Ken was standing outside his apartment building, stretching his arms above his head like someone who had just woken from a long sleep.
The sun caught the edge of his jaw, making the lines around his eyes sharper than usual.
His white shirt had been replaced by a dark gray t-shirt, the sleeves rolled up neatly.
He was casual, relaxed, and unbothered.
When he noticed me, he froze mid-stretch.
"Morning," I said flatly.
"Morning," he replied, cautious.
There was that tilt to his head, that careful appraisal. "I didn't expect to see you here."
I shrugged, blowing smoke into the air. "I didn't expect to be outside either."
He laughed softly, the kind that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You're persistent, aren't you?"
"I'm bored."
That got a pause from him.
A slight, almost imperceptible frown. "Bored… at this hour?"
"Yes."
He didn't argue.
Instead, he grabbed a jacket from a nearby hook and gestured vaguely. "Well, I don't have plans today. If you want to… I mean, you could come with me for coffee or something. You don't have to."
I studied him, cold. Calculating.
He was letting me in, quietly, almost unaware, and I didn't want to seem too eager.
"Sure," I said finally.
We walked to the small bakery down the street, the one with the cracked window and the bell that jingled whenever the door opened.
I kept my head down, cap low, hoodie wrapped tight.
People glanced at me but didn't linger.
I liked that.
Inside, Ken moved with a casual confidence I found unnerving.
He knew the barista by name.
He smiled in a way that suggested familiarity, warmth, and patience.
And here I was, standing silently beside him, cigarette long finished, watching him as if I were studying some impossible painting.
"You're quiet today," he said, eyes forward.
"I'm always quiet," I replied.
He chuckled. "I don't think so. You have moods. They're… detectable."
I raised an eyebrow. "Moods?"
"Yes," he said, nodding. "Right now, curious, a little mischievous, testing boundaries."
I turned my head slightly. "Maybe."
"Maybe?" He glanced at me briefly, expression softening, then looked back at the counter.
After coffee, we walked back toward his apartment.
He carried the small paper cup carefully, like he was afraid to spill it.
I stayed beside him, deliberately silent, the cold mask firmly in place.
When we reached his apartment, I paused at the door.
"You cook again?" I asked.
"I can," he said with a smile, as if the invitation were casual. "Or we can just drink coffee and sit quietly."
"Cook," I said, short and precise.
Inside, the apartment smelled faintly of yesterday's breakfast.
He moved through the kitchen with quiet confidence, like he had always done this, like he'd done this hundreds of times before me.
I watched him, the way he chopped vegetables, the small meticulous movements, the way he tasted something and adjusted it before I could even blink.
It was… mesmerizing.
I didn't say a word.
We ate quietly.
No small talk, no questions.
Just the scraping of forks, the occasional sip of water, and the hum of the refrigerator.
After breakfast, Ken stood and adjusted his coat. "I have to head to the clinic," he said.
I leaned back in my chair. "Don't let me stop you."
"You wouldn't," he said softly, and then he was gone.
The apartment suddenly felt bigger.
Too big. Too quiet.
I sat there for a long time, watching shadows shift across the walls.
And then, like a thought I couldn't shake, I stood.
Pulled my hoodie over my head, tugged my cap low, and grabbed my boots.
The streets had changed since morning, the sun lower, the colors duller, the air thicker.
I didn't know why I was doing this exactly.
I just knew I couldn't stay still.
Somewhere inside, a part of me wanted to see him again.
Wanted to watch him move, to witness the calm, the competence, the way he seemed untouchable yet… achingly human.
And maybe, just maybe, I wanted him to notice me.
I had asked the landlord earlier in the day, careful, measured, as if I didn't care:
"Ken's number?" I said.
The landlord looked surprised, but eventually handed me a slip of paper.
A name.
A number.
Neutral, like he didn't want to know why I asked.
Perfect.
By the time night had fallen, the streets had emptied.
Shadows stretched along walls and rooftops.
The quiet was different now, it wasn't comforting; it was charged, alert.
I held my phone in my hand, finger hovering over Ken's name.
I took a breath.
"Hello?"
"Ken," I said, soft but firm.
There was a pause on the line. "Ysabelle? Is everything okay?"
"No," I said. And then I heard it.
Two male voices in the background, laughing.
One of them snapped something at him sharply.
The other joined in, cruel, taunting.
Ken's voice tried to stay calm, quiet, but I could hear the edge of frustration, of being cornered.
It made my blood boil.
I didn't think.
I moved.
Hoodie over my head.
Cap low.
Boots on.
My hand grabbed the first thing within reach, a wine bottle from the counter.
It felt heavy, solid, just the way I liked things.
"Where are you?" I demanded.
"Just… near the clinic," Ken said.
His voice was careful, polite, and I hated how calm he sounded under pressure. He had no idea I'd be coming.
I didn't care.
The streetlights flickered as I ran, the wine bottle clutched tightly in my hand.
Shadows stretched and twisted around me.
I could hear the men laughing before I even turned the corner.
And there he was.
Ken.
Standing straight, but defensive.
Calm, even under the weight of them.
But the two men laughing, leaning, sneering were too close.
Too aggressive.
They didn't know I was coming.
I didn't wait.
The bottle swung back in my hand, hard and fast, aiming for the closest one.
My instincts took over, all fury, all protective force.
And then, a hand caught mine.
Ken.
"Ysabelle, stop!" His voice was sharp, firm, pulling my arm back. "Don't!"
I froze, chest heaving.
My hoodie soaked with sweat, the cap low over my eyes, anger thrumming through every vein.
"They're—" I started, but he cut me off.
"I've got this. Trust me."
I stared at him, heart pounding, blood hot.
The two men hesitated, realizing now that the calm, collected doctor wasn't someone to underestimate.
Ken stepped forward slowly, putting himself between them and me.
He didn't raise his voice.
He didn't shout.
But there was weight in his posture, authority, and control.
Enough that the bullies froze, reconsidered.
I wanted to scream, to lash out, to make them feel the satisfaction of fear for one second.
But Ken's gaze held mine, steady, almost calm.
I gritted my teeth and lowered the bottle.
"Good girl," he said quietly, and I wanted to argue, but the fire in my chest burned too bright to waste words.
After the men retreated, muttering and stumbling down the street, Ken finally turned to me.
"Are you okay?" His voice was calm, measured, but I could hear the hint of exasperation.
"I'm fine," I said, cold, folding my arms over my chest. My hoodie was damp with sweat. "Just… tired of people taking advantage of others."
"I know." He didn't question me.
Didn't lecture.
Didn't smile.
He just handed me the wine bottle I had nearly used to hit someone.
"Careful with that," he said.
"I know how to handle it," I muttered, voice low.
He didn't argue.
He only looked at me, studying me for a moment, before nodding. "Come on. Let's walk back. It's late."
The streets were empty.
The town itself seemed to exhale in relief, leaving only us moving through the shadows.
I stayed a step behind him, letting him take the lead.
The anger in my chest still simmered, but it was tempered now.
not by fear, not by hesitation, but by respect.
By him.
I didn't know why, exactly.
I didn't like it, didn't want to like it.
But there it was.
And somewhere in the night, beneath the quiet glow of the streetlights, I realized something I hadn't expected.
I didn't need to strike.
Not because I wasn't capable.
Because I wasn't alone.