The café smelled like roasted beans and warm sugar. It should've calmed her.
It didn't.
Elena stood in line, hugging her notebook, trying not to think about that alley. That man. That moment.
But her heart knew before her eyes did.
She felt it—like gravity shifted.
She looked up.
And there he was.
Two customers ahead. Broad shoulders, dark coat, presence like a loaded gun in the room. Still. Quiet. Dangerous.
He turned. Their eyes locked.
Her lungs froze.
It was him.
She took a step back and bumped into someone. "Sorry," she whispered.
But he was already moving toward her. Slowly. As if the whole café belonged to him.
"You dropped this," he said, holding out her notebook.
She hadn't even realized it had fallen.
Their fingers touched. Cold skin. Warm fire.
"T-Thank you," she murmured.
"You're welcome, Elena."
Her eyes snapped to his.
"How do you—?"
He glanced at her chest. "Your name tag. On your apron."
Right. Of course.
Still… something about the way he said her name made her want to run.
"You look different in the daylight," he said softly.
That wasn't casual.
It was a reminder.
"I—I should go," she muttered.
He stepped aside.
She passed him quickly, head down, trying to ignore the weight of his stare.
But just as she reached the door, his voice followed—low and dark:
> "Maybe next time, don't run."
She froze.
Her hand trembled on the handle.
When she finally turned…
He was gone.
---
That night, Elena lay in bed, tossing beneath the sheets. The words echoed in her mind.
Maybe next time, don't run.
How did he find her again?
How did he look so… calm? Like seeing her was planned.
No.
She was overthinking.
Right?