The evening was far from pleasant. The university studio held me hostage until dark – editing a video for tomorrow's broadcast dragged on for a couple of extra hours, plus, as usual, I took on everything "urgent."
By the time I finally make it outside, the city is already slipping into sleep: students have scattered to bars, buses run rarely, and the streets are dotted with the occasional passerby and couples under lampposts. I've got a backpack, a tripod, a coffee thermos mug, and the firm belief I can crawl home in fifteen minutes.
I cross the road – and instantly feel a stare on me. Not "devouring," not "friendly," more like a security guard's look before closing – checking if anything suspicious was left behind.
A tall man, about thirty, stands at the intersection. That gaze – hard to look away. Not in jeans and sneakers, but proper, strict: coat, gloves, classic style. Definitely not a local "romantic."
Instinctively, I place a hand on my bag strap and quicken my pace. But he doesn't move, just says calmly:
– It's a bit late to be walking alone.
His voice is steady, not loud, not even trying to strike up a conversation – more like stating a fact.
I pretend I don't care, though irritation is already rising inside – why does everyone in this city think they must tell girls when to go home?
– Thanks for the advice, but I know how to walk around the city, – I answer, slightly haughty, like I'm giving an interview, not talking to a stranger on an empty street.
He scans me for a moment, as if deciding whether to believe me.
– Usually, yes. But now is a special time. – He still doesn't leave, just steps half into the lamplight. There's no fear or pressure in his tone. Just calm.
I raise an eyebrow, take a step to the side:
– Do you always patrol the neighborhood at night like this?
– No, – he shrugs. – Only when someone stands out from the rest.
Seriously? One of those "admirers of individuality"...
– Maybe I'm just hurrying home after a hard shift, – I shoot back. – And prefer to do it alone.
He nods, almost approvingly:
– I understand. Just be careful, Liza. Not everyone in this area goes home so easily.
And again – no hint of flirting, no pickup attempt. Just standing there like he's responsible for the safety of the whole street.
I walk past, but the feeling of being watched doesn't leave. Already at my building entrance, I glance back – he's still there, calmly staring into the distance.
Back home, I toss the keys on the table. Mom mutters something from the kitchen about "too late for girls to come back alone" – and I recall that look at the crossing again.
Why did he call me by name? I couldn't be that recognizable around campus, right? Or… was it just a coincidence? Doesn't feel like it.
I pretend everything's fine, check my email, scroll through memes – but there's a tickling thought inside: something about this isn't random.
Before bed, I jot down a note:
"Check bus schedule. Buy a croissant if the bakery doesn't close before nine.
And don't make eye contact with night watchmen."
A phrase bangs around my head: "Remember. Tall. Too serious. Didn't try to hit on me, but definitely knows something. And most importantly – why did he suddenly decide today was a 'special time'?"
That's how I met Marcus.
The morning was ordinary – except that my phone woke me up again. The editor sent over urgent material, and I had to jump up and rush out. The shuttle bus, as always, stalled halfway, and an old lady in the front seat loudly told her neighbor about her daughter in Germany. The city buzzed and fidgeted, like it was reluctant to wake up.
Before the university, I still ducked into my coffee shop – not because I wanted coffee, but because it was the only place to breathe for a minute and see no one. But today was different: the line stretched to the door, someone grumbled about slow service, and the barista looked like he'd been sleeping behind the counter.
I took a spot at the end of the line, eyes on my phone, mentally sorting out which classes were worth skipping today. That's when someone stepped up beside me – a blond guy with a backpack covered in pins, his scarf hanging crooked, eyes shining like he didn't mind waking up at six.
– Whoa, looks like they just handed out survival cards here, – he said softly. – What do you think, if we offer the barista a pack of vitamins, will they let us skip ahead?
I nodded without looking up – you always run into guys like this in student lines. Nothing special.
– Are you new here? Or just a master of patience? – another unnecessary question.
I was about to brush him off, but he suddenly stepped forward, caught the eye of the woman grumbling at the counter, and offered:
– Let me help you carry your coffee to the table – otherwise the line's not moving at all…
The woman softened, grabbed her order, and vanished behind a newspaper. The guy turned back to me and, almost businesslike, extended his hand:
– Lucas.
I introduced myself too – automatically, without thinking.
– Liza.
He smirked.
