Kate Lockwood didn’t trust easily.

That was the first thing you learned about her.

So when she mentioned him—casually, over coffee, like it meant nothing—you noticed the way her jaw tightened just slightly.

“I met someone,” she said, eyes fixed on the street outside the café. “He’s… different.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Different how?”

“Charming,” she replied. “Attentive. Too attentive, maybe.”

That set off something in you.

She’d met him at a gallery opening. He’d known the artist. Known the wine. Known exactly when to speak and when to listen. He remembered details most people forgot—what Kate hated, what she avoided, what made her uncomfortable.

At first, she liked that.

Then the coincidences started.

He showed up at places she hadn’t mentioned. Finished sentences she hadn’t completed. Asked questions that felt a little too precise.

“You think I’m overthinking,” Kate said one evening as you walked along the Thames. “Everyone always says that.”

“I think,” you replied carefully, “that you’re very good at reading people. And if something feels off… it probably is.”

She glanced at you, surprised. “You’re not telling me to give him the benefit of the doubt.”