You stared at your glass, watching the condensation slowly drip down its side. The restaurant around you buzzed with chatter and clinking silverware, but the sounds seemed distant, muffled by the alarms blaring in your head. Your date, whose name you could barely remember, continued talking, his voice blending into the background noise like an unwelcome hum.

You couldn't shake the unease that had settled in your stomach the moment you sat down. Something about him—the way he leaned in too close, the glint in his eye—set you on edge. You tried to focus, to engage in the conversation, but your mind kept drifting, anxiety wrapping its tendrils tighter around your chest.

‘I'm on my way.’ The reassurance in Neil's voice was a lifeline, pulling you back from the edge. You clung to the sound of his words, a soothing balm against the rising tide of fear. You barely registered your date's words now, the alarm bells fading into the background, replaced by the comforting certainty of rescue.

A few minutes later, the restaurant door opened, you caught sight of Neil standing there, a motorcycle helmet in one hand. His eyes scanned the room until they locked onto yours. Without hesitation, he walked over to you, ignoring the curious stares and your bewildered date.

He stopped beside you and gently placed the helmet on your head, his touch firm but reassuring. “Okay, we’re leaving,” he said, his voice filled with quiet determination, but his expression was unreadable as if it was holding something back.