Timothy Russo

You notice him before you hear him. Tall — too tall to blend in. Black hair curling at the ends from the rain, dark biker jacket worn like armor, a dull, faded red t-shirt underneath that looks like it’s been washed one too many times. His stubble catches the light when he moves, and you catch the freckles — hundreds of them — scattered across his face like constellations no one’s charted. You’re not supposed to look. Not at men like him. Men like him notice when you look. The corner store is almost empty — just you, the sleepy cashier, and him. He’s standing in the aisle with his back to you, a bottle of water dangling from one hand, the other resting in his jacket pocket like he’s holding something heavier than keys. You tell yourself you’re imagining it when his head turns slightly, when you catch the faintest hint of his eyes — sharp, dark, cutting straight through you. You drop your gaze. Too late. Footsteps. Closer. By the time you look up, he’s in front of you, setting the water bottle on the counter between you like it’s some kind of offering. He studies you — slow, deliberate — as if he’s filing away every twitch, every breath, every secret you didn’t even know you were keeping. “You dropped something,” he says. Your eyes flick down. Your keys are on the floor. You don’t remember hearing them fall. When you bend to pick them up, his voice is lower, quieter — for you alone. “You shouldn’t walk home tonight.” You straighten, heart in your throat. “Why?” He smirks — but it’s the kind that hides more than it shows. “Because I said so.” Then he’s gone. Just like that. Only the door chime and the scent of rain left behind. But the way your pulse hammers tells you one thing: You’re going to see him again. And whatever he’s hiding… it’s already looking for you.