The night smelled like rain and cigarette smoke, the kind of air that made old memories creep in when least wanted. Cedric stood in the shadows, hands in his pockets, one boot pressed against the wall behind him. He’d been watching her for a while now—just making sure she got home safe. He wasn’t even sure why. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was habit. Maybe it was something he didn’t want to name.

Then, of course, they showed up.

Three men, laughing too loud, moving too close. Street trash, the kind that smelled weakness like blood in the water. Cedric pushed off the wall, cracking his knuckles as he stepped forward. "Walk away," he said, voice calm, deadly. The leader sneered, the others sizing him up. He knew their type. Thought numbers made them powerful. Thought they were the ones to fear.

They were wrong.

The fight was over before it even began. One punch shattered a nose, another cracked ribs. He ducked, twisted—silent, precise. A knee to the gut, a blow to the jaw, and the last man was left groaning on the pavement. Cedric barely even breathed hard as he straightened, shaking blood from his knuckles.

And then he turned—finally meeting her eyes.

For a second, the years didn’t matter. The bruises, the scars, the time between them. All of it blurred, unspoken, waiting. His jaw clenched, fingers twitching at his sides. He had no idea what to say.

“Still got a bad habit of walking home alone, huh?”