Chapter 3

He started coming every week.

Same night. Same hour. Same seat.

It became routine in the way dangerous things do—so subtle you don’t notice when it stops being a coincidence. I didn’t ask his name. He didn’t offer it. We existed in that careful middle space where questions stayed folded away.

I learned his habits instead.

One drink. Always neat. He never checked his phone. Never looked at the clock. He listened more than he spoke, eyes following the room like he was counting breaths instead of people.

And somehow, every time, they landed back on me.

“You’re quieter tonight,” he said once.

I shrugged, wiping the counter. “Long day.”

“Those are usually the loudest,” he replied.

I glanced up. “You talk like you’ve had a few.”

A pause.

“I’ve had many,” he said, calmly.

Something in his tone made my fingers still.

The bar felt different when he was here. Not darker exactly—just more focused. Like everything unnecessary fell away. Eva noticed it too. She never said anything, just kept an eye on us from a distance, her instincts sharper than mine.

One night, as he stood to leave, he hesitated.

That was new.

“You study?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “Literature.”

His gaze sharpened, interest flickering for real this time. “Old texts?”

“Mostly,” I replied. “They feel… honest. Like they don’t pretend people were better than they were.”

A quiet moment passed.

“That’s true,” he said softly. “They remember what others try to forget.”

Our eyes met, and for a second I felt exposed—like I’d answered more than he’d asked.

He left after that, slower than usual.

When I locked up later, the night air felt colder than it should have. I walked home with my hands in my pockets, replaying his words, his pauses, the way he looked at me like I was a problem he hadn’t decided how to solve.

I should have been afraid.

Instead, I found myself hoping—just a little—that next week would come quickly.

Because some people don’t flirt.

They wait.

And somehow, I knew—

whatever he was waiting for

had something to do with me. 🕯️

The first time I saw him outside the bar, it caught me off guard.

It was late afternoon, the sky dull and undecided, the campus half-asleep between classes. I was cutting across the courtyard, earbuds in, mind drifting, when that familiar weight settled in my chest.

I looked up.

He stood near the old stone building at the edge of campus, hands in the pockets of his coat, posture relaxed but alert. Like he belonged there in a way that had nothing to do with schedules or semesters.

For a moment, neither of us moved.

This was different. No counter between us. No dim lights or background noise to soften the edges. Just daylight and distance and the very real possibility that I’d imagined the connection.

Then his eyes met mine.

Recognition passed between us. Clear. Undeniable.

He nodded once. Polite. Controlled.

I pulled my earbuds out. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Likewise,” he said.

Up close, the world felt quieter around him. Not empty. Focused. His gaze flicked briefly to the book tucked under my arm.

“Literature,” he said, not asking.

“Yeah.” I shifted my grip. “You?”

“Teaching,” he replied after a pause.

Something about the word made my stomach dip, though I couldn’t explain why. Before I could ask more, a group of students passed between us, laughter breaking the moment apart.

When they cleared, he had stepped back.

“I should go,” he said.

“Oh—okay.”

Another pause. Shorter this time. Tighter.

“I’ll see you at the bar,” he added.

It wasn’t a promise. It wasn’t a question.

It was a certainty.

He turned and walked away, the coat disappearing into the crowd, leaving me standing there with the uneasy realization that two separate parts of my life had just brushed too close together.

That night, while wiping down the counter, I caught myself glancing at the door more than usual.

Waiting.

Because some people don’t follow you.

They circle.

And somehow, I knew—

the closer he got,

the harder it would be to pretend this was nothing. 🕯️

He didn’t come that night.

The bar felt wrong because of it.

I kept glancing at the door, pretending I wasn’t. Eva noticed—of course she did—but said nothing. The music felt too loud, the lights too bright, like everything was trying too hard to fill a space that hadn’t been empty before.

I told myself it meant nothing.

I didn’t believe it.

The next evening, rain came down hard, blurring the city into streaks of silver and shadow. Business was slow. I was restocking bottles when the bell finally rang.

My heart reacted before my eyes did.

He stepped inside, coat damp at the edges, dark hair slightly disordered like the weather had dared to touch him. The bar shifted instantly, like it recognized him even if no one else did.

He didn’t take his usual seat.

He stood there for a moment, eyes locked on me.

“You weren’t here yesterday,” I said, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

His gaze sharpened. Not annoyed. Not pleased. Just… attentive. “I had obligations.”

Something about the way he said it made it sound permanent. Heavy.

I poured his drink without asking again. Routine had formed quietly between us, and we both knew it.

“You’re different tonight,” he said.

“So are you,” I replied, surprising both of us.

A pause stretched. Rain tapped against the windows like impatient fingers.

“Careful,” he said softly. “You’re starting to speak like you trust me.”

I swallowed. “Do you want me not to?”

His eyes darkened, just slightly. “Wanting has consequences.”

The words settled between us, dense and unresolved.

For the first time, I noticed it clearly—the way the mirrors behind the bar didn’t seem to catch him properly. Not absent. Just… wrong. Like his reflection was always a fraction late.

My pulse spiked.

“You said you teach,” I said carefully.

“Yes.”

“What?”

Another pause. Longer. Deliberate.

“Things that last,” he replied.

I should’ve laughed it off. Should’ve let it go.

Instead, I asked, “And do you always watch your students like this?”

The air changed.

Not violently. Not loudly.

But something ancient shifted, and for the first time, I felt it—

not fear,