I park in front of my friend’s apartment building. It’s past ten. Only the streetlights flicker, casting shadows on the mostly deserted street.
I get out of my truck when something catches my attention.
A girl walks along the row of red brick buildings on the opposite side, carrying a brown bag, humming to something she listens to on her ear pods—she looks so unperturbed and content, the opposite of how I feel with the constant pressure to perform weighing me down.
Her hair is pulled up in two cute buns, and she’s wearing a denim jumpsuit. I can’t stop looking at her. There’s something refreshing about her presence that keeps me rooted in place. As if she feels like she is being watched, she turns her head and trips over her feet. A smile lifts the corners of my lips at causing that reaction.
The contents of the bag spill over, and an orange rolls across the street and straight toward me.
Is that a sign, divine intervention? On pure impulse, I bend down, picking up the succulent fruit. Our gazes meet, and her eyes widen, a small frown pinching her brows.
My feet carry me to her, raising my arms in a signal that I am no threat.
“Hi. Sorry if I scared you.”
“No, just… I wasn’t expecting you.” She makes a gesture pointing at my face and body, biting her plump bottom lip.
“Sorry for distracting you.”
She gives me a knowing look. “I doubt you are. I am quite sure you’re used to girls tripping over their feet.”
I chuckle and help her gather the discarded contents—some fruit and vegetables, but the bag is broken.
“Let me see if I have a spare one in my truck,” I offer, wanting to prolong my time with her—any excuse to remain close to her.
Her enchanting eyes look me over. “Are you a serial killer? I’m sure that’s a red-flag comment.”
After a moment of intense scrutiny, making my skin hot, she shrugs as if coming to terms with something. “But again, you could have a worse pickup line. With you looking like that, there would be no women left.”
I burst out laughing. She’s a breath of fresh air breezing over my barren soul.
She gazes at me again as if she can’t help herself. “No, you’re not a serial killer. You’re too nice to be a serial killer.”
I cock my head, arching a brow. “So, no need to reassure you that I’m not?”
The brightest smile kisses her face. She’s so beautiful I ache—everywhere.
She shrugs, being so damn adorable. Her aura is like a beam of light—good, genuine.
“I want to believe the best in people. So, I believe you.”
I splay a hand on my heart and in my most serious tone, I say, “I’m not a serial killer.”
We walk toward my truck in silence as we glance at each other. A grin teases my lips whenever I catch her.
I open my passenger door, and she takes a small step back. Her eyes dart from left to right as if not knowing whether to stay or run. I don’t want her to feel uncomfortable in my presence, so I hurry, grabbing my spare gym bag. Showing it to her, I say, “I think that should do.”
She sighs in relief and smiles at me as if grateful for not breaking her trust. I offer a nod, understanding that, sadly, women don’t have it easy, always having to stay alert. It’s fucked up. I have a mother and a sister who are everything to me. I would never hurt a woman. I would intervene if I ever saw thatshit.
Then we return to the sidewalk to load it with her groceries.
A blush taints her cheeks. “Just out of curiosity. How many hours do you work out?”
“A lot.”
She sends me an appreciative look. “You must be disciplined.”
“That too. May I?” I offer to take the bag from her arms, and she hands it to me.
