The hours bled on. By midnight, the bar was chaos. Bodies pressed; voices slurred. In the shadows, couples tangled together, lost in drunken hunger.
I ignored it all, draping blankets over shivering girls whose dresses left them nearly bare, covering others who'd collapsed on couches so men wouldn't take advantage. Each small act felt like a battle I had to fight silently.
By the time my shift ended, my body throbbed with exhaustion. I changed quickly in the upstairs bathroom, ignoring the sour stench of the first-floor one.
"Take care, Amara," a coworker called.
"Text me when you get home," the manager added.
I nodded, offering a tired smile before slipping into the night.
Outside, the city was hushed. Only a few cars swept by, their headlights slicing through the darkness. The cold air licked my skin, sharp and electric, and for a fleeting moment, I felt light. Free.
Then the streetlamp ahead flickered. Once. Twice. Dead.
The road plunged into shadow. My steps slowed, breath catching. Every nerve in my body screamed caution, but curiosity—or something more reckless—kept me moving.
A faint rustle behind me. Footsteps? No, the silence swallowed the sound. Yet the sensation of being watched crawled along my spine, pricking at my skin.
I was about to stop when a hand seized my wrist and slammed me against the wall. My gasp caught in my throat, sharp and involuntary.
A tall figure loomed, shadowed by the alley's faint light, finger pressing against his lips—ordering silence.
My heart thundered, erratic, as though trying to escape my chest.
"WHERE DID HE GO?!" A man's furious voice roared in the distance. "I TOLD YOU TO WATCH HIM! FUCK!"
The stranger's body pressed closer, shielding me as footsteps pounded past. The echo faded, leaving a ringing quiet broken only by my own heartbeat, hammering in my ears.
Slowly, I looked up.
His arm curled firmly around my waist. My hand—shaking—was pinned against his chest. No, his neck. Heat flushed through me when I realized the intimacy of our position. The proximity made my skin tingle, nerves firing in every direction at once.
His gaze finally met mine.
And I forgot how to breathe.
He was beautiful. Terrifyingly so. A face sculpted in shadows and sharp edges, dangerous in its perfection. Too handsome to be real.
But it wasn't his beauty that froze me—it was his eyes. Cold, piercing, unreadable. Eyes that promised secrets I had no right to touch.
My lips parted soundlessly, a quiet surrender.
He was danger. I could feel it radiating from him, seeping into my skin, curling around my lungs, pressing against my chest.
And yet, in that suffocating moment, I couldn't look away.
I should have screamed. I should have shoved him away and run. But my voice was locked somewhere in my chest, trapped beneath the weight of his gaze. My muscles clenched, every instinct screaming to flee, yet I couldn't move.
His hand tightened fractionally at my waist, firm enough to remind me he controlled this moment, soft enough to make me wonder if he held me there for protection—or possession.
"Stay quiet," he murmured, low, velvet edged with steel. A voice made for command, for obedience.
The world narrowed to the sound of it. My pulse roared in my ears, a drum out of sync with reason. The alley seemed to shrink around us, the darkness pressing close, cloaking us in isolation.
He leaned closer, his breath brushing my temple.
"They're looking for me. You don't want them to see you with me."
Them? My throat went dry. I wanted to ask who—but words refused to leave me. The tension coiled in my chest, sharp and unrelenting.
The night pressed heavy. Somewhere down the street, another man cursed, frustrated, the echo of boots fading into silence.
My body ached with the urge to move, yet his presence rooted me against the wall. My pulse slammed, awareness sharpened to every sound, every shift of shadow.
"Why... why me?" I finally managed to whisper, voice trembling.
He tilted his head slightly, studying me like a puzzle he hadn't expected to find here. His eyes glimmered in the dark, unreadable and sharp.
"Because you were in my way."
A cruel answer, maybe. But the way his lips curved—half amusement, half warning—made my stomach twist with something dangerously close to intrigue.
I wanted to hate the closeness, the way my breath seemed to sync with his. Instead, I found myself leaning ever so slightly forward, as if gravity itself had shifted.
