"You're a nurse," I say instead. "You tell me."
That gets a small, surprised laugh out of her. It's shaky, barely there, but it's something.
"Yeah," she says. "Okay. You're right. I'm—" She takes a breath. "I'm in shock."
"You fought back," I say, and I can't keep the approval out of my voice. "That was smart."
"It was stupid." She sets her bag down on the seat beside her, finally releasing it. "He could have had a knife or a gun. I should have just let him take it."
"No." The word comes out harder than I mean it to. "You never just give up. You never make it easy for them."
She looks at me, really looks at me, and she's taking in details—my expensive coat, the way I carry myself. Controlled, confident, dangerous. She's smart enough to know I'm not just some Good Samaritan who happened to be walking by.
Her eyes narrow slightly. "Do I know you?"
My heart kicks once, hard. She remembers. Of course she remembers.
"I don't think so," I say, keeping my voice even.
"No, I—" She tilts her head, studying my face. "You look familiar. Have you been to Metropolitan Medical Center?"
"Not recently." True. It's been months.
She frowns, still trying to place me, and I can see the exact moment it clicks. Her eyes widen slightly. "The nail gun accident. A few months ago. Shoulder wound. Luca?"
Fuck. She's good.
"Yeah," I admit, because lying now would make it worse. "That was me. And you’re Francesca. I’m surprised you remember—you must see dozens of patients a day."
"I remember." Her voice is quiet, and her lips tilt up at the corners. "You said the hole in your shoulder was caused by a nail gun misfiring."
"I did."
She's looking at me differently now, and her face becomes more neutral. Not suspicious exactly, but assessing. Putting pieces together. "And now you just happened to be walking by when I got mugged."
"Lucky timing." I hold her gaze, let her see nothing but sincerity.
She's silent for a long moment. Then: "Thank you," she says quietly. "For helping me."
"Anyone would have done the same."
"No, they wouldn't." She shakes her head. "Most people would have walked away, pretended they didn't see, called 911 and kept going."
She's right. This is New York. People mind their business. But I can't exactly tell her I was following her, that I staged the whole thing, that I would have burned down the entire city if anyone actually tried to hurt her.
The waitress brings the tea and water. Francesca wraps her hands around the cup like she's trying to absorb the heat through the ceramic. Her hands are still shaking.
"You should drink," I tell her.
She does, small sips, and I watch the tension start to ease out of her shoulders. The routine helps. She's regaining control, pulling herself together, and I'm fascinated by the process, by her strength, by the way she refuses to fall apart even when she has every right to.
She's looking at me now, really looking. Her eyes track from my face to my shoulders, down to my hands on the table, then back up. I can see the exact moment something shifts—not quite trust, but something close to it. The man who I helped in the ER is now helping me. Coincidence feels a lot like fate when you're rattled.
And she hates that she's drawn to me.
"Do you live around here?" she asks.
"Tribeca." True. "I was just walking through, heading home."
