This Way Comes

ALIE

I lie there for a long time, clutching the sheets, forcing myself to breathe past the buzzing in my veins. It's just a dream, I tell myself. Just a dream bleeding into real life because I'm stressed, because my brain can't tell the difference anymore.

But the cologne doesn't fade. It sits in the air like a fingerprint I can't wipe away.

Finally, I throw the blanket off and stumble to the kitchen. I need water. I need something cold, grounding, ordinary. The floor creaks under my feet, familiar, but even that sound sets my nerves jangling.

The glass shakes in my hand as I drink.

When I set it down, my phone buzzes on the counter. I nearly drop the glass. A calendar reminder flashes bright on the screen:

Vendor Meeting – 9:00 a.m. – West End Café – Contact: Mr. Black.

I stare at it until the letters blur.

It isn't unusual, not really. Virtual assistant jobs sometimes want bodies in chairs, faces at tables. Plenty of people I know have handled them before. But this would be my first. And the name—fake, too simple, too neat—scrapes down my spine like a nail.

Mr. Black.

I whisper it out loud, and the sound makes me shiver.

The nightmare presses close again: the alley, the faceless man's breath at my ear, the growl I couldn't quite understand but felt in my bones.

You're mine now.

I slam the phone face down and grip the counter until my knuckles ache.

"It's fine," I mutter into the empty room. "It's just work."

But the words don't convince me.

Not when the cologne is still there, faint and sharp, clinging to the walls like proof.

———

I don't go back to sleep.

I try—turning off the lamp, pulling the blanket up to my chin, staring at the ceiling until my eyes sting—but every time I shut them, the dream rushes back. The alley. The faceless man's weight against me. That voice curling through my bones.

You're mine now.

I throw the blanket back and pace the apartment instead, checking the locks twice, then a third time. The chain is latched. The deadbolt is firm. The windows are shut, but the air still feels like it's leaking in from outside—like someone is already here, waiting.

I boil water for tea, forget about it, and pour another glass instead. My phone sits facedown on the counter. I don't want to see the reminder again, don't want to think about the name glowing on the screen. Mr. Black.

The smell of cologne hasn't faded. I light a candle, then another, until the room smells like vanilla and smoke. It helps, a little. At least I can pretend the sharp edge is gone.

By the time dawn bleeds through the blinds, I'm strung out and hollow-eyed, running on fumes and nerves.

⸻

The morning feels like moving through water. I shower longer than usual, scrubbing harder, as if I can wash off the dream, the lingering scent, the feeling of being... carried. The thought makes my stomach turn.

I stand in front of my closet too long, staring at clothes that suddenly all feel wrong. Too casual and I'll look unprofessional. Too polished and I'll look like I'm trying too hard. My hand drifts to a sweater that's soft but not sloppy, black jeans, boots. Neutral. Forgettable. Exactly what I want to be.

Coffee brews while I smooth my hair, brush on concealer to hide the dark circles. The motions are mechanical, comforting in their ordinariness. But every so often, my gaze snags on the clock, watching the minutes vanish.

8:12.

8:27.

8:41.

The meeting looms closer with each tick.

I sling my bag over my shoulder, check the locks one more time, and step into the hall. The air outside is damp and cold, smelling faintly of rain.

The car across the street—the black one, tinted windows—sits where it always does.

I force myself not to look at it twice.

West End Café is only fifteen minutes away.

And "Mr. Black" is waiting.

———

CAINE

I arrive early, of course. Always early. The West End Café hums with the mid-morning crowd—students with laptops, retirees lingering over newspapers, a few suits huddled over espresso shots. Ordinary. Safe. That's what makes it perfect.

I take the corner booth, back to the wall, sightlines clear. The leather jacket drapes across my shoulders, familiar enough to scratch at her memory. A mug of black coffee steams in front of me, untouched. My pulse thrums, steady and controlled, even as anticipation claws at my chest.

She'll be here soon. And when she walks in, she won't see a monster or a phantom. She'll see me.

⸻

ALIE

The bell above the café door jingles, a sound too bright for the knot in my stomach. The air is thick with roasted beans and warm pastries, but I can't taste any of it. My eyes sweep the room automatically, cataloguing strangers.

Students. Couples. A barista with a messy bun.

And then—him.

Corner booth. Dark leather jacket. Eyes like they've already been waiting for mine.

My steps falter. Something electric zips down my spine, equal parts recognition and dread. I know I've seen him before, though I can't place where. The alley? A glimpse in the rain? A face from a dream that won't let me go?

His gaze pins me, calm, steady, like I'm not just someone walking into a café. Like I'm the reason he's here at all.

