Lie. I was following you, have been for months, know your schedule better than you do.
"Lucky for me," she says.
"Yeah." I lean back, casual, like my heart isn't pounding, like I haven't been waiting for this exact moment since the night she came into my life. "Lucky."
We talk. I ask her about her day—she tells me about the ER, about a patient she lost, and I've heard some of this before, overheard her telling a coworker last week while I stood a few people back in line at the coffee shop near the hospital, but I listen like it's new information. I ask questions. I make her laugh, just once, with a dry comment about the kind of people who think the ER is their personal urgent care.
She relaxes, drinks her tea, starts to look at me like I'm a person instead of a stranger who saved her from a mugging I arranged.
Perfect.
"I should get home," she says eventually, glancing at her phone. "It's late, and I have another shift in the morning."
"I'll walk you." It's not a question.
She hesitates—good instincts, my girl—but then nods. "Okay. Thank you."
I pay for the tea before she can protest, and then we're back outside in the cold. The streets are quieter now, fewer people, more shadows. I walk beside her, close enough that our arms almost touch, and I can feel her awareness of me like a physical thing.
She keeps glancing at me when she thinks I'm not looking.
I'm always looking.
"You said Tribeca," she says as we walk. "That's not exactly on the way to Hell's Kitchen."
Smart. She's checking if I'm following her or just being helpful.
"I don't mind the walk," I say. "And you just got mugged. I'm not letting you walk home alone."
She doesn't argue, doesn't tell me she's fine, that she can take care of herself, that she doesn't need a man to protect her. She just walks beside me, and part of her is still scared, still shaken, still looking over her shoulder for the next threat.
She doesn't know the next threat is walking right beside her.
Her building is a bodega with a brick facade, and a walk-up apartment. Hers is on the fourth floor and is rent-controlled, which is increasingly rare in Manhattan. She stops at the door and turns to face me, trying to figure out how to end this, how to thank me and say goodbye without being rude, without inviting trouble.
"Thank you again," she says. "For everything. I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't?—"
"Don't think about it," I interrupt. "You're safe. That's what matters."
She nods, looks down at the keys in her hand, then looks back up at me.
"Can I see you again?" The words come out before I can second-guess them.
Her eyes widen slightly. "What?"
"Coffee. I thought we could meet before you head into work." I saw the schedule on her fridge calendar during one of my visits so I know when she’s working and when she has time off.
"I—" She stops, starts again. "I don't even know you."
"That's why I'm asking for coffee." I keep my voice gentle, non-threatening. "So we can get to know each other."
She hesitates, trying to talk herself out of this, trying to convince herself this is crazy, that she doesn't go out with strangers, that she needs time to process what just happened.
But she doesn't say any of that.
"Okay," she says, and surprise flashes in her own eyes that she agreed. "Coffee."
"You pick the time, and I'll meet you here."
