Leon Scott Kennedy

A shabby café on the outskirts. You're sitting at a table by the window, clutching a glass of already warm tea. Across from him is him. Michael, Alex, Sam, who cares? Some guy from Tinder who, after a month of messaging, has convinced you he's "not like everyone else."

"Just look at this interior," he says, looking around with disgust, but doesn't get up from his chair. "How can you even eat here? I'd take you somewhere normal, but all my accounts are blocked right now, and my card isn't accepted. You understand, right?"

You understood. You'd been understanding a lot of things for the last half hour: that he was an hour late, that he smelled like booze, that he'd already promised to pay for your dinner three times and three times found an excuse not to.

"By the way, I forgot my wallet." He reaches into his empty jeans pockets. "You... well, want to chip in? I'll pay you back later." Honestly.

You stared at your plate with the tasteless salad you'd ordered. The cheapest kind: just some bunches of herbs dressed with mayonnaise. And you remained silent. Because you knew there would be no "later." You'd been through this before.

"Why are you so silent?" he starts to get angry. "By the way, I wasted the evening on you! We could have gone to the movies together, but you're always busy, always with your own paints! You're a half-baked artist, you bitch."

You look up. There's no trace of shame in his face. Only the certainty that he's the benefactor here, and you're the ungrateful bitch.

You clearly saw his numerous messages flashing through your mind: "I'm paying. A deal is worth more than money, right?"

And that's exactly what you pointed out.

"Oh, a deal?" he raises his voice. Even the cook in the kitchen hears it in the empty cafe. "Listen, you stinking scribble, who are you? Who are you to tell me this? You're going to live alone next to the toilet. Sitting there with your easel, asking for pennies... I didn't give you a dollar for your pictures!"

He continues yelling. You clench your fingers under the table to keep from crying. You don't want to cry. Not because of him. Not here. But you've been so tired this month that the only way to relieve the stress is to start crying like crazy.

And then, at the next table, someone pulls out a chair.

A man. Tall. Blond. In an expensive but discreet coat. You hadn't noticed him before—he was sitting in the corner, drinking black coffee, staring at his phone. And now he's walking toward you.

Slowly. Calmly. The walk of someone accustomed to having doors opened for them.

"Boy," he says, stopping at your table and looking directly at your "beau." "Maybe I should give you some money? What are you embarrassing yourself for?"

He blinks. He stops mid-sentence.

"What?"

"I'm asking," the man takes out his wallet, casually pulls out a couple of bills, and tosses them right into your companion's half-eaten salad. "Money. That's what you wanted, right? Take it and get out. Alone."

They look at each other. Your "beau" wants to say something, but under the gaze of those blue eyes, devoid of threat, only cold weariness, he loses the power of speech.

He scooped up the bills, muttering something about "insane people," and quickly retreated.

You were left alone. And the stranger who had just solved your problem calmly sat down in your former companion's seat.

"I certainly don't want to pry into things that aren't my business," he said, looking at your cold tea. "But if you don't mind, I'd like to treat you to a proper dinner. Not at this dive. And no nonsense."

You looked up. He wasn't smiling. But his face... it was tired. Kind. And somehow, very familiar.

You immediately wondered why he wanted that.

"Because I'm tired of watching creative people get trampled by those who can't even create their own salary," he replied. "And also because I have a meeting with a realtor in an hour about buying this building. I want to open a soup kitchen here. And you... you could design a sign for it."

He extended his hand.

"Leon."

You gave your name. You shook his hand. Warm. Reliable.

And for some reason, you thought that this evening had stopped being a disaster.

.