Tina finished her second shift at River City Storage with aching shoulders and eighty more dollars in her pocket, the kind of money that felt earned instead of borrowed. The sun had already dipped behind the warehouses, painting the sky in bruised purples and golds that made the whole industrial district look almost romantic. She walked the long route back to the motel, sticking to lit streets, eyes flicking to every shadow that moved too smoothly. No dark jacket. No lingering stares. Just the ordinary rhythm of a city clocking out for the night.
She stopped at the same corner diner she'd discovered yesterday, the one with the neon sign that buzzed like it was on its last breath. The waitress—same one, same "hon"—poured her coffee without asking and slid a menu across the chipped Formica. Tina ordered a grilled cheese and fries, comfort food she hadn't let herself have in weeks. She sat in the corner booth, back to the wall, facing the door. Old habits from too many nights waiting for trouble that never quite arrived.
The bell above the entrance jingled. She glanced up out of reflex.
And froze.
Victor Kane stepped inside like he belonged there, which was ridiculous because nothing about this greasy spoon belonged to a man who owned penthouses and private jets. He wore a charcoal wool coat over a simple black sweater, collar turned up against the chill, hair slightly tousled from the wind. No bodyguards. No entourage. Just him, scanning the room with casual interest until his eyes landed on her.
The air in the diner thickened. The chatter dulled. Even the sizzle from the grill seemed to pause.
He smiled—that slow, knowing curve that made her stomach flip in ways she refused to acknowledge—and walked straight toward her booth.
"Mind if I join you?" he asked, voice low and warm, like they were old friends catching up.
Tina gripped her coffee mug so hard her knuckles whitened. "This is Philadelphia. You're supposed to be in New York."
"I travel," he said simply, sliding into the seat across from her without waiting for permission. The vinyl creaked under his weight. Up close he smelled like cedar and cold night air, nothing overpowering, just enough to remind her how far apart their worlds really were.
She leaned back, trying to put space between them even though the table was tiny. "You're following me."
"I'm having coffee," he corrected gently. "The fact that you're here is a pleasant surprise."
"Liar."
His eyes crinkled at the corners. "Maybe a little."
The waitress appeared with a fresh pot, eyebrows raised in silent question. Victor waved her off with a polite smile. "Black, please. And whatever she's having, on me."
Tina glared. "I can pay for my own food."
"I know you can." He met her stare without flinching. "But I'm buying it anyway."
She wanted to throw the coffee in his face. She wanted to run. Instead she stayed seated, because running would mean admitting he'd rattled her this badly. And she refused to give him that satisfaction.
The food arrived: her grilled cheese golden and steaming, his coffee steaming in a thick white mug. He wrapped his hands around it, letting the heat soak in, watching her with the patience of someone who had all the time in the world.
"You cut your hair," he observed quietly. "It suits you."
"Don't," she snapped. "Don't act like you know me."
"I don't know you," he said. "Not yet. But I'd like to."
She laughed, short and bitter. "You already know too much. Where I work. Where I sleep. Where I eat. How does it feel, Victor? Having eyes everywhere?"
He took a slow sip of coffee. "It feels lonely sometimes."
The answer caught her off guard. She searched his face for mockery and found none. Just quiet truth, the kind that slipped under your defenses when you weren't looking.
She picked up her sandwich, took a bite to buy time. The cheese was perfect—gooey, salty, everything she'd been craving. She hated that he'd paid for it. She hated more that part of her was grateful.
"Why are you here?" she asked finally, voice softer than she intended.
"Because I couldn't stop thinking about you." Simple. Direct. No flourish. "And because I wanted to see if you were okay."
"I'm fine."
"You're surviving," he corrected. "There's a difference."
She looked away, toward the window where their reflections stared back—him calm, her tense, two strangers sharing a booth in a diner nobody important ever noticed. The silence stretched, not uncomfortable exactly, just heavy with things neither wanted to say first.
Victor set his mug down. "I'm not here to drag you back, Tina. Not tonight. Not ever, unless you choose it."
"Then why the card? Why the note? Why follow me across state lines?"
"Because I'm patient." He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, voice dropping to something intimate. "And because I think you're worth waiting for."
Her heart stuttered. She hated it. Hated how his words landed like hooks, tugging at parts of her she'd tried to bury under anger and independence.
She pushed her plate away, half the sandwich untouched. "You don't get to decide what I'm worth."
"No," he agreed. "But I get to decide what I'm willing to risk for you."
He stood then, smooth and unhurried, pulling a crisp twenty from his pocket and leaving it on the table. "Finish your food. It's getting cold."
He paused at the end of the booth, looking down at her with those green eyes that saw too much. "Goodnight, Tina."
Then he walked out, the bell jingling behind him like punctuation.
She sat there for a long time after he left, staring at the twenty, the cooling fries, the empty seat across from her.
The diner felt smaller without him in it.
And that scared her more than any threat ever could.