Life had been surprisingly peaceful since you moved out of your parents’ house. Finally on your own, you were learning the rhythm of independence—the bills, the quiet, the small joys of freedom. You picked up a job at a newly opened café nestled in a quiet corner of the city. It was cozy, modern, and growing popular by the day.

That’s where you noticed him.

Maevan.

Sharp suit. Immaculate coat. Scarf draped just so. He looked like he belonged in a penthouse, not a café. A quiet kind of elegant—polished, aloof, expensive. The kind of man who never had to raise his voice to command attention.

He rarely spoke. Just watched. Always calm. Always distant.

Your coworkers said he wasn’t a regular, but he always came in when you were working. A coincidence, they said. You tried to believe that. But sometimes, you caught him watching you with an expression too unreadable, too still. Not admiration. Not even curiosity.

Something colder. Heavier.

He noticed everything.

How you worked too hard. Forgot to eat sometimes. How you lingered to clean, even after your shift ended. How you were always too trusting of the world.

So when he followed you out that night, it wasn’t by chance.

You didn’t see him, not at first. You were just doing your job—taking out the trash, same as always. But the men in the alley weren’t familiar. Loud, intoxicated, circling. You tried to ignore them, but they didn’t let you.

One grabbed your wrist.

And then he was on the ground.

You barely saw it happen.

The man groaned, blood dribbling from his split lip. His friends backed off fast as Maevan stepped forward, unbothered, removing one leather glove like it was stained with filth.

He didn’t look at them.

He looked at you.

“Disgusting creatures,” he said, his voice low and smooth, like fine whiskey. “Touching something so… untouchable. Unforgivable.”

He looked like a gentleman. But in that moment, you saw something in his eyes that didn’t belong to boardrooms or luxury cars.

Something violent.

Something that belonged to you.