Who Hurt You?

Elara

Spotting the restroom sign, I shoved the door open, rushed inside, and slammed the lock shut on the nearest stall.

Pressing my hands hard over my mouth to muffle the sound, I let my shoulders shake.

Why? Why wasn't I enough? Why did Roman have to throw it all away yesterday, of all days?

I squeezed my eyes shut, sliding a trembling hand down to rest over my womb. "I'm sorry," I whispered.

Then a sharp knock rapped against the stall door.

I froze, my breath catching in my throat. "Go away."

Another knock.

I hurriedly wiped my wet cheeks with the back of my hand. "I said, go away!"

The person didn't leave. Instead, the persistent knocking came again. A spark of irrational anger flared through my grief. I threw the deadbolt back and yanked the door open, ready to yell.

Then, I stopped.

A man stood outside my stall. He was imposing—tall, with broad shoulders and thick, dark hair. He wore a crisp black button-down shirt, the sleeves casually rolled up to expose corded forearms.

His face was handsome, the kind of striking that knocked the remaining breath from my lungs.

But it wasn’t his ridiculous good looks that glued me to the spot. It was the genuine, piercing concern in his dark eyes. He scanned my face, taking in my swollen, red-rimmed eyes and tear-stained cheeks.

"Who hurt you?" His voice was low and smooth.

I blinked in utter confusion. "What?"

His dark brows pulled together in a deep frown. "Why is a beautiful woman like you crying outside the men’s toilets?"

I whipped my head around to look at the urinals against the far wall, then back to the sign on the main door. The blood rushed to my face in a violent, burning wave. "Oh my goodness."

I’d been sobbing in the men's restroom. A slightly hysterical laugh escaped my lips. Of course. Only I would manage to humiliate myself like this on the second worst day of my life.

"I thought this was the women’s restroom," I stammered, backing up a step.

His lips twitched, fighting a smile. "Clearly."

I crossed my arms defensively. "Are you making fun of me?"

"No."

"Because it sounds like you are."

"I’m not," he insisted, pausing for a beat. "Maybe just a little."

I glared at him, but somehow, my furious expression only made his smile break through. It wasn't mocking or cruel; it was soft, like he was actively trying to soothe a cornered animal.

"Are you okay?" he asked softly.

The simple question caught me completely off guard. No one had asked me that since. My ex husband certainly hadn't. Roman only ever wanted me to stop being dramatic and fall back into line.

Yet this total stranger was looking at me like my answer actually mattered.

"No." The honest confession slipped out before I could bite it back.

His smile faded instantly, replaced by intensity.

"I’m not okay." For some insane reason, my mouth kept moving. Maybe it was the anonymity of it all. Maybe it was because I was completely shattered and he was just a ghost I would never see again. "My husband.. now ex, cheated on me."

His jaw tightened.

I let out a bitter, ugly laugh. "On our anniversary. He left our anniversary dinner to sleep with her."

"I’m sorry," he murmured, his voice laced with genuine regret.

"I found out I’m pregnant yesterday."

He went absolutely still. My stomach churned with nausea.

"Not that I told him," I continued, my voice dropping to a fragile whisper. "I was going to. I bought baby shoes."

The stranger held my gaze for a long moment. The air in the tiled room felt suddenly thick.

"He doesn’t deserve you," he stated, his tone brooking no argument.

I let out a shaky breath, wrapping my arms tighter around myself. "You don’t even know me."

"No." He took a slow, deliberate step closer, respecting my space but shrinking the distance between us. "But I know no one should be crying alone in a public restroom after finding out they’re bringing a new life into the world. Two." He points to his nose “I can smell them in you. And something else.”

Something else? What did he mean by that?

My eyes burned with fresh tears. I looked down at the tiles, refusing to cry in front of him again. But he reached into his pocket and brought out a folded dark handkerchief.

"Here."

I stared at it. "I haven’t seen anyone carry one of those since I was a kid."

His lips twitched again. "My mother would be deeply offended to hear that."

Despite the absolute wreck of my life, a tiny smile broke through my misery. I reached out, my fingers brushing his warm skin as I took the fabric. "Thank you."

We stood in the strange, quiet bubble of the men's room for another second before he gestured toward the door. "If you aren’t done shopping, I can help you."

"You don’t have to do that."

"I know."

There was something utterly disarming about the way he said it. Simple and grounded. No pressure, no hidden expectations.

True to his word, he walked with me through the store, helping me retrieve a new cart and finish gathering Mira's groceries.

He carried the heavy bags out to the parking lot and when we reached my sedan, he loaded at my trunk, "You shouldn’t be lifting all of this on your own."

"Thank you, but I’ll be fine from here." The word tasted like ash on my tongue.

"So where do you live?"

I took an instinctual step back, hesitating. He immediately raised both hands in a gesture of surrender. "Just so I can make sure you get home safely."

"But I’m not drunk."

"I didn’t say you were."

"I can drive perfectly fine."

"I know."

I narrowed my eyes at him, trying to parse his intentions. He just smiled, a brilliant thing that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

"You don’t have to tell me where you live. I’ll just follow you. Just to be sure you get home safe."

I stared at him, "Okay."

His lips curved into a smile, and for the first time in two hellish days, I didn't resent seeing someone else’s smile.

When we pulled up, he hopped out of his sleek car and carried the groceries from my trunk all the way up the stairs.

“Thank you so very much.”

“My pleasure. I hope I see you again soon.” He dropped it at the door and walked away after giving a nod and a polite smile.

I took the groceries inside and headed straight to the kitchen to offload them.

Before I could make it to the bedroom, my phone buzzed violently in my pocket. Pulling it out, Naomi's name flashed across the screen.

Naomi: Elara, please come to the hospital tomorrow morning. I got your blood work report back, and I want to talk to you about something.

The lingering warmth from the stranger evaporated, leaving me cold. I stared at the glowing screen, unease crawling up my spine. Something about her phrasing felt incredibly wrong. Why couldn’t she just tell me over the phone?

My fingers flew across the keyboard.

Me: Is something wrong with my babies?

The ellipsis bubbled for only a second before the response hit.

Naomi: Come tomorrow. Please.

My fingers clamped around the phone.

Later that night, I lay in my childhood bed, staring blankly at the popcorn ceiling. My mind should’ve been spinning with Naomi’s cryptic text.

It should’ve been terrified about the blood test. It should’ve been mourning Roman and the catastrophic end of my marriage.

Instead, my thoughts kept drifting to a nameless stranger.

I remembered the way he looked at me—the steady, concern in his dark eyes. The soft, old-fashioned handkerchief. The heart-stopping moment he had gently brushed a stray tear from my cheek in the parking lot before loading my groceries.

I closed my eyes, pulling the covers tighter around my chest. I didn't know his name. I didn't know a single thing about his life. But for a few minutes today, an absolute stranger had made me feel something I hadn't felt in my own marriage for a very long time.

Seen.

And somehow, as I drifted into a restless sleep, that terrified me more than anything else.