It was one thirty in the morning when I finally stepped out of the hospital.
The automatic doors slid shut behind me with a soft hiss, sealing in the fluorescent lights, the sterile smell, the noise of beeping monitors—and leaving me alone with the city. Night air hit my face, cool and sharp, grounding me after hours of controlled chaos. My shoulders ached. My head throbbed. Another long shift done.
My car was still in the garage that night. I had taken the bus, thinking it would be easier. Faster. I regretted that decision the moment my feet touched the pavement.
The street was quiet in that unsettling way—too quiet. Streetlights flickered at uneven intervals, casting long shadows that stretched and twisted across the road. I adjusted my bag on my shoulder and started walking, my steps steady, my posture calm. I had learned long ago that fear shows.
Halfway down the block, I noticed movement.
Three figures stood at the mouth of a narrow alley.
They were loud. Laughing too much. Stumbling slightly, like gravity itself was unreliable beneath them. One of them dropped an empty bottle; it shattered, the sound sharp and echoing in the silence.
My stomach tightened. I slowed instinctively. One of them looked up. His eyes lingered on me longer than necessary. Another followed his gaze. Then the third. Their laughter changed. Lower. Meaner. Fear crawled up my spine. I took a step back. So did they. That was the moment instinct took over.
I turned and began walking the opposite way, faster now, my breath shallow but controlled. I could hear them behind me—slow footsteps at first, deliberate, testing.
"Hey," one of them called. "Why you rushing?"
I didn't answer.
I broke into a run.
My shoes slapped against the pavement, my bag thudding painfully against my side. My lungs burned, panic tightening my chest with every step. The street ahead was empty—no cars, no open shops, no people. A hand grabbed my arm. Hard.
I cried out as I was yanked backward, my balance gone. My back slammed into a brick wall, the impact knocking the breath from my lungs. Pain flared up my spine.
Three shadows loomed over me.
"Easy," one of them slurred, blocking my escape. "We just wanna talk."
I pushed at his chest with all my strength. "Get away from me!"
They laughed. One of them reached out. Time slowed. My heart hammered so loud I could hear it in my ears. I raised my arm instinctively, bracing for something I didn't want to imagine—
CRACK.
The sound was violent, sudden. One of the men dropped instantly. He didn't stumble. He didn't cry out. He just collapsed, hitting the ground with a dull, terrifying thud. The alley went dead silent. The other two froze.
"What the hell—" one of them turned sharply.
I followed his gaze. And saw him.
Andrew.
He stood a few steps away, his posture deceptively relaxed, a brick still in his hand. His face was calm—not angry, not panicked. Focused. Like he had already calculated every outcome. For a split second, no one moved. Then Andrew took one step forward. That was enough.
The remaining two didn't hesitate. Fear replaced drunken arrogance in their eyes. One cursed, grabbed the other, and they ran—disappearing into the darkness without looking back.
Andrew didn't chase them. He dropped the brick and turned to me. The alley felt smaller suddenly. Closer. He studied me for a moment, his eyes scanning for injuries, his jaw tight. Then he held out his hand.
"Can you stand?" he asked.
His voice was low. Steady.
I nodded, my fingers trembling as I placed my hand in his. His grip was firm, warm. He pulled me up with ease, positioning himself between me and the alley without thinking.
"You're shaking," he said.
"I'm fine," I replied automatically.
He didn't comment on the lie.
"I'll walk you home," he said.
"There's no need," I said quickly, trying to regain control.
"There is," he replied. "They might come back."
The certainty in his voice left no room for argument. We started walking. Silence stretched between us, thick but not uncomfortable. My heart slowly began to calm, the adrenaline ebbing, leaving behind exhaustion and something else—relief. I broke the silence.
"Why did you give me the wrong number?"
He stopped. Just stopped walking entirely.
I turned to face him. He didn't look at me. His gaze was fixed somewhere across the street, jaw clenched.
"Daniel came to the clinic," I continued softly. "He told me that number wasn't yours."
Nothing.
"If I had called you," I said, my voice quieter now, "if something had happened to me—"
He turned then. His eyes met mine. They were softer than I expected. Regret written clearly across them.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly.
The anger I thought I felt dissolved instantly.
I smiled, a small, tired smile. "Daniel gave me your real number."
Andrew exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck.
"…Okay then," he said. "Let's go."
We walked the rest of the way side by side, our steps naturally syncing. The city felt less threatening with him beside me, like the darkness itself respected his presence.
When we reached my building, I reached into my bag.
And froze.
"I forgot my keys," I said.
Andrew closed his eyes briefly. "Now what?"
I looked up at him, calm, certain. "I'll go to your place."
His eyes widened. He looked away, clearly weighing the situation. Leaving me alone wasn't an option. Finally, he nodded once. We walked toward his apartment in silence. And somehow, that felt more dangerous than the alley ever had.