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Caligo didn’t come back.

By the fourth day, I’d stopped calling.

By the fifth, I could barely stand being in the house.

I started going out with no particular destination in mind. Sometimes I walked through the park, following paths at random and sitting on benches until the cold worked its way through my coat. I watched dogs chase balls, couples argue quietly, and parents negotiate with young children who weren’t ready to get off the swings.

Anything was better than listening to the silence at home.

The one thing I didn’t do was drink or take drugs, which I was absurdly pleased about.

I also began spending an unreasonable amount of time in a coffee shop a few blocks away. It was the sort of independent place that took itself slightly too seriously, with exposed brick walls, mismatched furniture, and at least six milk alternatives listed on a blackboard behind the counter. Nobody minded if I bought one coffee and occupied a table for hours, especially when I brought my sketchpad and looked as if I was doing something creative.

Mostly, I drew Caligo.

His hands. His horns. The curve of his tail. His red eyes glowing in the dark.

Occasionally, I managed something else. It was during one of those attempts that I first noticed the man. He sat two tables away, drinking an espresso and eating an almond croissant. There was no particular reason for him to catch my attention beyond being extremely good-looking.

He looked to be in his early thirties, with thick black hair, a Mediterranean complexion, and the kind of bone structure that might have persuaded a Renaissance sculptor to reach for his tools. Broad shoulders filled out a dark shirt beneath an equally dark coat. His eyes were such a deep brown they almost looked black.

Under normal circumstances, I might have admired him for longer. These weren’t normal circumstances. I registered he was attractive in the same detached way I might have appreciated an expensive painting. He was aesthetically pleasing, but I didn’t want to take him home and hang him on my wall. My interest in other men appeared to have left with Caligo.

The next afternoon, he was there again. This time, he was eating a toasted sandwich and drinking a latte. He sat beside the window, reading a newspaper. It had been a long time since I’d seen anyone under forty reading an actual newspaper rather than looking at one on their phone.

On the third day, he had coffee and a pain au chocolat.

On the fourth, a pot of tea and a slice of lemon cake.

He was clearly a man who appreciated variety, unlike me with my flat white and slice of carrot cake.

I suspected he worked nearby, although his arrival and departure times seemed too inconsistent for that. Mine varied too, yet he was always there when I was. Sometimes he was already seated when I entered. Other times, he appeared a few minutes after me. He never carried a laptop or did anything that looked remotely like work. He read, watched people passing outside, and ate and drank whatever he’d ordered.

It took a few more days for me to notice that he watched me as well.

At first, it was easy to dismiss. Our gazes met once or twice, followed by the usual polite glance away. The next day, I caught him looking three times. On the day after that, he didn’t immediately look away.

He smiled.

I didn’t return it.

He was handsome, but Tyler had been too, and look where that had gotten me. Besides, there was only one creature I wanted staring at me, and I’d told him to leave.

The man’s interest became increasingly difficult to ignore. His preferred tables moved progressively closer to mine, and whenever I glanced up, his attention was always somewhere in my vicinity. Once, I returned from the counter to find him studying the sketchpad I’d left open on the table. He looked away before I could say anything.

The attention should have been flattering. Instead, it made me uneasy, especially after what had happened with the mugger.

Exactly three weeks after Caligo left, with inspiration in short supply, I closed my sketchpad earlier than usual. The man followed my movements as I slipped the sketchpad into my bag and pulled on my jacket.

I avoided looking his way as I headed for the exit. Cold air met me as I turned toward home, walking quickly.

The coffee shop door opened behind me, and footsteps followed. I told myself it could be anyone. Other people could leave at the same time as me. There were millions of people in London, many of whom occasionally needed to walk in the same direction.

I crossed the road.

The footsteps crossed behind me.

My grip tightened around the strap of my bag.