Then, just as quickly, he released me.
I staggered a step, my back cold without the cage of his arm. The alley felt impossibly wide now, empty, vulnerable.
"You should go home," he said. Not a suggestion, but an order. "Forget you saw me." As if forgetting was possible.
His silhouette lingered even as he turned, melting into the alley's darkness.
Before he vanished completely, he glanced over his shoulder. Our eyes caught once more—brief, searing.
Danger. Beauty. A promise of ruin.
And in that fleeting look, I knew: whoever he was, this wouldn't be the last time our paths crossed.
My legs trembled as I backed away, heart still hammering. The shadows seemed thicker now, pressing closer, as if they, too, had seen him—and were waiting
I honestly don't know how I got home after what happened. Everything felt like a blur—my body moving on its own while my mind stubbornly refused to catch up.
Now, I'm lying on my bed, staring blankly at the white ceiling as if it holds answers I can't find.
Why the hell am I still awake? My body aches with exhaustion, but my brain won't shut down. I'm seriously losing it.
That man earlier... he just walked away. No explanation, no goodbye, not even a hint of gratitude. Handsome or not, what kind of man acts like that? As if beauty grants him a free pass to be a complete jerk.
I'm not the type to demand anything from anyone, but is a simple "thank you" really too much? Just one word—one tiny acknowledgment—would've been enough.
The red glow of the clock on my nightstand taunts me. One in the morning. And still, I'm wide awake. Limbs heavy with fatigue, mind restless, clawing at every thought I try to bury.
With a frustrated sigh, I push myself up. Lying here is useless. If sleep won't come, then I'll find something else to keep me company. I grab my guitar and step quietly out to the veranda.
The night greets me with a rush of cold air, biting at my bare skin. I shiver—thin pajamas and spaghetti straps no match for the breeze—but sink into the sofa anyway, cradling my guitar in my lap.
A shadow flickered beyond the fence. At first, I convinced myself it was a tree branch swaying. But the movement was too deliberate, too precise, as if it were observing me. My fingers tensed on the strings.
I strum lazily at first, soft vibrations filling the silence. Humming under my breath, I let the melody carry me. Singing would be too loud—someone might wake up—so I just play, letting my fingers move until they sting. Eventually, I set the guitar aside with a sigh, chest lighter, though my thoughts remain unruly.
Tilting my head back, I gaze up at the sky. Dark. Endless. Scattered with tiny lights. Stars.
"So beautiful," I whisper, as if they might hear me.
I lift a finger and begin counting them one by one, smiling at my own foolishness. Anything to distract myself from the gnawing boredom, from the chaos inside my head.
A rustle in the yard catches my attention. My pulse quickens. Something—someone—moves just beyond the fence. My eyes dart, heart hammering, but the shadows are empty when I blink.
"How I wish I could reach you," I murmur to the stars.
And that's when I feel it.
The air shifts—so subtle I almost convince myself I imagined it. A prickle crawls up the back of my neck, the kind of sensation you get when someone is watching you. Slowly, my smile fades.
I glance at the trees beyond the fence. The shadows seem deeper than usual, thickened in places they shouldn't be. The wind rattles the leaves, but beneath it... I swear I hear something else. A faint sound. Too deliberate for the breeze. Too heavy to be nothing.
A movement at the edge of the streetlamp's glow makes my chest seize. My eyes scan, but the dark seems impenetrable. Still, the sense of being watched refuses to leave.
My heart stutters. For a moment, my mind flickers to him. His face, earlier—cold, unreadable, like he knew something I didn't.
Don't be ridiculous, I scold myself. It's just your imagination. You're overtired.
I gather my guitar and retreat inside, shutting the door behind me with more force than necessary.
Even as I step into the house, I can't shake the sensation of eyes lingering just outside the glass panes, observing, waiting. Only when I crawl back into bed do I finally let out the breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.
The darkness feels thicker somehow, pressing against the windows, the walls, as if the night itself has noticed me.
As sleep begins to drag me under, one last thought needles through the haze:
What if it wasn't my imagination?