face.
Their reactions were instant.
"Sorry—sorry, boss."
The word landed heavily.
They disappeared into the shadows as quickly as they had come, leaving the alley hollow and quiet.
He turned to me.
"You're safe now."
I nodded, though my legs felt unreliable. My pulse was still racing, my mouth dry. I told myself not to look too closely—but I did.
Our eyes met, and the world narrowed.
"You're bleeding," he said softly, reaching for my wrist.
It was barely a mark, but the way his gaze lingered made me feel exposed, seen in a way I didn't know how to name. I pulled my hand back instinctively.
"I'm fine," I said, forcing a weak smile. "Nothing happened. Except… everything."
Something like amusement flickered in his eyes.
He shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over my shoulders. The weight of it grounded me.
"Take this."
A man appeared briefly from the darkness to collect his weapon. A silent exchange. Then he was gone, folding back into the night as if he'd never been there at all.
I stood there long after, clutching the jacket, my heart racing for reasons that had nothing to do with fear anymore.
---
Now, I was here.
Sitting in his living room.
The couch smelled faintly of leather and cologne. The tea he'd offered sat untouched in my hands, already lukewarm. Rain tapped steadily against the windows, steady and patient, like it had no other place to be but here, observing me, measuring me.
So he's real, I thought. That happened.
I glanced toward the doorway, my pulse ticking up again. It was ridiculous—sitting in a stranger's house after nearly being attacked—but the memory of his voice, the certainty of his presence, refused to let me relax.
I laughed softly, the sound brittle.
"Of course this would happen to me."
I pulled the jacket tighter around myself. The scent lingered, unfamiliar and unsettlingly comforting. My fingers traced the lapel absently, and I hated how much the small gesture meant.
I remembered the alley. The way fear had vanished the moment he arrived. The authority he carried without effort.
And, absurdly, I smiled.
"Not even fiction would get away with this," I muttered.
A cup clinked softly on the table across from me. He was there again—quiet, watching, giving nothing away. His presence filled the room without demanding attention.
I cleared my throat. "Do you always sit like that," I asked, "or am I interrupting something ominous?"
He studied me for a moment. Then, "You don't have to explain."
I blinked. "Good," I said lightly. "Because whatever I'd say would probably sound like a confession."
Silence settled between us—not uncomfortable, just charged. Outside, the rain deepened, the city continuing on as if nothing had shifted.
I rubbed my temples, trying to ground myself. "I should probably leave," I said, without conviction.
I didn't move.
Fear and safety tangled strangely in my chest. I'd never felt them coexist like this before.
I exhaled slowly.
"Why," I thought, "do you make me feel like I should run—and somehow stay—at the same time?"
His eyes caught mine again, steady and unreadable. There was a flicker of something unspoken—intention, warning, maybe curiosity. My pulse fluttered, unwelcome and necessary.
"Cynthia," he said, voice low enough that I had to lean forward to catch it.
I held my breath. "Yes?"
A smirk played at the corner of his mouth. "You're not as fragile as you look."
I felt heat crawl up my neck. "Fragile? I am a catastrophe in motion," I said, trying for humor, feeling absurdly exposed.
He leaned back, silent, letting the tension sit, as if it were a living thing between us.
The room grew quieter. The rain louder. Every tick of the clock felt measured, deliberate, and pointed straight at me. I noticed the subtle way his shoulders relaxed, the careful way he never gave himself away completely.
And then, almost as if deciding I'd been staring too long, he rose.
"Time to move," he said.
I blinked, puzzled. "Move? Where?"
He gestured vaguely toward the door, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Somewhere safer."
I hesitated. My hand still lingered near the cup, untouched. The tea I never finished was a reminder, small and bitter, that control had always been an illusion.
"Somewhere safer," I echoed, letting the words sink.
He held the door for me, and I realized, for the first time tonight, how much I wanted to step through it.
Outside, the rain had intensified. Streets glimmered like liquid mirrors. The city smelled of ozone and wet asphalt, alive and dangerous. I took a tentative step.
"Don't let go," he said quietly.
I glanced up. His hand hovered near mine, steady and certain. Something tightened in my chest. Fear had not vanished completely, but it had been tempered by a thread of trust I couldn't name.
And as we walked into the rain, side by side, I wondered, with a shiver I couldn't trace, if danger had ever felt this compelling.
Do I stay, or do I run?
---