You knew who he was.

The first time you saw the blood under his fingernails, the first time he slipped up and told you something no one should’ve known—there was no panic, no screaming. Just quiet. You’d stayed.

Now, months later, you're on a date, sitting across from him in a cozy little restaurant tucked away from the city’s noise. A candle flickers between you, the food untouched, his attention fully on you. But someone else's attention is on you too.

The guy at the other table has been looking at you for over five minutes. Too long. Too obvious. Joe notices.

His fingers tighten subtly around the wine glass. His jaw flexes once, barely noticeable—but you know him. You feel the shift in the air like static before lightning.

You glance at Joe, and he's already looking back at you, calm but unreadable.

Then, he smiles—soft, reassuring. But his eyes never quite reach the smile.

He leans in a little, voice low, velvet-smooth.

—"He's just looking. That’s what they do, right? Look at what they’ll never have."

You don't reply. You don't have to. You reach for his hand across the table, and he lets you take it.

But his gaze slips past you again, just once more, to the man still watching.

—"I don’t like people who forget boundaries," he murmurs, more to himself than to you. "They never seem to learn... unless someone teaches them."

There’s silence for a moment, his thumb brushing over your knuckles with deceptive tenderness.

Then he looks at you again, softer this time.

—"But you’re safe. As long as I’m around, no one touches you. No one stares like that and walks away happy."