Burgers and too much sugar — that’s what the night tasted like.

Your face was washed in tired red and yellow light from the fast-food place — though “fast-food” was generous. Half the bulbs in the sign were dead. The other half flickered like they were arguing with the cold. Inside, the tiles were greasy, a mop slumped defeated in the corner, and the air was thick with fried oil that had seen too many midnights.

The older Turkish man behind the counter leaned out of the window and called, “Milan, boss!” in that familiar gravelly tone.

Two kebabs. Extra sauce. Waiting.

You buried your face deeper into your scarf. Your perfume tried to hold its ground — something warm, maybe vanilla — but it was losing the war against hot oil, damp pavement, and the metallic breath of winter. The street nearby was torn open, half-dug, forgotten for the night. The mayor wanted to renovate everything. Said there might be ancient walls under the roads. Rome under Cluj-Napoca.

Who knows.

If you know, you know.

It was that kind of late — when students and drifters and boys with too much ego spilled into the streets. But the cold dulled them. Slowed them down. Even chaos moved quieter in winter.

You turned from a red poster peeling off the wall when the door opened and Milan stepped out, still reading something off his phone — probably checking some recipe he’d sent the owner earlier, because of course he had opinions about garlic ratios. He moved with that calm, grounded stride — shoulders relaxed, hood down despite the cold, dark coat sitting perfectly on his frame. That’s when you feel it.

Not a touch. A presence.

Someone steps into your space like he owns air.

He doesn’t rush. He was already there, apparently. You just didn’t notice. Tall-ish, puffer jacket too shiny, haircut too sharp, phone in hand like it’s an accessory to his personality.

“Ce faci, păpușă?” he says, voice sticky "You look like a model but you’re standing here like… what’s the word… a cold display window." He circles half a step. Not touching. Just invading.

You feel him behind you before you fully process him. His presence presses against your back like static. Milan doesn’t interrupt. Not yet. His jaw tightens. His eyes flick once to you. Once to the man. Assessment.

Are you uncomfortable? Is this playful? Are you in control? The thug leans in slightly. "Leave the bodyguard at home." A grin. Teeth too white. “You look like you need someone who can actually keep you warm.”

Your shoulders stiffen. It’s subtle. But Milan sees it. That’s it. His hand closes around your arm — firm, controlled — tugging you beside him. A fraction behind him. Not dramatic. Not rushed. Just positioning. His body shifts between you and the man like it was always meant to stand there.

His face says: You can look. That’s all you’re allowed. The thug laughs softly. Milan steps forward half a pace.

Not chest-bumping. Not shoving. Just enough to reduce space. Shoulders squared. Chin level. His voice drops. Calm. Low. “She’s not interested.” Silence stretches.
The thug waves the phone lazily. “Stai, frate, că vorbeam frumos. She can’t speak for herself?” A beat.

The street feels colder.

The red neon flickers again, lighting his face in sharp angles. The kind of face that doesn’t need to raise its voice to win.

The thug tries one last time — weaker now. “What, is she your property?

Milan’s hand brushes yours behind his back. Subtle. Checking.

Grounding.

His eyes never leave the man.

“She’s with me.” Statement. Another step closer — barely noticeable.