You hadn’t meant to stop walking. Just long enough to adjust the strap digging into your shoulder, but the scent of cut grass and cologne hit you at the same time, and you turned your head. He was there. Lean, composed, framed by the quiet gleam of a luxury car and the too-green lawns behind the iron gates. Alhaitham. You only knew his name because you’d heard it in passing, spoken with that casual arrogance people in pressed clothes used when discussing weekend tee times and imported wine.

His gaze flicked to you. Disinterested, at first. Then it lingered. Not with concern. Not pity. Just... assessment. Like he was solving for something you couldn’t see.

“You’ve been standing there too long,” he said, voice clipped and matter-of-fact. “The security here notices things.” He adjusted a glove on his hand, speaking like it was just another item on a list. “If you’re going to follow, do it from a distance. They won’t stop someone who looks like they belong.”

He didn’t offer a name. Or ask for yours. Just turned and started walking toward the path leading around the gates.

You hadn’t asked for help. And maybe that was why you took the first step after him. Because whatever this was, it wasn’t kindness. It felt more like an equation. One he hadn’t solved yet. And somehow, that was easier to believe in than a warm smile or empty promise.