I swallow hard, clutching my bag tighter, and force myself forward.

⸻

CAINE

She hesitates at the threshold—fight or flight, written across her body. Then she steels herself, chin lifting, and moves toward me. Brave, even when she's afraid. My little storm.

I stand as she approaches, just enough to be polite. Not too much. I want her to feel safe, even as every nerve in her body screams she isn't.

"Alie?" I say softly, her name tasting like a secret on my tongue.

Her eyes widen. A flicker of confusion, suspicion, the beginnings of fear.

Perfect.

ALIE

"Mr. Black?" My voice doesn't sound like mine. Too thin, too careful.

He smiles faintly, like he's been waiting for me to say it. "That's right. And you must be Alie."

The way he says my name—like he's rolling it across his tongue, like it belongs to him—sends a shiver straight through me. I slide into the booth across from him, my bag pressed close to my side, fingers tight around the strap.

Professional. Keep it professional.

"I'm here on behalf of the client," I say, forcing my tone level. "You needed some documents confirmed?"

"Among other things." His voice is smooth, warm, but there's an undertow in it, something that pulls even when I want to push away.

I glance at his coffee—untouched, black, steam curling lazily. He hasn't been drinking it. Just waiting. Watching.

⸻

CAINE

She's trembling, just slightly. Only someone who knows her as intimately as I do would catch it. The tightness of her hand on that bag strap, the way she keeps her spine rigid, like she's bracing against a storm.

I sip my coffee finally, though it burns bitter on my tongue. My reward isn't in the taste—it's in the way her eyes dart to the motion, then snap back up, wary. Every little thing unsettles her. And she doesn't even know why.

"Relax," I murmur, leaning forward just enough to close the distance between us. Her breath hitches. "We're only here to talk."

The lie hums between us.

⸻

ALIE

I force a laugh, brittle. "You'll forgive me if I don't usually meet clients in person. I prefer to keep things... clear. Digital. Easier to manage."

"Some things are better handled face to face," he replies smoothly.

The way he looks at me—steady, unblinking—makes my stomach knot. Like I'm not a stranger across from him. Like he already knows me.

I clear my throat, flipping open my notebook though I'm not sure why. A shield, maybe. "What exactly did you need me to handle today?"

He smiles again, slower this time. "I'll let you know soon enough."

The words land wrong. Heavy. My pen hovers uselessly over the paper.

A part of me wants to get up, walk out, pretend this never happened. But another part—traitorous, dangerous—stays rooted.

Because I do know him. I'm sure of it now.

I just don't know how.

I steady the pen in my hand, though it trembles against the paper. Control the conversation. Keep it normal.

"So—documents, contracts. Do you have them with you?"

His smile doesn't change. "I do. But I'd rather we talk first."

The words drop like stones in my stomach. "Talk?"

"About you."

I blink, caught off guard. "About... me?"

He leans back, watching me like it's a game. "You've been working hard. Long hours. Efficient. Loyal."

My throat goes dry. Those aren't things an ordinary vendor would know. Not like that.

I scribble something in my notebook just to break eye contact. A meaningless shape. "The agency shares performance reports."

"Mm." His gaze doesn't waver. "Or maybe I just pay closer attention than most."

I feel the chill skitter down my spine again.

⸻

CAINE

She doesn't know what to do with her hands. She grips the pen, releases it, grips again. The page in front of her is blank except for a nervous little spiral she pretends is writing. She can't meet my eyes for more than a heartbeat before she looks away.

And every time she looks back, I'm already waiting.

I drink her fear in like it's the only thing on the menu. Not terror, not yet. Just unease. The kind that crawls under the skin and makes her pulse quicken. That's what I want. To sit here like any ordinary man and watch her struggle to convince herself I am one.

"Tell me," I say softly, leaning forward, elbows on the table. "Do you ever get tired of it? Being invisible to the people you work for?"

Her eyes snap to mine. There it is—that spark of recognition, of being seen, tangled with the instinct to run.

She swallows. "I... I don't know what you mean."

"Oh, I think you do."

⸻

ALIE

My pulse is thudding in my ears now. He shouldn't know this. He shouldn't see me like this. I came here for paperwork, not—whatever this is.

I push my chair back an inch. Not enough to leave, but enough to breathe. "Look, Mr. Black—if this isn't about work, then I should—"

His voice cuts through mine, low and certain. "It's always about work. And this is yours."

I freeze, pen slipping from my fingers.

His smile softens, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Relax, Alie. I'm not here to hurt you. I just want to understand you. Better than the rest."

