The café was warm, crowded with the sound of clinking cups and careless laughter, but a chill crept up my spine as if someone had opened a door behind me. I told myself it was nothing. Just paranoia. Just another ordinary night where I pretended my life was simple.
Then the chair across from me moved.
"Is this seat taken?" a man asked.
His voice was calm. Too calm. The kind of voice that never rushed, never begged. I looked up—and forgot how to breathe.
He was handsome in a way that felt intentional. Dark eyes, sharp jaw, a faint smile that didn't reach his gaze.
Everything about him screamed control, like chaos had once tried to touch him and failed.
"Yes," I said automatically. "I mean—no. I mean—"
He sat anyway.
I should've told him to leave. I should've stood up, grabbed my bag, and walked out the door. Instead, I stayed. Because something in his eyes made it feel pointless to resist.
"You always sit here on Thursdays," he said casually.
My fingers tightened around my cup. "Do I?"
He nodded. "Same corner. Same drink. Same book you never actually read."
That was when fear finally settled in my chest.
"You've been watching me," I said.
He smiled then—slow, deliberate. "Observing," he corrected. "There's a difference."
I stood up. "This isn't funny."
"I didn't say it was."
His gaze flicked to my bag, then to the door, as if he were mapping my escape. Or deciding whether I deserved one.
"Sit," he said softly.
And God help me—I did.
"My name is—" I started.
"I know," he interrupted.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table like we were old friends sharing secrets. "I prefer hearing it when you're angry. Or breathless."
My heart slammed against my ribs.
"You shouldn't know anything about me."
"You're right," he agreed. "I shouldn't."
Silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating.
Then he said my name.
Perfectly. Intimately. Like he'd practiced it alone.
"That's not possible," I whispered.
He reached into his coat and placed something on the table between us.
My breath caught.
It was my bracelet—the one I lost three months ago.
"I return things I borrow," he said.
"Eventually."
"You broke into my apartment."
"No," he said gently. "I walked in."
I laughed then—a broken, disbelieving sound. "You expect me to believe that?"
His eyes darkened. "I don't expect anything from you. I decide."
That was the moment I realized something terrifying.
He wasn't here to scare me.
He was here because he wanted me to understand that fear had never been the point.
"I could scream," I said.
"You could," he agreed. "But you won't."
"How do you know?"
"Because part of you has been waiting for someone to see you the way I do."
I hated that he was right.
He stood, towering over me, and for a moment I thought he would touch me. Instead, he leaned down and whispered—
"This isn't where our story begins," he said. "It's where you stop pretending you're safe."
Then he walked away.
I didn't follow.
I didn't scream.
I sat there, shaking, knowing one thing with absolute certainty:
I had just met the devil.
And he knew my name.