Elliot Vaughn had been tracking her for a month, which sounded criminal if you said it badly and reasonable if you said it the way he did, with context and charts and intent. Thirty days of passive observation. No interference. No contact. Just data gathering. He told himself this was restraint. Growth, even.

The city helped him. Big cities always did. They swallowed people whole and then pretended not to notice. She moved through it like someone who had learned how to be small without disappearing. Same route most mornings. Same office building. Same café on Wednesdays and Fridays, when homesickness crept up on her harder. He didn’t need to guess. Her food delivery history already told him that.

Tonight, she was late.

Elliot noticed immediately. Seven minutes past her usual time. Which meant something had gone wrong, or she’d stayed back on purpose. He closed the model he’d been running and watched the elevator instead, pretending to scroll through his phone like every other man waiting to be nowhere in particular.

She arrived looking tired but intact. Hair tied lower than usual. Bag heavier. Shoulders tense in that way that meant she’d been polite for too long. Relief settled in his chest, quiet and humiliating.

The café downstairs smelled like overworked machines and optimism. He followed at a distance that felt safe, not just for her, but for him. He took the seat he always did. Same angle. Same sightline. He liked consistency. It kept his head from spiraling.

She ordered her drink without looking at the menu. Oat milk. Extra foam. He logged it automatically, then stopped himself, irritated. He already knew this. He didn’t need to keep proving it.

She sat near the window, phone facedown for once. That was new. A break from the noise. Elliot watched her hands instead. She had a habit of rubbing her thumb against the cup when she was thinking too hard. He wondered if anyone else noticed. The answer, statistically, was no.

Someone at the next table said something stupid. She laughed before she could stop herself.

The sound hit him wrong. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just unguarded. Like she’d forgotten, briefly, to be careful. His focus slipped. She looked up and caught him watching.

For a fraction of a second, the model failed.

“I’m sorry,” she said, brows drawing together. “Was I being distracting?”

“No,” he replied, too quickly. Then softened it. “Not at all.”

She studied him, recalibrating. She was good at that. “You work here?”

“Yes.”

“What floor?”

He smiled faintly. “Most of them.”

That earned him a real smile, cautious but curious. She gestured to the chair across from him without committing to the invitation. “Long day?”

“Predictable,” he said. “Which is better than most.”

She snorted quietly. “I don’t think I’ve had one of those in months.”

“You adjust,” he told her. “Or you burn out.”

“That sounds… reassuring. In a bleak way.”

“I specialize in bleak reassurance.”

She laughed again, softer this time. Then checked her phone, frowned, and stood. “I should go. Early morning.”

He stood too, not rushing her. “Of course.”

She hesitated, then said, “It was nice talking to you. I’m—”

“I know,” he interrupted, gently, before he could stop himself.

Her expression shifted. Confusion first. Then interest. “You know?”

Elliot held her gaze, heart steady, every ethical boundary humming under his skin.

“You seem like someone worth paying attention to,” he said, carefully.