The way he says it—it isn't reassurance. It's a promise. A warning. Both.

And I can't shake the feeling he already understands me far too well.

I clear my throat, forcing my voice steady. "All right. Why don't we start with the documents? If you have contracts, invoices—anything that needs review—I can get them uploaded and processed before end of day."

For a heartbeat, I think he'll resist, keep circling me like a wolf. But then he leans back, spreading his hands on the table in an almost lazy gesture. "Of course. If that's where you'd like to begin."

Relief flickers, thin but real. I pull my notebook closer, pen poised. "Yes. That's why I'm here."

His mouth tilts in a small smile. "Though, if I'm honest, I'm glad you're here for more than that. It's not often I get to sit across from someone who's... interesting."

The pen jerks in my hand. My pulse spikes. "This isn't a date, Mr. Black."

"I didn't say it was," he murmurs. His eyes glint, enjoying the way my guard snaps higher.

I sit taller, pushing down the heat that rushes unwanted into my cheeks. "Well, good. Because if it were, you'd be wasting your time. I've had enough of people wasting mine."

The words come out sharper than I intended. Memories sting—the no-shows, the ghosted texts, the nights staring at my phone wondering what was wrong with me.

He studies me like he can read all of it, every bruise I try to hide.

I drop my gaze to my notes, scrawling a line across the paper just to keep my hands busy. Focus. Work.

But when I look up again, I notice things I hadn't before. The strong line of his jaw. The faint shadow of stubble at his throat. The way the leather jacket fits him like it belongs there.

And then—the ink.

Delicate tattoos peek out from beneath the cuffs of his jacket, curling onto the tops of his hands. Not bold, not flashy. Subtle marks that draw the eye, that hint at stories I can't see yet.

For the first time, I understand why my heart is hammering so hard.

Because he isn't just unsettling. He's... handsome.

And that makes him even more dangerous.

CAINE

She tries so hard to sound crisp, professional, like her pen and notebook are a shield against me. But the way her gaze lingers—just a fraction too long at my cuffs—gives her away.

She noticed.

Good.

I lean back, shrugging out of my jacket as if the café is too warm, draping it over the seat beside me. Her eyes flick there again, quick as lightning, before darting back to her notes. I roll my sleeves up, slow and deliberate, exposing the ink twined across my forearms. Not gaudy, not obvious—just enough to make her curious. To remind her I'm not a man she can box neatly into "client" or "vendor."

I slide a thin folder across the table, papers neatly clipped. "Reports. Some vendor summaries I'd like you to proofread."

She flips the cover open, brows drawing together almost immediately. The pages are immaculate—clean formatting, tidy phrasing, nothing worth fixing. The "errors" I left are deliberate. A missing period here, a line break there. The kind of nonsense busywork that makes her feel useful while keeping her at this table, across from me.

"Really?" she mutters, pen tapping against the page. "This is what you needed an in-person meeting for? Missing commas?"

I let a smile curl at the corner of my mouth. "I could say the same. Really, Alie? You're going to sit here correcting commas while I'm right in front of you?"

Her cheeks flush instantly. Perfect.

⸻

ALIE

Heat floods my face. I grip the pen tighter, scribbling a correction harder than I need to. "It's my job."

"Your job," he repeats, voice lower now, like he's savoring the words. "To notice the little things no one else does."

The tattoos catch my eye again when his hand brushes the folder. Fine lines, delicate curves, disappearing beneath the edge of his sleeve. I drag my gaze back to the page, furious with myself.

"You asked for this meeting," I snap, keeping my tone professional, sharp. "So if this is some kind of game, you're wasting both our time."

He leans in slightly, enough that I can smell the faint trace of cologne again, clean and sharp, threading into my memory. His eyes lock on mine, steady, unblinking.

"Maybe I like games."

I freeze, caught between irritation and something far more dangerous. His voice isn't teasing. It's deliberate, threaded with intent.

I clear my throat, snapping the folder shut. "Then you'll have to find someone else to play them with."

My words are strong. My hands betray me, trembling slightly against the table.

⸻

CAINE

The tremor is beautiful. She's fighting herself harder than she's fighting me. Fear and attraction, colliding in real time.

I don't press harder—not yet. I recline, stretching one arm across the back of the booth, as if this were casual, as if I hadn't already memorized the exact shade her cheeks turn when she's flustered.

"You're good at shutting people down," I murmur. "But I wonder—how many of them deserved it?"

Her jaw tightens. The ghosts of her no-shows and failed dates flicker across her expression, and I file the reaction away with every other detail.

She doesn't answer. She doesn't have to.

Because now I know.

