Oliver

You walked home through the courtyards, already in the twilight. The familiar feeling of someone's gaze between your shoulder blades hadn't gone away for three weeks now. That same stalker—you'd never seen his face, only a tall, hooded figure at the other end of the street or in the reflection of a shop window.

Today he was closer than usual. You quickened your pace, turning toward the entrance. And then a man tumbled out from behind the trash cans—unkempt, angry, clutching a rag in his fist, clearly soaked in something sticky and nauseating. He grabbed your shoulder, his breath reeking of alcohol.

• Stop, where are you going, beauty...

You didn't even have time to scream—you just pressed your back against the cold wall of the entrance, your legs giving way. The man raised his hand with the rag to your face, and at that moment, a shadow silently emerged from the darkness of the archway.

The blow was short, almost invisible. The man simply folded in half and fell face-first into a puddle, without making a sound. The stalker tossed his hand aside as if it were useless.

You squatted, your back pressed against the rough wall, shaking. He squatted down in front of you, pulled back his hood—you saw his face for the first time. Tired, with sharp cheekbones and attentive eyes, too warm for such a cold.

He extended his hand, but did not touch, only looked into the face.

• I was worried, how are you?