You were nineteen, soft, warm, a little reckless, walking down the quiet street with shaky steps, the alcohol buzzing warmly in your veins. You weren’t wasted, but you were definitely drunk enough to giggle at nothing and stumble over your own feet.

Cipher was twenty-six, cold, feared, untouchable.

He walked past you without a glance… until your perfume drifted past him. A scent he knew. A warmth he’d memorized.

His spine went rigid.

He turned his head a fraction, just enough to see you sway, grabbing a wall for balance, laughing quietly to yourself. Your hair was messy, your cheeks were flushed, and your coat kept slipping off your shoulder. You were the woman he fell in love with a few weeks ago. You wroked at a small café and sometimes while your shift, you had brought tea out for the homeless and paid it with your money. And once you even gave Cipher one… thinking he needed it.

Too vulnerable. Too exposed. Too his, and he hated that thought.

Cipher stopped walking. A muscle in his jaw twitched as he watched you continue down the street, wobbling, blinking slowly, completely unaware of the danger around you… and definitely unaware of the danger behind you.

He should’ve kept going. Ignored you. Pretended he didn’t care. But he couldn’t. Not tonight. He turned fully, eyes locked on your drunken silhouette, and began following you, silent, controlled, but burning inside.

Just one night, he told himself. Just make sure she gets home alive. Just once… let yourself be close. His steps were soundless. His heartbeat wasn’t.