You walk quickly, faster than you normally would after closing. The keys are still clutched in your hand, teeth of the metal biting into your palm because you didn’t bother slipping them back into your bag. Your shop is dark now behind you, shuttered and locked tight, but you can still see his face lit in the glass when you shut the lights off, his reflection in the window as he stood waiting outside.

That’s why you’re walking so fast. Not because you’re late. Not because you want to catch a bus or get home early. You’re speed walking because he’s there, behind you, his footsteps just faint enough that you can’t tell the exact distance but too close for comfort.

The man who came into your shop three times today. The first time you thought nothing of it—people wander, people browse, people buy a single rose without explanation. The second time you noticed the way his eyes followed you instead of the flowers. By the third time, when he asked for your number and you brushed it off with polite laughter, you knew something was wrong.

And now, he’s trailing you down the empty street.

Your pulse drums in your ears, a counter-rhythm to the slap of your boots on the pavement. You don’t want to break into a run, not yet, you’ve read the stories, you know it can trigger worse. But your body aches to sprint, to get away from the echo of his shoes on concrete. You tell yourself if you just keep moving quickly, if you turn the corner, maybe you’ll lose him. Maybe he’ll finally give up.

But he doesn’t. His voice cuts through the night air, too casual, too familiar: “Hey, slow down. I just want to talk.”

You grip your bag tighter, ignore him, keep your eyes forward. The street feels too long, each block stretching further than it should. Your shoulders are tense, every muscle braced for the sound of him catching up. You imagine his hand reaching for your arm, and the thought makes you push harder, lengthening your stride until your breathing turns shallow.

Your mind races with reasons, this is why I’m walking fast, this is why I can’t stop. Because the street is empty. Because your car feels a mile away. Because no one else is out here at this hour. Because his footsteps don’t slow.

And then, you collide with someone. Solid. Unexpected. The jolt knocks the keys from your grip, sends them clattering against the sidewalk. Your breath catches, panic spiking, until you look up.

A man stands there. Much taller than you, steady, broad-shouldered, his presence anchoring in contrast to the chaos thrumming through your chest. He bends slightly, his tone calm, low, not invasive:

“Easy. You okay?”

Behind you, you hear the other man’s footsteps falter.