– Aha. Liza who doesn't like lines but still comes here every morning.
I raised an eyebrow – "every day"? What's with the attention to a random coffee girl? Then the line moved forward, and the barista asked for my order.
– Latte, – I muttered, not looking up, – regular.
Lucas added an espresso for himself, threw a joke at the barista, and suddenly I realized – he didn't come here just for the coffee. His eyes held no casual interest, no flirting – it was something studying, too focused.
While we waited, Lucas made small talk, but every phrase seemed to be testing my reactions:
– Are you from this city? Everyone here knows each other – you spot outsiders instantly.
I shrugged.
– I study here. Journalism.
He nodded, memorizing.
– Then you'll definitely need coffee. Everyone here looks like owls without caffeine.
I laughed, but the unease crept in again – like someone was looking at me differently. Too closely, too intently.
When the order was ready, he handed me my cup, his gaze lingering on my hands for a moment.
– Here. Watch your step at the door – there's a puddle. Morning mishaps are the worst.
I was about to leave, but for some reason turned around – Lucas was still at the counter, chatting with the barista, yet still watching me from the corner of his eye.
I stepped out, inhaled the damp air. The city buzzed – someone rushing, someone yelling at taxis. I set my cup on the curb, glanced at my reflection in the shop window. Unfamiliar.
Sometimes it feels like someone is waiting for you around every corner in this city. Just to check – are you one of them?
I didn't know why I was so hung up on the little things, but the strange mood stayed until my first class. Lucas... Maybe just another joker. Or someone who sees deeper than he lets on.
Today, the coffee tasted especially bitter.
By evening, the city had settled into twilight. Lights in windows flickered on lazily, the streets slowly emptied, and I finally made it out of university with one thought: "I'm definitely going to bed early today." Snippets of conversations ran through my head, Lucas's voice, so effortlessly woven into my morning chaos, and for some reason, the memory of the man on the bench still bothered me.
I quickened my pace, turning onto my street. The air smelled of grilled meat from a street cafe, mixed with the light scent of blooming linden trees. The usual route, familiar janitors clattering their brooms and discussing the latest news at the entrances. Everything normal – but today, for some reason, I kept looking over my shoulder.
Almost at my building, I heard footsteps behind me again. Quiet, confident, almost lazy – like someone deliberately saying, "I'm in no rush, and you won't escape." I gripped my keys tighter, trying not to panic. After all, strange people on the city's streets weren't anything new.
– You always come back this late? – a voice called.
I spun around. He stood a few steps away, leaning against the wall of a brick building, lit by a flickering streetlight. Tall, stylish, almost provocatively so – in a leather jacket with a T-shirt underneath that hinted at a bold print. In the shadows, dark red hair and a cocky, mocking gaze. This stranger definitely didn't look like a typical evening passerby.
– Excuse me, do we know each other? – I said through clenched teeth, trying to sound as cold as possible.
He smiled slightly, but there was nothing warm in it.
– Not yet, – his gaze was intense, studying. – But I think that's about to change.
– Doubtful. I don't think we attend the same hobby groups.
He pushed off from the wall, stepping toward me. His movements were fluid, predatory. There was danger in him – not brute, but sly, calculated, almost playful.
– Hobby groups? Funny. I prefer personal interaction. You know, when two people look into each other's eyes and understand everything without words.
I stepped back, feeling a chill run down my spine. My heart beat faster, but I wasn't going to show it:
– Listen, stranger. With lines like that, you'd be better off talking to a therapist than harassing girls in the street. Might help you stop sounding like a cliché.
He chuckled louder now, clearly enjoying my defiance:
– Whoa, you're not as simple as I thought.
– That's the only thing you got right. Now – goodbye.
I turned and took a few steps toward the entrance, but he deliberately kept following.
– Wait. We haven't even introduced ourselves.
– And we won't, – I snapped, turning to face him again. Inside, anger bubbled, laced with worry. – Honestly, if you don't back off right now, I'll scream so loud the old ladies around here will show up faster than the cops.
– Scary threat, – he raised his hands in mock surrender, though his eyes sparkled with excitement. – Just be careful. There've been a lot of… strange types around the city lately.
– Apparently, I've already met one, – I shot back and headed sharply for the door.
He didn't follow, just stood there, watching as I pulled out my keys and hurried inside.