She thinks the folder is the point. That I dragged her here for commas and spacing. I let her think it for a moment—let her believe she can shut me down with professionalism. Then I shift the game.

"I should be honest with you," I say, brushing my hand through my hair, leaning back in the booth. Her eyes flick up before she can stop them, then snap back to the folder. I smile. "I didn't call you here just to look at reports."

Her pen stalls mid-tap. "No?"

I rest my chin on my hand, index finger brushing lightly against my lip as I study her. The way she stiffens, the way her breath catches, tells me she notices. She always notices.

"I'm looking for more than an assistant," I continue, voice low and easy. "Someone who can do more than push paperwork and chase emails. Someone with... vision."

Her eyes narrow. "Vision?"

I let my gaze drift, slow and unhurried, to the faint edge of skin where her sweater has slipped just above her collarbone. My fingers trail idly along the rim of the table, dipping toward that glimpse of bare skin like it's gravity pulling me closer. Obvious enough for her to feel it, not obvious enough to accuse.

"Writing," I say softly. "That's your passion, isn't it?"

Her lips part, shock flashing in her eyes. She covers it quickly, but not quickly enough.

I tilt my head, feigning innocence. "It shows. The precision. The way you tighten details, chase the perfect phrasing. I notice these things."

I let the words linger, watching her shift under the weight of my gaze. She's unsettled, but there's a flicker there too—a spark that isn't only fear.

"I can pay more than what you're earning now," I add smoothly. "Much more. Consider it a... creative partnership."

Her mouth presses into a line, but I can see the hesitation in her eyes. She wants to shut me down. She knows she should. But curiosity hooks her, drags at her, even as every instinct screams to pull away.

I drag my fingertip slowly across my lower lip, never breaking eye contact.

And I see it—the quick flash of heat in her expression before she forces it down.

Perfect.

ALIE

My stomach twists tighter with every smooth word. Writing. Passion. Creative partnership. The way he says it makes my skin crawl, like he's prying me open with a smile.

I slam the folder shut and push it back across the table. "I don't know what kind of partnership you're suggesting, Mr. Black, but I'm not interested. I like the work I do now, and I don't need some stranger dangling vague promises in front of me like bait."

My voice is sharper than I intended, but I don't take it back. "If this was all you called me here for, then with all due respect—you're wasting my time."

I slide out of the booth, bag strap across my shoulder, already rehearsing how quickly I can get to the door.

That's when his hand closes over mine.

I freeze. Heat shoots up my arm, a jolt so sharp it steals my breath. Not pain. Not even force. Just... electricity, running straight to my chest.

He must feel the way I stiffen, the way my pulse races under his touch, because his expression softens. "I'm sorry," he says, voice lower now, quieter, like we're the only two people in the café. "I didn't mean to push."

He releases me slowly, deliberately, and slides a small black card across the table. His name embossed in silver. A number. Nothing else.

"Think about it," he murmurs. "It comes with... perks. More than you'd imagine. Working with me could change everything for you."

He stands, shrugging back into his jacket with a grace that feels rehearsed, inevitable. "No pressure. The choice is yours."

And then he's gone, leaving the booth empty, the card burning a hole on the table in front of me.

I just stand there, staring, unable to think, unable to breathe.

Like the electricity is still running through me.

The bell over the café door jingles as I step out into the gray daylight. The cool air should clear my head, but it doesn't. My skin still tingles where his hand touched mine, my pulse still pounds like I'm running when I'm only walking.

I grip the card tighter than I mean to, edges digging into my palm. I should toss it in the first trash can I see, crumple it, grind it into the sidewalk. That's what I should do.

But I don't.

I shove it into my bag instead, angry at myself for hesitating, angrier still at the heat lingering low in my chest. He got under my skin. He knew he would.

I tell myself I'll forget his eyes, the tattoos curling at his wrists, the way he said my name like he'd been practicing it.

But the truth is, I won't.

⸻

CAINE

From my car across the street, I watch her step out, shoulders stiff, bag strap clutched tight. She walks fast, like she's running from the ghost of something she doesn't want to admit.

And she didn't throw the card away.

Her anger was beautiful—sharp, hot, bristling—but the way she froze when I touched her hand? That was perfection. Fear and attraction tangling together, feeding each other. The electricity wasn't in her imagination. I felt it too.

She thinks she told me no. She thinks she won this round.

But the card is in her bag. My name is in her head. And every time she looks at it, every time she remembers the weight of my gaze, she'll feel that spark again.

Perks, partnership, promises—none of it matters.

What matters is that she's already mine.

And all she did today was confirm it.