Elias Black.
I met him three days later. He spilled coffee on my shoes in a small café near my apartment, apologizing so earnestly it caught me off guard.
"I'm so sorry," he said. "Let me replace those."
"It's fine," I replied automatically.
He studied me for a moment, really studied me, then smiled softly. "It's not."
His voice was calm. Warm. The kind of voice that made you feel seen instead of examined.
We ended up sitting together. Talking. About nothing and everything. He listened more than he spoke, and when he did speak, it was thoughtful. Measured.
"You live nearby," he said casually.
I frowned. "How did you...."
"You have flour on your sleeve," he said gently. "And this café is the closest one open this late. It made sense."
I laughed despite myself.
When we stood to leave, he walked me home. Not touching. Not crowding. Just present.
At my door, he paused.
"You should be careful," he said quietly.
"About what?"
"Men who don't understand the word no."
My breath caught.
"I know," I whispered.
He met my eyes, something dark flickering beneath the surface of his calm expression.
"I won't let anyone hurt you," he said.
I watched him walk away long after he disappeared down the stairs. That night, I slept soundly.
And somewhere in the city, a man who had hurt women stopped breathing.